Simon Keatings, Chapter 2Character Sheet: Simon Keatings
Appearance
Prelude
Journal Entries:
Name: Simon Keatings
Player: Tomas Clark
E-mail Address: tdc8@columbia.edu
Chronicle: Santa Cruz/Mage
Essence: Primordial
Nature: Architect
Demeanor: Survivor
Tradition: Dreamspeaker
Mentor: Tanandalay, Aborigine Shaman
Cabal: ?
Concept: Anthropologist
ATTRIBUTES:
Physical: Strength-2, Dexterity-2, Stamina-2
Social: Charisma-3, Manipulation-2, Appearance-3
Mental: Perception-3, Intelligence-4, Wits-3
ABILITIES:
Talents: Alertness-2, Awareness-3, Brawl-1, Dodge-2, Expression-2, Empathy-2, Subterfuge-1
Skills: Drive-1, Etiquette-2, Meditation-2, Music (flute) - 1, Survival-2, Performance-2
Knowledge: Cosmology-1, Culture-2, Garou Lore-1, Linguistics-1, Spirit Lore-2, Wyrm Lore-1
SPHERES:
Entropy-1, Life-2, Spirit-3, Time-2
Backgrounds: Avatar-3, Destiny-2, Dream-2, Fetish-1
Merits & Flaws:
Arete-3
Willpower-5
Quintessence-3
Paradox-0
Conscience 4
Self-Control 3
Courage 3
Humanity 7
Banality 3-4? (low because of dreamspeaker paradigm)
ELABORATION OF STATS AND EQUIPMENT
Simon was always a bright, somewhat bookish young man, more given to staring off absent-mindedly at something in the distance than to socializing or athletics. Although personable enough to get along with most of his peers, he did take his share of licks in the rough San Jose neighborhood where he grew up... mostly taking them, unfortunately. His studious nature and perceptive mind got him into UC Berkeley, where he studied anthropology; near the end of his undergraduate years he managed to win a large grant that paid his way to the graduate program at UCSC, complete with money for books, room, and board.
At UCSC, his primary field of interest was native religions, especially those of Australian Aborigines; he studied their language as well, and became fluent during his time with the shaman Tanandalay. During his apprenticeship, of course, he picked up other sorts of skills and knowledges... not only the spheres of magick and the factions of the mages, but the many varieties of spirits that are often a shaman's only ally, and the darker creatures that are all too often a shaman's enemies. He was taken and presented to a Sept of Garou with whom Tanandalay had fairly friendly relations, and he learned a bit of their ways as well, for as his mentor said, the Claws of Gaia are better to see at your enemy's throat than to feel at your own.
Now, returning to Santa Cruz, Simon is wondering whether he will be able to find a place at the university again. He managed to record quite a bit of his experiences as an novice shama on scraps of paper, parchment, even pieces of bark, and his notes would be invaluable for a thesis or even an ethnography. But the question remains: what will his former colleagues think of him? will his grant still pay his way, or will he have to find a job? does he even want to go back to the world of sleeper academia when he has more serious things to worry about? and so Simon thinks of ways to explain how he was kidnapped and tutored by an old Aborigine shaman as he sits in the cargo hold of a Jamaican freighter bound for San Francisco...
Simon carries with him a fetish passed down through his lineage of shamans, and according to Tanandalay originally received from a sept of Bunyip long ago in return for a peaceful mediation. The fetish is similar to a Harmony Flute, but takes the form of a small carved piece of wood tied to a string. When whirled overhead, it produces a strange, eerie music. (Oddly enough, this ritual aborigine device is called a fetish in anthropological jargon as well - in fact, it was in discussion of these objects that the term 'fetish' was coined in its meaning of "an item of spiritual significance"). Simon has been practicing with a similar, unenchanted fetish since the Harmony fetish was passed on to him shortly before Tanandalay's death. It contains a very minor water spirit which Simon sometimes tries to talk to - not that it answers with anything other than a faint sound of flowing streams.
Simon also carries with him a unique focus - the spirit stone which represents his avatar. The stone does not have a material form, but the spirit form is bound to a leather cord which Simon wears around his neck night and day. Simon has progressed to the point where he doesn't need the stone for Spirit magick, but he isn't fully confident in himself just yet, so he doesn't let it out of his sight. (Besides, it represents his avatar.) He needs the stone for Life magick as well, but has managed to get beyond the complicated dance rituals needed for him to use the sphere of Entropy. Still, he has a tendency to cover his right eye with one hand and look through the other one when trying to sense something with Entropy 1.
Appearanace: Simon is a lanky young man in his mid-twenties, nearly six feet in height, with thin, sandy hair that has been darkened by the sun to a russet brown in some places. His blue eyes peer out from behind a pair of round spectacles, which he still hangs onto and wears even though his mentor corrected his vision with Life magick. His face is thin and angular, but not unpleasantly so; his mouth is mobile and expressive, prone to a wide variety of emotive shapes and twists. Perhaps most noticably, he has a deep, weathered tan - not the sort of ruddy bronze you get from sunbathing with suntan lotion, but the kind of tan that's been sunburned, mellowed out, and then sunburned even worse.
Although Simon trudged out of the Outback with not much more than a tattered pair of jeans on, he managed to pick up some clothing before hitching a ride on a ship. He favors dark or drab colors in simple, loose-fiting styles - very informal compared to some of his more academically-minded peers. In his teens and early twenties he was something of a goth/techno club type, and the residue of the fashion of those days sticks to his style, although it's clearly mixed with a nerdy, scholarly sensibility. He usually keeps them tucked away, but he wears his stone and fetish on cords around his neck, nearly always.
Prelude:
Simon was raised in a working class family from the San Jose area. He came to the University of Santa Cruz as a graduate student in the anthropology department, but ended up going to Australia soon afterwards to do fieldwork and research with one of the senior professors. While there, he began experiencing painful migraines and vivid dreams, somtimes waking to find that he had wandered away from the Aborigine village where the anthropologists were working. One night, the dreams became real, though Simon could hardly tell by that point; he was kidnapped by spirits, led through the back ways of the Outback till he was on the edge of physical and mental collapse. Finally, he was brought to the conspirator behind it all, an ancient Aborigine shaman living deep in the wilderness.
When Simon recovered, the shaman Tanandalay explained that he had worked to bring the young student across the ocean and through the Outback so that he could be reunited with a "soul" that somehow belonged to him, an entity of some sort that was bound into a spirit-stone. The shaman brought Simon to the place where the stone was said to lie, and after more ordeals, Simon finally saw the stone: it was tied somehow to his Avatar, and by seeing through the veil that hides the spirit world, he was Awakened.
Simon spent a long time being taught by Tanandalay, learning the many ways of whispering secrets in Gaia's ear, hearing tales of other mages and inhabitants of the shadows, and following Tanandalay as he praticed the duties of a shaman, aiding the local tribes and villages and warding off malignant spirits.
What he learned too late, however, was that his mentor had also brought him because there was little time to pass wisdom on to a successor: Tanandalay suffered from a slow, incurable Paradox illness that was eating away at his physical being, making him weaker and less substantial with every day. By the time Simon had learned the essential spheres, the elderly shaman was bedridden and could hardly touch material objects.
Simon hid him away in his place of retreat and cared for him as best he could, but Tanandalay was thinking of the future. Simon could not stay in the Outback, he said; there were other shaman already moving in on the area, competitive and eager for territory. It was not Simon's place, despite the spirit stone; he would have to return to the world of the Weavermages and fulfill a different destiny. Tanandalay revealed that he had learned of Simon through friends in Santa Cruz, but that he now feared that ill winds were blowing there; rumors of fighting between the Traditions and omens of encroaching webs of darkness. Simon's purpose, he said, would be found there.
Soon after, the old man died. Wearily, Simon took the spirit stone and headed out of the interior, towards the sea, looking for passage back to the western coast of the United States. He could contact his old colleagues at the university, explain somehow what had happened. After all, he had been taking notes, and as a student shaman, he had done much more in-depth "fieldwork" than most anthropologists do in a lifetime. Maybe he could pick up where he left off... but no, nothing would ever be the same. He had to look at Santa Cruz with new eyes.
Thursday, June 15, 1995 8:24 a.m.
It was an old stone wall, rocks of different shapes and sizes piled up over the years to form a craggy yet solid barrier. Simon couldn't see beyond it, so he pulled himself up its face, easily finding handholds in the uneven surface. Atop the wall, he saw the sea on the other side, waves gently swelling into the smoother, water-worn surface of the wall many yards below him. He paused and looked out over the ocean, a warm breeze blowing through his hair, and his shoulders sagged a bit as he exhaled.
Then, something was wrong. If he squinted, he could see it. Dark clouds in the distance, moving jaggedly over the waters towards land. The wind shifted, changed direction, and an acrid, burnt smell reached Simon's nostrils. Out at sea, something long and thin glistened against the surface of the water, and there was a sound like a quiet roar. Soon, Simon could see it more clearly, a viscous mass writhing just beneath the surface. The sea around the thing was shot through with blue light that discharged itself into the air with an unpleasant buzzing sound. Perturbed but oddly calm, Simon continued watching as the strange apparition drew closer, swaying as the water was buffeted by the growing winds. The sky grew dark overhead, and rain began to fall.
It wasn't until Simon heard the crumbling sound from beneath his feet that he realized the wall he stood on was shivering itself to pieces, chunks of ancient stone splashing into the turbulent waters, the rocks trembling and knocking him off balance. He tried to hold on, to pull himself back to the landward side of the wall, but it was all happening too fast; he was shaken off into the sea. As he fell, he heard the dull roar grow to an overpowering din, and suddenly the sea was on fire, dark flames filled with a strange odor. The roiling water engulfed Simon, he felt something lash against his foot, and suddenly the flames were spiraling through his body...
And then he was awake, and the waves were pounding, but they were on the other side of the ship's hull. With a dazed shudder, Simon managed to pull himself out of the uncomfortable slump that he had settled into during his restless sleep. The storage bay around him was dimly lit and smelled of rust - not that he really noticed it after the long voyage. In the darkness, off through the stacks of metal containers, the sound of chittering and scraping feet drew closer. At least, he thought, I'll have some company today.
The Jamaican captain who had agreed to let him ride aboard the ship had done so only after Simon had agreed to stay out of sight and out of mind. And so, other than the ship's cook, who he wheedled food from occasionally, and an occasional meeting with a member of the tight-lipped crew, Keatings had been alone on the long journey from Australia to the western shores of the United States. Alone, save for his thoughts and the rats that shared his stowaway's quarters.
Abruptly, Simon felt a presence scurrying around and over him, sensing it more intuitively than physically. He smiled; it was not unlike the Rat spirit that lived here to come by and pester him as soon as he returned from his dreams.
"And good morning to you as well, friend." Simon hastily grabbed his knapsack and pulled himself upright, not entirely trusting the spirit's acquisitve instincts. "I'm afraid I may not have much food left for your people, but I'll see what I can do." He closed his eyes, began the familiar movement of his senses through the shadowy veil, into the spirit world. The sounds and smells of the cargo bay, filtering through his concentration, slowly faded and were replaced by stranger sensations. Simon felt the Gauntlet part before him, not as easily as he was used to, but pliable nonetheless.
He looked down, past his own softly glowing form, to the fat, poodle-sized rat that was lounging on his coat. It stared back, perhaps with a tinge of friendliness... or was that just greed? The spirit had been a bit peevish at first, not used to having its territory invaded by a mage. But Simon had been polite enough and had offered it suitable tribute: torn pieces of fabric, old dog-eared books, a couple dusty camp utensils. All items that he'd managed to lug into the wilderness, a few years back, and then back out again.
The rat, of course, was hoping for more. Simon could feel the demand emanating from the spirit, from its eyes. Its living kindred scurried around nearby, occasionally making their presence known with a flash of movement or a pair of staring, beady eyes. Simon sighed and rummaged through his pack one more time. He was a bit of packrat himself, really, and it couldn't hurt to rid himself of some of these things he'd never use again. He came up with his old digital watch - a cheap thing, really, and broken early on in his time in the Outback with his mentor. The rat spirit's eyes lit up and it began to chitter in rapid spirit-speech.
"Ooooooh! Give, give. Want that, need that. Give?" Simon chuckled and tossed it over. The rat scooped it up eagerly and began to pick at it, gnawing on the wristband experimentally and manipulating the knobs and buttons with surprising manual dexterity. Simon couldn't figure it out. He'd had several "conversations" with the spirit and he still couldn't figure out what made one piece of junk valuable and another one... well, just plain junk. But it was nice to see that it was happy. He would need allies in Santa Cruz, and perhaps he could convince this one to come with him.
Simon looked over at the rat again. The watch had disappeared to who knows where, and its new owner was staring at the young shaman once again. Simon shrugged. "I'm afraid that's all I have, my friend. Other than a few chunks of bread which I need to save for myself if I'm to keep from starving before this journey's over."
The rat made a little noise like pins scraping granite. Perhaps it was giggling at him. "Land almost here, dreamer-man. No need food. Land here soooon. Thank you for gift, very good. Much stuff, this one happy. But give food to others!" Simon sighed and reached into his bag again. He certainly hoped the obnoxious little spirit was telling the truth. Although he hadn't exactly been looking forward to eating another meal of bread and watery soup from the kitchen, his stomach _was_ rumbling.
The spirit chittered with approval as Simon broke the bread up and tossed the fragments off towards the other rats. Why was he going along with this spirit's petty little demands, anyway? Probably because he had little else to do, he thought dejectedly. He could have gone over his journals a couple more times, but all they did was remind him of the days spent learning from Tandandalay... who was in all likelihood dead and gone now. No, Simon was alone now, and the rat was his only real company, his only friend.
But that would change. He was returning to Santa Cruz, to find... what? His destiny? It sounded like a cheesy pulp novel. He didn't know what he was going to find, but hopefully he'd be able to meet some allies. The cities were supposedly ruled by the Technocracy, and he didn't stand much of a chance if he couldn't find some friendly spirits. Or other mages, if they hadn't all been wiped out by the fighting Tanandalay had spoken of. Or perhaps, some of the Garou, although many of them would probably just as soon rip his throat out as talk to him.
Simon sighed heavily and crouched against one of the cargo containers. Maybe it would be better to stay on the ship and provide amusement for the rat.
Friday, June 16 9:17 a.m.
The rat had spoken truly; the ship docked in San Francisco the next morning, and a crewman ducked below decks to notify Simon. He scooped up his possessions hurriedly, peering through the Umbra for the rat spirit. This wasn't the ship's final destination, and they wouldn't be stopping here for long.
Simon was about to leave in frustration when he heard a chitter from behind him. "Now leaving, dreamer? Bid you farewell, greet city cousins if see them..." Simon turned to face it, but before he could suggest anything, the mangy little spirit spoke again, laughing softly. "No, silly dream-spinner. This one is a SHIP rat. Stays here, not to leave. City rats being too... how to say? Political. You go now. Enjoy city." And it ran off, into the shadows.
Frustrated and more than slightly irritated, Simon pulled his way up the ladder and stormed down the gangplank onto shore. He managed to thank the captain, who was just re-boarding, and then the Jamaicans were setting sail again, all too quickly, and the ship was moving out of the harbor with Simon's only erstwhile ally on it. Well, that's gratitude for you, he thought.
He started to walk towards the harbor entrance, but realized all too quickly that he hadn't gotten his land legs back yet. He was too busy vomiting up his last meal of watery soup to notice the small group of rats in the water nearby, swimming for shore.
Monday, June 19th, 1995 5:14 a.m.
Sun's rising early, Simon thought. It'll be solstice soon. He was lying in bed, watching the yellow-orange light pour over the hills, filter through his window, and slowly make its way up the bed towards his feet. He'd been awake for a while, having hardly slept at all during the night. The few hours he had managed to drift off in had been dark and uneventful, with neither dreams nor nightmares.
Shaking his head to clear it a bit, Simon sat up and swung his legs over the side of the narrow bed. He looked around at the room - a small, unadorned guest apartment, his knapsack tossed in a corner and a couple days' worth of clothes lying on the floor by the bed. There was no need to decorate; the rooms here in Hagar Court were meant for visiting faculty, and Simon wouldn't be here long. Although the university had been kind enough to put him up here, they had told him in no uncertain terms that he'd have to get out before September, when the campus repopulated. He had to get his "educational status" or whatever sorted out before then.
Simon glanced over at the small wooden desk, already cluttered with papers and his journals from Australia - the only real reason the university was letting him stay at all. Professor Shelby and the rest of the Anthropology department had been surprised, to say the least, when he had shown up. As he had expected, their astonishment turned to solicitous excitement when he told them he'd been living in the Outback with a aborigine shaman, and produced his extensive field notes to prove it. Shelby had seemed more than eager to pick up the role of mentor again, going on and on about waiving class requirements, thesis papers, and books. He probably wants to turn my trip into a best-selling ethnography, Simon thought, and with his name all over it.
He managed to stand up, and felt the all-too-familiar feeling of his limbs weighing him down as if they were veined with lead. He hadn't gotten a good night's sleep since he had returned; his mind was unrested and filled with a funny haze. There was no way he was going to be able to deal with Professor Shelby's ambitions or his own academic career until he got some rest and recovered from his journey here. Simon sighed. A week sleeping on the floor of a cargo ship, and now this. At least on the ship he had been dreaming.
Perturbed, Simon paused. The last dream he remembered having _had_ been on the ship. The one with the broken stone wall and the burning sea. Since then, he hadn't slept well, and hadn't remembered a single dream. Still not fully awake, Simon tried to recall some snippet of a vision from his sleep, but all he could feel were vague, formless impressions floating adrift in a cold, uncomforting emptiness. Something was missing... it was as if something had devoured the insides of his mind and left only scraps behind.
This didn't bode well at all. Simon recalled the words of his mentor, many months ago: "Dreams are where we go to renew ourselves. They are wells of vision, fountains of energy. Even the science-magi in the cities know that to go without dreams for too long is to madden and die." Simon grimaced. If there was something interfering with his dreams, he had to do something about it. He'd heard much the same story - in different terms, of course - from a friend who'd worked on sleep deprivation studies in the psych department.
Simon lay down again and closed his eyes, trying to let himself sink back into sleep. If he could just retain some of his self-awareness, he could slip through into his dream domain, his Chimare, and watch to see what was happening. His mind drifted, but despite his exhaustion, Simon couldn't sleep. He had never been any good at lucid dreaming, and his restless, anxious mood wasn't helping any. All he could feel was the impression of burning, a fierce darkness aflame, a devouring, a hungering. Or was this simply the memory of his last nightmare from the ship?
Shuddering and shaking away the tainted feeling, Simon got to his feet again. None of this was doing any good. He couldn't rest and he couldn't get any work done, cooped up in this square little room. Simon pulled on his last change of clothes and slipped out of his room, locking the door behind him. The rest of the building was mostly empty, but Simon walked quietly up the hall and down the stairs to the lobby. The air outside was brisk, but warming quickly from the summer sun's rays. He went to the bicycle rack and located the old, beat-up road bike that he'd picked up cheap from a graduating student. He unlocked the chain and was soon heading down Coolidge Drive towards the university's main entrance.
The campus was as green as he remembered it. Simon chuckled; when he had first come here from the Bay area, the sprawling acreage of the University of Santa Cruz had seemed like a rural wilderness. Now the carefully tended groves of trees and grassy knolls smelled like city. Still, the green scenery made for a pleasant ride. Reaching a crossroads, he swung left onto High Street and headed east towards town. The sun, still low in the eastern sky, shone into Simon's bleary eyes and warmed his face. At least, he thought, no matter where I travel on this earth, the same spirit of light watches over my days. He offered a silent prayer of thanks to the sun as he pedaled, following the early morning traffic down the road. It wasn't long before he had reached Highway 1 and beyond it, the center of town. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but Simon could almost feel the Gauntlet tightening around him as the buildings grew denser, the stores and shops more numerous.
Monday, June 19th, 1995 6:32 a.m.
At the Espresso Royale Caffe, Simon paid the girl at the counter for his drink and headed back outside to sit at a table on the street. He'd briefly contemplated heading further south to the Boardwalk, but he'd never cared too much for the glitzy, cartoonish feel of the place. Besides, it would be swarming with tourists all too soon, and all he wanted to do was sit and try to collect his thoughts. This cafe was as good as any... he'd been here a couple times, before he'd gone off to the Outback.
Simon sipped at his tall skinny latte and watched the few people that were out at this hour walk up and down the Mall. There was a young girl skateboarding nearby, around a statue which looked like a memorial of some sort. In the usual manner of skaters everywhere, she was trying over and over to execute a tricky move. This one involved jumping from the memorial and attempting to flip her board under her before landing on the ground.
She couldn't quite do it, of course, and kept on crash-landing in several spectacular ways. Undaunted, she just got back on her board and leapt back up the memorial, smashing into the stone at several points as she did. Simon couldn't help but grin. He'd had a skateboard himself, way back in junior high, although the only trick he'd ever mastered was falling off of it. He squinted, looking closer. That girl was really doing a number on the statue - she was even sending stone chips flying when she crashed into it.
"Hey! Hey, you... cut that out!" There was a police officer making his way across the street towards the girl. He was young, but officious looking...Simon rolled his eyes. One of the hazards of being a skater, he supposed, was having to deal with the cops. The officer, looking pretty irate, was chiding her. Simon edged his chair closer to hear better.
"Do you have any idea what this statue here means? This statue that you're just... jumping all over and banging the hell out of? It sure as hell ain't a skate ramp. It's a memorial, for war veterans..." He droned on, and Simon's attention moved to the girl, who was staring up at the cop with a decidedly bemused look on her face. She was thin and dark-haired, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, wearing baggy, worn jeans and a t-shirt with a checkerboard pattern. Simon wondered what her story was - just another kid getting in some time on her board before school? She looked too young to be living on the street, but there really was no "too young" for that. Santa Cruz didn't have as many runaways as Simon's home town of San Jose, but he was sure this town had its fair share. The girl certainly seemed cocky enough to take care of herself.
Simon chuckled. She reminded him of some of his friends from back home. When they were that age - well, maybe a bit older - they'd done worse things than bang up a few statues. Simon had always been a bookish type, but even so, when you lived in a run-down neighborhood and you were a bit too smart and restless for school to keep you occupied, there was plenty of trouble to get into. He shook his head, amused. There had been a time when Simon had gotten into a bad habit of throwing rocks through windows; he'd ended up paying for that one, just as it looked like this girl might have to... or would she?
The girl, obviously exasperated, pointed to the statue. "But officer... I didn't do anything to the statue. It's not chipped or dented or anything. See?"
Simon followed the cop's gaze to the statue. Sure enough, it looked perfectly intact, even in spots where he could have sworn there were gouges and skateboard-inflicted scuff marks only moments before. The cop scratched his head. Simon put down his coffee and craned his neck. Something in the back of his head was tingling; there was something odd about that girl...
"All right," said the perplexed policeman, "it doesn't _look_ like you've done any harm. But I think you already know that skating's not permitted here. Especially on the memorial. I'll let you go with a warning this time, but take the board somewhere else, okay?" The young girl gave the cop a mock salute and dropped her board to the ground. Before he could get in another word, she was off down the street, pushing herself along with one foot.
Simon blinked. He had to follow her, find out who she was. He grabbed his coat off the chair and headed off after her, leaving his latte steaming by itself on the table.
She was picking up speed as she went round the corner onto Locust Street, and Simon had to walk quickly to avoid losing her. Although he was trying to keep an inconspicuous distance between himself and the young skater, he soon found that he had to run to keep up. Only after he'd jogged after her for a couple blocks did he realize that he'd forgotten his bike back at the cafe. Simon slapped his forehead, wincing in realized stupidity. He stopped and looked around again - the girl was gone. Someone tapped him on the shoulder.
"Uh, mister... why are you following me?" Simon whirled around. The skater was standing right next to him, her board rolling up behind her. She kicked it up and grabbed it with one hand.
"Following you? Ah... why would you think that?"
"Maybe because you were running after me, and there's nobody else on this street besides the two of us?" She had that same bemused look on her face again. Simon suddenly felt rather old, not to mention foolish.
"I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you I was late for a dentist appointment?" The skater shook her head. "Ah well, then. If you really want to know, I saw you jumping off the memorial back there, and-"
The half-grin on the young girl's face turned to a look of scorn. "And what?" she interrupted. "You want to lecture me about it too? Like I told the officer back there, I didn't do anything to that statue..."
Simon smirked. "That's just it. I saw you chip and scrape that statue a couple times, but by the time you left, it was as good as new. You're not only a decent skater, but you do some pretty speedy repair work as well..."
The girl's mouth opened a bit as Simon spoke, and she flinched a bit, looking like she might dart away. Simon raised his hands, doing his best to look friendly. "Hey, hey... don't worry. I'm not after you or anything like that. I just wanted to say hi and find out who you are." Her shoulders relaxed, but there was a growing look of distrust on her face. She stuck out her hand anyway.
"I'm Moira." She peered at Simon's face, her eyebrows furrowed. "I haven't seen you around before. I'm a moonchild though. What are you?"
Simon blinked. "What am I? I'm not quite sure, really... I just arrived in town. What, may I ask, is a moonchild?" Moira giggled, a bit mockingly, and Simon felt his cheeks redden. He may have grown up in the cities, but as far as supernatural society was concerned, he supposed he wasn't much more than a country bumpkin.
"Hmmm." Moira was appraising him again. "Lemme see your left hand, okay? And no funny stuff..." Simon shrugged and opened his palm for her, held it out. The young skater girl took it and examined it closely. She wrinkled her nose a bit. "Hmmm, well you're certainly not one of those hygiene fanatics..." She snickered again, and Simon rolled his eyes. This was starting to remind him of his conversations with the rat spirit on the Jamaican cargo ship. He sighed and let Moira trace her fingers over the weathered lines in his hand.
She certainly seemed like a nice enough girl... probably a mage of some sort too. He just hoped he wasn't exposing himself to the wrong people. It was doubtful that she was from the Technocracy; at least, if what his mentor had told him about them was true, they weren't the sort of people to recruit teenage skaters off the street. Still, if there was some sort of fighting going on, there was no way to know who to trust... but what other leads did he have?
Seemingly satisfied, Moira let Simon's hand drop. She was grinning, and Simon just hoped that was a good sign. "Tell ya what," she said, "Meet me tonight at the Festival Glen, out at the campus. Do you know where that is?"
Simon raised an eyebrow. "You mean the one near the Performing Arts theater? They have outdoor plays there sometimes?"
"That's the one. There's going to be a drum circle there tonight, a little after five... I think you might find what you've been looking for." Simon opened his mouth to ask something else, but she was already on her board and heading down the street. She looked back over her shoulder, waved, and then was gone around the next corner.
Simon turned around and started trudging back to the cafe to pick up his bike. The coffee was starting to perk him up a bit, but not as much as the anticipation of going to this... drum circle? From the sound of it, these could be the other Dreamspeakers that Tanandalay had spoken of, the ones who he had contacts among. But it was hard to say; Simon knew so little of the area and the politics at work in the shadows. He would have to be on his guard, at any rate...
Monday, June 19th, 1995 5:11 p.m.
Walking over the gently rise of a grassy hill, Simon came to the glen. Despite the soft light of the sun through the trees to the west, the concave area in the midst of several stands of trees was dimly lit and somehow gloomy. Bushes and undergrowth blocked the glen off from the other nearby buildings, and once inside, it was hard to tell you were still on a university campus and not deeper in the woods somewhere.
There were already nearly a dozen figures gathered around the clearing, male and female, most wearing ordinary street clothes like Simon, others dressed in a more Native American style, elegant clothing of coarse cotton, leather, and skins. He saw Moira across the circle, and she waved back. A heavily built, dark-skinned man moved towards him. Simon stifled the urge to back away, and stepped forward instead.
"You must be Simon. We hoped you'd make it." Simon nodded in confirmation, and the other man went on. "I'm Albert Munez. There'll be time to introduce the others later on tonight, but it's getting late, and we should get started. Here, let me get you a drum." Simon was about to thank Munez, but he was already moving across the grass, his bare feet making little sound. The others were forming a circle, crouching or standing by their drums. The thin, elderly woman next to Simon made a motion to catch his eye, and gestured significantly at Simon's feet.
Simon glanced down, and then at the others around the circle - of course, he was the only one wearing shoes... feeling once more like an unmannered buffoon, he quickly pulled his worn sneakers and socks off, kicking them behind him. Moira grinned impishly at him from across the ring of people, and Simon found himself smiling wryly back, despite his nervousness.
Albert Munez came back with a tall, cylindrical drum and set it in front of Simon. "Hope that will suit you. There are a couple others but they need some repairs." He started to move off again.
"Ah... Mr. Munez?" The burly man turned back, and nodded. "I'm afraid I haven't done much drumming before... I don't think I'm all that good." Munez arced a bushy black eyebrow and came closer to Simon. The other drummers were silent and still.
Munez looked around. "What kinda 'speaker are you that doesn't know how to drum, boy?" he said under his breath, staring Simon in the eye. Seeing the younger man's worried look, Munez laughed heartily and clapped him on the back. "I'm just playin' with you, man. I wouldn't worry about it. There's nothing to it, once you get going. Just follow the rest of us, you'll do fine." And Munez walked around the circle, away from Simon, to take his place at the north end.
Following the others' lead, Simon placed one hand on top of his drum and settled into a comfortable stance, legs slightly apart, shoulders as relaxed as he could get them to be. He waited, and watched the others wait. Nothing was happening. It was so quiet now that he could hear a far-away car passing by on a road somewhere through the trees. Nervous, Simon moved his other hand to his chest, to where his spirit-stone hung, invisible to mundane sight, on the end of a leather cord. The stone, the manifestation of his innermost spirit, did not make his hand warm or tingle like it sometimes did. It was inert, as if it, too, was waiting for something to happen.
Was he supposed to do something, as a guest? Start the drumming, perhaps? How was he expected to know how to do any of this? Simon felt frustration and a slight twinge of panic start to creep around the edges of his mind. Maybe he should-
And then Munez let out a loud cry, struck his drum once, twice, three times, and the rhythm began. The others quickly joined Munez, and a pattern of beats emerged, louder and louder, echoing against the trees. Simon hurried to follow them on his drum, slowly and softly at first. Soon, his confidence grew; as long as he was able to feel the main threads of the rhythmic pattern, he could stay within them with his own drumming. His shoulders relaxed, and he let his hands follow his ears and the vibrations of his bones as they echoed in time with the dozen beats around the glen.
The twelvefold rhythm grew more and more complex, thundering loudly into Simon's skull. The outside world receded, leaving only the grass at his feet, the smell of sweat, and the eleven others with him, joining together through the swelling force of the drums. There were rhythms within the rhythms, each man and woman in the glen speaking in their own voice, with different tones and pitches. How long had they been drumming now? Time was no longer measured in seconds or minutes, but only in the repetition of the wild undulating pattern that they wove together. Simon felt his sweat dripping down his forehead, splashing onto his moving hands. The drumming went on without cease.
His arms were hurting, and a thought came. He wanted to stop. He shook his head, sending drops of perspiration flying from his dampened bangs, and kept on at it. He was tired, but the others kept the rhythm as loud and as quick as ever. How long had it been? He wasn't sure he could keep up with them...
And then, even while thinking these thoughts, Simon found that he was drumming without concentrating on it. His hands had taken over, and were moving in synchrony with the eleven other pairs, as the drumbeats grew to greater heights still. His exhaustion dropped away somehow and he felt new energy worm its way through his tendons, his muscles, his mind. It was a feeling he had felt before, at his first meeting with his mentor, after walking exhausted and lost through the barren reaches of the Australian Outback. Blinking away his salty sweat, Simon looked around at the circle.
The world had turned strange, almost as if they had crossed into the spirit world; despite the hazy quality of the trees and the sinking sun, the figures of his fellow drummers were as sharp and distinct as could be. He felt his thoughts slip away, and then there was a dream -
A war. Explosions of light and energy, spirits flee in terror. The land rent asunder, and flames burning bright. Friends are turned to enemies, they fight in the woods and in the streets. Wolves howling, and a darkness...
The survivors - faces seen before, they are here, here in this circle, the only ones left who commune with spirits, who serve Gaia, who are known to the others as Dreamspeakers but who have many names themselves. They are here. They - we - we mourn the loss of the dead, so many dead.
The faces of the dead, mingled with the living. Memories of their fights, their broken bodies, the flight of their spirits to worlds beyond. They are gone. They were broken by the witches, pourers of blood, named Verbena.
There are tongues of hatred at these ones, some are angry with them. So many have died, and the burning. Other voices speak of pity and loss, these who were once friends are just as lost as those who are dead, for they have given themselves up to a burning darkness, a thing of the Wyrm, and it has tainted them.
Why? Why? Why? They were friends once, at meetings of the council, joining together, there were enemies in common. They have given themselves up to a burning darkness, a thing of the Wyrm, a demon. Why? They have freed themselves of the wrath of reality but bound themselves to darkness. There is no Paradox for them?
Their power grows, they have broken nearly twice the number of the living, they have given themselves up to a burning darkness which serves them. They rend the fabric of Gaia's dream and go without punishment. They call fire from the skies and boil their enemy's blood, and do so without fear. Their madness and lust for power unrestrained! Their sorrow and descent into darkness is a wound in our heart. Their arrows are aimed at us and we must beware! Sadness...
Voices begin to speak, speak of their own seeings, their own thoughts come to light, in front of the drumming which keeps going:
We remain. We lived and still live. We can fight, must fight, will fight against this darkness, tear it from them, cast it out, it is the only way. Honor the dead, honor their names, destroy their destroyer, banish it from Gaia's Realm.
No! There are too few. We cannot. Too many lost, too much hurt. It is time to heal, time to renew, time to recover. Time to fight has passed, it has been done, there was no success. There are other friends who will fight - the Christ-mages will fight. The others will fight. We have already fought. Too many lost, too much hurt, too much pain and sorrow.
There is no honor in sulking... others have died in these battles. Others have died in these battles, and more will die. There is no honor in retreat, Gaia calls us to fight, we must aid the friends we still have, we must-
No! There must be other ways! Bloodshed and destruction, and bloodshed and destruction, never the right way... we will turn on our backs and devour each other, with bloodshed, with fighting, and the weaver over the hill will wrap us all in webs, suck us dry of life, and there will only be the webs in the end, stretching across our lands.
Dreams mingling, voices heard, spinning and mixing in the center of the twelve, and yet there is a silence. Simon could feel it around him, he had not spoken, there was nothing for him to say. A darkness, an emptiness, hovering around his form. The others saw it too. There was nothing for Simon to say. There were no dreams waiting in his head.
Fear. What? Why is he so strange? It is wrong. There are no dreams. There are no visions. He is empty? He is empty? Bewilderment and confusion buffeted Simon, and he shrank back from the circle, the emptiness billowing around him.
Simon. Simon. Do not fear. He saw the voice and turned towards it. A woman, one of the other voices, walking towards him. I am Ash, her voice says. Ash, and you are Simon.. Let me see.
There was a looking, and a peering, and a testing. At the emptiness, at Simon, and once again Simon was an insect under glass, under the microscope? What is wrong with Simon? Why is Simon empty? There is something within the emptiness, a darkness within Simon, and something within that. Why have I never seen this black stain? It has been eaten out of me. I did not see it. Why?
Ash released Simon, Simon fell back, Ash spoke a new vision:
Paths of darkness, moving across them, a fire. The demon spoken of, a nameless flame of blackness, a thing of the Wyrm, hungering and hunting for dreams. Hunting and finding Simon's dreams, eating them, till there is only emptiness. At the end of the hunting trail lies Simon, sleeping, across the path, prey, his dreams are prey being rended, torn, eaten.
Along this path through darkness are Simon, lying dreamless, and demon, full of hunger and evil burning. The flame knows its way to Simon, but now Simon must know his way to this nameless black flame. Walking the path, through darkness, to the flame. It must be. Just as the flame to the dreamer, the dreamer must to the flame. It is the same path.
Speaking of this vision is ended, and there are many voices again. Voices saying fear. Fear? Not understanding. Too soon, too strange, too much. Must leave, fly away, too much hurt, too many deaths... panic... too fast, and no time, no time, not enough time... and everything is silent again, the sun is soon to meet the waves, the woods are growing darker.
Monday, June 19th, 1995 7:42 p.m.
There was thick grass beneath his head. And his head was swimming, dizzy with half-lost images and impressions. Simon sat up and steadied himself with one hand. He was in a familiar looking place... the festival glen.
The glen was empty, which struck him as wrong. Weren't there people here? The drummers... there had been a circle of people. Or had there? Simon got to his feet and gazed around the clearing. There was nothing here, no drums, not even the one he remembered pounding for so long on-
It had happened, that was certain. He remembered meeting Moira, coming here. But it was all so strange. He chuckled - what else was new? The memories of the circle were fleeting and dissipating like mist, but Simon struggled to hang on, muttering to himself.
"A demon, a thing of the Wyrm. Yes, yes... and my dreams. I have to find it - what am I saying? It killed so many." He shook his head and paced around the clearing, noticing without much surprise that his shoes were missing. He sighed and rested on the side of a hill. Am I tainted then? he thought. Tanandalay had said once in warning, "the flames and rivers of Erebus are the lot of those who let the taint of the Wyrm into their hearts." He didn't know who or what Erebus was, but it didn't sound pleasant. What had he done? Walked along the same path as a flame demon? And for that matter, what was he supposed to do now?
Simon got to his feet again and ran barefoot across the grass and through the trees, mysteries and questions burning in his head. He stopped by a tall oak, and realized that he felt more energetic, more refreshed, than he had in weeks. The dreams he had seen in the circle, perhaps - but it was more than that. The other dreamers there had given him something, renewed his energy... probably because they wanted him to seek out this nameless flame and do something about it. He took a deep breath and realized that yes, he was going to have to do something. But what to do - on his own, like he was? And where was he supposed to start?
He looked down at his feet, dirty and scratched from running over twigs and stones and sharp leaves. That's an easy enough answer, he thought. I had better start by getting myself another pair of shoes...
Monday, June 19th, 1995 8:31 p.m.
Simon walked back down into the grassy bowl where he had awakened earlier that evening. His booted feet made soft thunking noises as they hit the soft earth, which made him a bit uneasy; he was used to wearing sneakers, but with his favorite pair gone the heavier Doc Martens were all he could find in his room. He looked around; the sun had set and the crescent moon barely illuminated the dark glade. It certainly seemed a different place than the site of the wild ceremony he had attended, now that silence and darkness had swallowed it up.
Adjusting the straps on his pack, Simon paced in a wide arc, trying to figure out which way to go. Retreating to his room to fetch a new pair of shoes had almost made him want to forget the whole thing, to sit down and read a book or just call it a night, but the energy that coursed through his muscles wouldn't let him sit still, and neither would the grim knowledge that haunted his mind. There was something out there, eating his dreams, burning with an unholy darkness, threatening the lives of many - he'd heard the words and seen the images at the drumming circle, and they flashed with truth through his thoughts. Why me? Best not to ask that kind of question, Simon thought. It's happened, and that's the way it is, and now I've got to follow the path ahead of me, all the way back to that fire-thing.
The Verbena and their dark, fiery ally could be anywhere - in the thick of the city or out in the woods, although from what little Simon knew of the witches the latter seemed more likely. He would have to get directions, and more importantly, some advice on what the hell to do when he got there. Somehow he didn't think a polite request and a bucket of water was going to take care of the situation.
Still, thinking, Simon trudged out of the circle and headed north across the campus. He'd have to find a spirit, since the other Speakers didn't seem too inclined to help. Not that he could blame them... their battles had come and gone, and left the dead behind. Simon had arrived too late to fight alongside them, too late to see the omens his mentor had spoken of come to fruit, but apparently not too late to get caught up in the whole tangled web. He shook his head to clear it of such negative thoughts, and looked up the path ahead. He'd have to find a spirit.
Simon kept walking north, not quite sure where he was going but aware of the buildings thinning out. He knew the manicured trees and lawns of the campus thickened into forests at the upper end of the school's lands, and while there were probably better places in the area to find nature spirits, these woods were more convenient and more familiar. And, as Tanandalay had told him all too often, the best place to begin is usually at the beginning. It wasn't long before he had left the northernmost buildings behind, but the trails stretched out far into the distance. Simon said a silent thanks that he had at least had the foresight to toss some food and water into his pack before leaving - and more importantly, a flashlight.
The glow of lamplights lost behind him, Simon pulled the flashlight from his bag and switched it on. It didn't do much to pierce the gloom, but it was better than the faint, soft moonlight that barely filtered through the trees. The road was dirt now, Simon's boots making loud crunching noises as he trudged along. His eyes widened as he cast the yellow beam of the flashlight around - there were redwoods here among the cedars and firs, and they were big ones. He paused and let his gaze climb up the girth of one of the majestic boles nearby until its heights were lost in the darkness. Why hadn't he ever come up here before? Too busy with texts and papers and colloquiums, probably.
A distant howl snapped Simon out of his self-critical reverie, and he kept walking, doing his best to muffle his footsteps. Had that been a coyote? Or was he wandering into more dangerous territory? There weren't supposed to be any wolves in these woods, but Simon knew better. He just hoped he wasn't tresspassing on holy lands or something of the sort. Simon's thoughts flickered back to a half-remembered conversation with Professor Shelby, only a few days earlier... the tiresome head of the anthropology department had been rattling on about publishing and lecturing as usual when Simon asked him about the northern trails. Shelby raised one of his bushy eyebrows, obviously less than pleased by the digression, but had answered nonetheless.
"If you're thinking of traipsing up into the woods," the professor had said, "I could certainly suggest some less dangerous ways to spend your time. Yes, I mean dangerous. Not more than three weeks ago there was a group of what d'you call them - Hare Krishnas, I believe. Shaven heads, orange robes, going up there to commune with nature or pick flowers or some such. Anyway. They were attacked by mountain lions, if you can believe that, and two of them were killed." Shelby sighed and shook his head. "Now they're being filmed for some ridiculous television program about wild animal attacks, but even the camera crews don't want to go up there. And I'd advise you not to either."
Simon had rolled his eyes a bit then and he did so again as he remembered the rather one-sided conversation. Shelby was an intelligent scholar but an armchair academic nonetheless. Still, Simon hoped he wouldn't attract any unwanted attention. The gravel and dirt continued to crunch beneath his boots. Perhaps, he thought, it's time to leave the trail. He was making too much noise and he thought he could still feel the faint, oppressive murk of the Gauntlet. After all, what was this path but a slash of human work cutting across the growth of the forest?
A dip in the trail up ahead marked the crossing of a dry streambed. Without hesitating, Simon turned left and headed along its course, into the trees. The flashlight's beam bobbed as the narrow furrow deepened and widened into a cleft and then a small canyon. The soft, spongy dirt underfoot and the silence that enveloped Simon made him feel at home; the forest was nothing like the deserts of Northern Australia, but they were oddly similar at the same time. The trees loomed even higher as walls of rock and earth rose on either side of Simon. Thankfully, the floor of the canyon was a fairly even bed of large rocks and dirt, strewn with leaves and needles. No matter how comfortable I might feel, thought Simon, I'm still a blundering man, and I don't really belong here. The flashlight was reminder enough of that.
A shadow loomed ahead, hanging over the canyon and blotting out the moonlight. Simon paused, his muscles tensing for a moment before he realized it was only an old redwood that had fallen across the canyon. Great roots poked up towards the sky, and young saplings had taken root in the decaying wood. Simon ducked his head and made his way under the tree, managing to shake loose clumps of moss and soil which fell into his hair.
Beyond the redwood, the canyon floor was denser with undergrowth, the trees overhead grew more closely together, and the shadows were darker. Simon wondered if he had passed out of the campus lands and into the state park that bordered them to the north. He hadn't seen any fence, though, and the trees certainly didn't give a damn, so what did it matter? Only the headlines would be different, he thought. "UCSC Student Mauled to Death in Cowell Redwoods State Park." Simon chuckled despite himself, the sound hovering oddly in the quiet night air. He pulled his coat more tightly about him and continued on, trying to ignore the eerie calls of the owls, the growing shadows on all sides.
Simon had been walking another ten minutes, still looking for a spirit's presence, when the flashlight began to flicker. He stifled a curse and swung his backpack off; there was an extra pair in the front pouch. The pack felt oddly light, and as he reached down to yank at the zipper he found it had already been opened. Scrabbling inside, confusion gave way to anxiety - it was empty. No batteries, no food, no water, nothing but an old textbook he'd brought along out of habit. More than a bit perturbed, Simon let the pack fall to the forest floor and sank into a crouch, flicking the dying flashlight off as he did.
The darkness was almost unbroken, but through the trees Simon though he could hear the sound of faint laughter. It mixed with a breeze blowing through the branches, a rustle of leaves, a fading whoosh, and silence again. Simon sat there for nearly two minutes, squatting between the canyon wall and a damp, mossy boulder, trying to hear anything. Finally, he managed to get up and look around - he was just as alone as he had been before.
There was no point in going any further, not without light and without supplies. It was about time he got back to campus anyway, he supposed. He flipped the flashlight back on again and aimed it back the way he had come, the weak yellowish light barely illuminating the uneven ground.
The light grew dimmer and dimmer until it cast no illumination at all on the trail. Simon's eyes had adjusted somewhat, but it was still dark. He stuffed the light back into his bag and groped for the nearest wall of the canyon, looking around for the moon. Closing his eyes, Simon muttered a prayer to Gaia. Serves me right for even bringing a flashlight out here, he silently mused, but have pity on a poor fool who only wishes to serve you and save himself. Luna, watch over my nights and light my path.
For a moment, Simon thought he heard an answer to his unspoken words; faint voices, like little girls whispering, sounding nearby yet far away. He craned his neck, and felt something brush him on the shoulder. Whirling around, he saw nothing but the dimly lit canyon wall.
"Is someone there?" He could hear the voices again, closer but still indistinct. "I... I mean you no harm. Please, show yourself. " His own voice was the loudest thing he'd heard in hours. It sounded high-pitched and nasal, a siren blaring through the serenity of the woods. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, but he gripped a strap of his pack tightly and spoke again.
"I'm only a traveler... trying to find my way. Seeking knowledge. Will you speak with me?" Now there was laughter, hazy but unmistakable, a merry, mocking sound echoing into the trees. So it was this all over again - he had to play the fool for someone else's amusement. There wasn't time for this sort of thing, damnit.
"There is a spirit of fire, a dark spirit, in these parts." Simon was speaking more loudly now, his face flushed. "It was brought here by magick-weavers, witches known as Verbena, and it seeks to burn and consume. That is what I seek." And the laughing died away. Simon waited, but there was no sound; the silence was absolute once more. Then, a rustle of leaves, the sound of branches bent by the wind... yet the air was as still and warm as ever. Something had left. Perhaps he had scared it off by mentioning the demon - who could say. Frustrated, Simon took a step back into the center of the canyon. The forest was the same as it had been... quiet, dark, and sleeping.
He turned once more towards the gentle uphill slope that led back towards the road. There was nothing else to see here tonight. He'd been watched, stolen from, laughed at, and ignored, and now he was alone again - or at least, he thought that's what had happened. In any case, the energy he had felt after awakening in the festival glade was ebbing; it was time to go home.
Tuesday, June 20th, 1995 3:01 p.m.
Simon had wasted the morning running to and fro across campus - from one dean to another, over the registrar, back to the housing office, and eventually another long discussion with Professor Shelby to top it all off. The summer semester was in full swing, and though the university wasn't as busy as it would be in the fall, there was still enough hustle and bustle to make Simon's head swim. He was starting to wonder what had possessed him to come back to the school in the first place - probably the cheap accomodations, to tell the truth.
By the afternoon Simon had time to turn his attention to his other problems. He had slept poorly last night, not as badly as in the previous days, but his slumber was still dreamless and unrefreshing. He'd contemplated trying to enter a state of lucid dreaming, but decided he knew too little about Chimarae - especially when he wasn't sure exactly what he was up against.
He hadn't had any luck with the naturae - not so far. Perhaps they were just too different from what he was used to... the friendly spirits of rock and pond and grove that had populated the lands in the Outback near his mentor's home, where he had studied and learned to speak across the shadow veils. These spirits, so close to the city, seemed suspicious. Not surprising, thought Simon. I'd be suspicious too if most of my kin had been felled by loggers and the rest of the woods were haunted by power-mad Verbena. He could try again later - for now, Simon had decided to seek out an urban spirit; maybe even a cousin of his shipmate, the greedy little rat.
From what Simon knew of the area, the neighborhood he was in was the best place to start looking. Beach Flats certainly had its share of
garbage-strewn alleyways and dark abandoned buildings; if he was going to find a spirit-rat, this was the place. A rather unsavory place, if he did say so himself. Heading away from the noise of the nearby boardwalk, Simon was reminded unpleasantly of neighborhoods back in San Jose, blocks and street corners that he'd had to pass by on the way home from school. But this was worse - Beach Flats seemed like some sort of unholy cross between a shantytown and a dilapidated Club Med. Some of the residents looked all too familiar to Simon; the jittery eyes of a crack addict, the posturing of young punks with no jobs and too much time on their hands. It was the same in cities wherever you went - just varying degrees of hell.
Simon didn't belong here. He never had - a little too clean-cut, a little too well-groomed, not to mention the round spectacles perched on his nose. That's why he'd gotten pounded on so much in the old neighborhoods. Instinctively, he hunched his shoulders and slouched a bit, trying to walk along and look like he knew where he was going. But people were already staring. A group of guys playing cards outside a grocery store had paused just to watch him go by. Simon picked up the pace; he passed by a buxom Latina who gazed at him intensely and then let out a wolf-whistle as he hurried on past.
It hadn't been a very good idea to wear the UCSC sweatshirt today, he decided.
Grinning despite himself, Simon shook his head. Even if the police did tend to avoid the area like the plague, he wasn't in much danger. Not in broad daylight with all these people around. Still, he was tempted to just get out of there before someone with an attitude decided to hassle him. Stepping over the legs of an old man slumped by the curb, he crossed the street and started walking east. A pair of young black girls stopped talking as he passed and just looked at him with suspicion in their eyes. Or maybe he was just imagining it.
What the hell was he looking for, anyway? Was he expecting a servant of the Rat or the Cockroach to just jump out and introduce itself? Not bloody likely; he'd have to ferret out their hiding places, and he could guess that they'd be in places he'd rather not loiter around in. Night might be a better time to look, but he wasn't about to go scrounging around in the backs of alleys in the middle of the night. Not in this neighborhood.
Damnation, thought Simon. And I thought the nature spirits were hard to find. There's got to be an easier way to do this. Maybe if I could actually get a decent night's sleep and dream like I should be, I'd find it.
He'd reached a slight incline that marked the edge of the flats and the beginning of pleasantly manicured middle class homes. Further ahead, larger properties perched on the hillsides. Business as usual... the higher up you go, the less it smells like sewage and the more it smells like money. Shaking his head, Simon made his way back towards the center of town.
Wednesday, June 21st, 1995 2:09 a.m.
It was no use sleeping, so Simon made his way back into the woods. He'd procured a new pair of sneakers and some batteries for the flashlight, but had decided against taking the latter. The waning moon still cast enough light to see by, and he didn't want any useless technological devices getting in his way. He knew what he had to do this time - cross over, through the velvet curtain, to the other side. There was something in the area, and he wanted to see it face to face. Hopefully the mishaps of Monday night were just pranks and not warnings...
He found the same gulch again easily and followed it down into the canyon. Nobody had been here - at least no one who had left tracks bigger than the impressions of his own damned boots which could still be seen here and there, pressed into the earth. Simon paced down the dry riverbed, almost impatient in the speed of his stride. He couldn't be exactly sure where he'd heard the voices, but he was close enough; it was time to step across.
Simon crossed his legs and seated himself on a low, flat stone near the side of the canyon. Taking a deep breath, he tried to center himself; focus inward, calm the mind, feel the barrier between worlds. It should be easy out here, he told himself. Just like in the desert, just slide across. Simon felt himself slipping away, sliding, shifting... from Gaia's bones to Gaia's soul.
He opened his eyes, blinked, looked around. He still sat on the darkened forest floor, in the physical world. Shaking his head a bit to clear it, he took another deep breath. Calm yourself, try again. Across the shadowy veils to the spirit world... and nothing, once more.
Perhaps this place wasn't as similar to the deserts of the Outback as he had thought. The Gauntlet seemed thin enough, though - he should have been able to slide across. It was a skill he thought he'd mastered some time ago. Unless there was something else wrong. His lack of sleep, the dreamless nights? Or worse? His face creased by a frown, Simon got back up and slung his pack across his shoulder. What was he supposed to do? There was no use sitting out here all night staring at the inside of his eyelids. It would have to wait until he got some rest.
Simon crashed through the underbrush, heading back to the south, questions nagging at his mind. What if this wasn't just a matter of preparation and skill? What if it was the demon's doing? Could such a being taint his soul and sap his connection to the spirit world? Did he already bear the mark of the Wyrm, a black fester on his soul? If so, it was no wonder that he was having trouble finding spirit guides... they would flee his kind or else try to destroy him. Simon winced and shook his head. Ridiculous - a few dreamless nights was all that had happened, and that couldn't possibly leave a permanent stain. Could it?
The campus was to the south. Simon ran on; he would sleep as best he could and try again tomorrow. He had to try again.
Wednesday, June 21st, 1995 9:33 p.m.
Simon had been more tired than he had known, sleeping late and awakening to find the sun near its zenith. His body felt reasonably rested - he stretched it out, hearing his joints pop - but his mind was still abuzz with the thoughts of last night. There had been no dreams; it had been nearly a week since he had arrived in Santa Cruz and nearly a week since he had dreamed.
The sun had sunk beneath the waves at quarter till nine, and Simon was already on his way north, his pack slung across one shoulder. He had considered leaving it behind, but some habits were too hard to break. Besides, he was determined to get somewhere tonight, and he might as well be prepared when he got wherever he was going. A couple books, some granola bars and a canteen, his harmony fetish and a couple plain ones, and a few smooth, round rocks to help him focus better on the spirit world. Simon was tempted to wear his pack backwards, across his chest so that he'd be able to keep a better eye on it, but that made walking a bit difficult and squeezed his windpipe uncomfortably. He'd just have to keep his senses alert - watch what was going on, pay attention to the weight on his shoulder.
The woods were dark by the time he reached the spot he'd sat at the night before. The moon was still a thin crescent, dwindling slowly to a sliver but still shedding almost enough light to walk by. Simon had stumbled across the rough terrain but managed to keep his footing. He tried to banish his doubts and fears as he sat down again, settling himself into the dirt and breathing in the cooling air of the summer night.
Simon adjusted the straps of his pack, then pulled out the unadorned cord which he always kept looped about his neck. To his unassisted eye, there was nothing hanging from the worn leather loop, but he knew that his spirit stone hung there on the other side of the wall between worlds. It was just a matter of touching it, feeling it, being with it. Simon cupped the cord with both hands and whispered a prayer to Gaia, his voice hissing through the air and mingling with the faint breeze. There was a way across. He would find his path, if Gaia was willing to open one for him. Here, away from the bindings of the Weaver, the barrier was thin. Were those other voices on the wind? Was that the song of an owl through the trees? Was this the moon, dimly casting beams through the trees? Was the growing weight in his hand the familiar form of the spirit stone? Was this Simon Keatings, sitting here in the woods and then gone without a sound?
He came back to himself, his eyes still closed. There was a strong light on the other side of his eyelids. There was a chilling breeze raising goosebumps on his uncovered neck. There was a sound of water -
Simon opened his eyes. He had passed across into the Umbra, into the spirit lands. He stood up.
It was cold, and bright. The moon's crescent was brilliant, a pale light filtering through the giant trees to shine onto the floor of the canyon where he stood. The forest was wilder, overgrown with huge, ancient plants that drank from the gushing stream that Simon stood by, a brook that had gone dry years ago. He felt the familiar weight of his spirit-stone around his neck, warm and pulsiing like a second heart; grasping it, he slid it back to safety, inside his shirt.
Simon frowned and dipped a finger into the water. It was ice cold, like a glacial lake. Though it was a humid summer night in the solid lands, here it seemed like winter; some of the trees were nearly leafless. He exhaled, and after an oddly silent moment a puff of vapor obligingly formed in the cold, crisp air. He sniffed a bit and held his dampened fingers up. There was a chilling breeze blowing from somewhere - then Simon saw it - blowing towards this place from a direction that was only *away*. The seventh direction, neither up nor down, left nor right, back nor forward. Simon stepped that way, further into the Umbra, the physical world at his back.
It was a path of sorts. He couldn't read spirit trails but it seemed to him that something had come this way. He followed it outwards, snaking into the moonlit night, into shadows that no longer mirrored the world he knew. For a time, he wandered along the dim way, shivering as the air grew colder and colder still. Then, the darkness fell away and he beheld the image of a battlefield; and then he stood on the battlefield itself.
The weather wasn't just cold anymore. It was the dead of winter. Perhaps it always had been. A thin blanket of snow lay across everything: the torn landscape, fallen swords and shields, piles of armored corpses strewn here and there like debris. Whatever war had raged here was over, and only the dead remained to greet Simon - a fact which he was glad for, since the combat looked to have been deadly and fierce. By his foot lay a length of spiky armor - or was it an armored arm? Yes, there was a hand, enlongated and inhuman, clutching futilely at some sort of multi-bladed sickle. Horned helmets shared the snowy ground with horned heads. Simon shivered, only partly from the cold.
Turning, he saw a light in the distance, bright like the crescent moon but shining upwards from the ground, creating a towering beam that rose into the sky. Perhaps it was a beacon, or a signal. It could be anything, Simon supposed. He made his way through the dead and the furrows of churned earth towards the light, trying not to step on any of the fallen warriors. The thought occurred to him that some of the armies might still be alive; he cocked his head and listened. There was a shuffling sound, coming from nearby.
Crouching behind the corner of a low mound of bodies, Simon saw a what looked like a small man of ungainly girth waddling through the debris of the battle. Pausing in the middle of an open space, it bent down, picking up something off the ground with stubby little arms. The being, whatever it was, held its finding up to examine it, but it was turned away from Simon and he couldn't see its face. It tossed the thing back to the ground with a clank, and began to lumber off.
Simon made a hasty decision to approach the little man. Looking around, he saw a double-hilted sword lying on the ground near where he was crouching. Pick it up, just in case? No. He stepped out into the open and cleared his throat.
The squat figure whirled around to face Simon. It was about three feet tall and furry, with a white chest and short grey-brown hair across the rest of its body. On its face, a mask-like pattern of fur around its eyes, above a long snout - it was a raccoon, a giant raccoon. Simon moved forward a half-step, his arms slightly out and palms up. The raccoon just stared, and cocked its head with a look in its eyes that might have been curiosity...
(Simon will try to be wary, but polite; perhaps an Etiquette or Spirit Lore roll or both might come in handy to avoid inadvertant faux pas. I suppose he might start with,)
(Result from Ediquette/Spirit roll - 4 successes. Raccoons are notorious thieves and very curious. They tend to mind their own business but don't mind interaction as long as it isn't threatening. When endangered, they show themselves quite clever and viscious when it comes to defending themselves. Though they will back down from a fight when they can, they will deal out serious damage when cornered.)
"Greetings." Simon smiled unsteadily and continued, watching the raccoon. "I hope your search is going better than mine is."
The raccoon sniffed at a helmet and tossed it aside.
"Agh! Moonmetal! Good for nothing!"
Simon continued, saying, "I am a traveler, recently arrived in these parts. What's more, I am a seeker, but I cannot find what I am seeking. Friend, do you think you could point me in the right direction?"
The raccoon sniffed in Simon's direction, it's black nose twitching.
"If there was such a thing as a right direction, I suppose I could. As there isn't, I don't suppose I can. However, I can point you out to a wrong direction," the raccoon said, nodding in the direction of the shining light. Saying this, the raccoon went about poking through the grusome debris of the battlefield.
(If the raccoon seems unfriendly or wary, Simon will try and offer it some of his food or something else from his pack as a friendly gesture. I have some ideas for larger chiminage, but I'll wait to see if that comes up. Mostly, Simon is relieved to have found a spirit to talk to. If anything turns ugly or it looks like a fight, Simon will try and use his harmony fetish. Hopefully he can tell it apart from the other ordinary fetishes he's carrying.)
Simon walked closer, squinting down at the helmet the raccoon had discarded and trying to think if he'd heard of moonmetal before. He turned to the raccoon. "I don't mean to interrupt you - but what is this place? And what exactly is that light over there?"
[John - a Spirit Lore or Cosmology roll to figure out what moonmetal is, perhaps? I would roll myself but I don't know what the difficulty would be (since I am just as puzzled of Simon, of course.) - Tomas ]
(Intelligence + Cosmology - 0 successes. Simon is not able to recall anything about Moonmetal from either learning or meditations.)
The raccoon looked around itself. "This? Madness! These fae kill each other, partly for an ancient grudge, and partly because they're driven to madness by the near presence of that THING!"
The raccoon scratched it's nose and continued to search, every now and then sitting up to stare at the light beacon. "Surely you must have seen it?" he asked Simon, but before there was any answer, he continued, "The Sun Child! Humpf! Even here, in the Umbra, it's influence pervades. Bathing in rivers of blood, it grows stronger. Soon, it will begin to effect everything and everyone around it - turning the world into the insane strife it knows as reality."
"And your kind!" the raccoon accused Simon, "help it."
Simon's eyes grew wide. "Sun Child? Is that the name of the fire demon that the witches brought to them?"
"That's the one," the raccoon assured Simon.
Simon nodded sadly. "Yes, you're right. They are helping it. But others of us are fighting them, and are fighting it. As for me, friend raccoon, the demon has left it's mark on me." He looked down at his spirit-self, half-expecting to find a dark smear spreading across his chest. "It has been devouring my dreams. I don't know why."
Though Simon didn't see a dark smear, he did, as he gazed into himself, start to be able to see through himself, as if he were becoming more insubstantial.
Simon's face grew grave. "I was told that because the Sun Child stole my dreams, I could follow the path it took back to it. Perhaps the seeking has led me here." He frowned, casting his gaze towards the searchlight. "But I don't know what I would do if I found it. You seem to know much about this dark spirit, wise one... what can be done? I want to stop this madness. Or if I cannot do that - at least, I want to do something." He ran his fingers roughly through his hair. "I haven't had a dream in more than a week."
Simon looked down and noticed the raccoon had stopped listening, having gone back to rummaging through the battle debris.
"I am sorry to have troubled you." said Simon. "At least let me offer you something to eat." He dug in his pack and came up with a few granola bars, which he offered to the raccoon. "I don't have much else with me - just some books and a few trinkets." Simon pulled the mouth of the pack open and displayed its contents to the rotund little spirit. "But if you see anything that would be of use to you, it is yours."
The raccoon took up Simon's offer of examining his pack with a relish. But finally, it was the granola bar that seemed to take it's interest. It opened the package deftly, and smacked loudly on the crunchy bar.
"Mmpph. Not the best, but I was hungry. Thank-you," the raccoon said, looking up at Simon. Blinking, the raccoon looked at Simon deeply, as if seeing him for the first time.
"No dreams, eh? Hmm." The raccoon approached Simon and patted Simon on the chest with its paws, poking a little uncomfortably. Simon didn't know why he hadn't noticed it before, but the raccoon seemed to have grown in height, approaching the five-foot mark. Suddenly, the raccoon shoved it's hands INTO Simon's chest! Simon gasped, as if in pain. But it was merely surprise. Though he could feel the raccoon poking around inside him, he seemed to suffer no otherwise ill effects.
"Hmm. The Sun-Child has got its mark on you my lad. Tsk, tsk. And you seemed like such a nice young mage."
Simon started to say something as the raccoon pulled it's paws out, Simon instead looked down at his unaffected chest.
"As I was saying, the Sun-Child has designs for you. It must have encountered you in the Dreamland. No telling for sure. But what I think is that the Sun-Child needs a new avatar. It's old one is corrupt and decaying. Didn't I tell you that it is a dual spirit?"
Simon's jaw dropped.
"Yes," the raccoon nodded. "It's chosen you. But first it must prepare you. The first step is to rob you of your dreams, hollowing out your awakened spirit. Then, when you're weak and wasted, it will make its move."
"What can I do?" Simon asked.
The raccoon seemed to think a bit, while scratching itself on its stomach. Then, it clapped its hands and a wooden flute appeared in the air, falling into the raccoon's outstretched paw. The raccoon tried playing the flute, but nothing came out. Wacking the flute on the dead head of one of the slain changelings, the raccoon tried again. This time a clear beautiful note sounded. The effect of it was to ease Simon's emptiness, filling some of the void that was inside himself. However, the melodious sound of the flute seemed to have an effect in the Umbra. The light grew brighter and the air grew colder. Weird shadows were born as the light bent down and swept toward where they were standing.
"Ooops! Don't want to do that here too much. It wouldn't harm you, but it certainly wouldn't like to find me poking around it's affairs."
The raccoon grabbed Simon's hand and dragged him behind a tree, which was soon illuminated from the side opposite them. The raccoon clamped its paw over Simon's mouth, to make sure that he didn't say anything. However, the light quickly passed and the raccoon resumed his conversation.
"I know what you're going to ask. How do you fight this thing? Hmm." The raccoon once again fell into its thoughtful pose. "Well, you might seek out others of your kind. This thing has kicked up quite a fuss in your world and there are many who seek to banish it. I take it that you're one of those and I'm glad to hear it. Seek out one called Alexis Affery. He lives on what you would call Beach Hill. Tell him your problem and see what he can do for you. Oh, and you might as well keep the flute. Only for now, just play it in your world until the Sun-Child is banished. And watch out for Resheph. He's what you will become and he's probably around you somewhere, keeping an eye on you and, probably protecting you until you are transformed. His current host is unsuitable and he seeks to quickly move."
"Thank you," Simon said, looking down at the flute. "How can I repay you?"
The raccoon smiled. "There might come a time you'll regret those words, my child. Anyway, I sense you don't play but please learn," it said, pointing toward the flute. "I can hear that thing wherever I am. It grates my ears to ear amateur lips on it. Just be considerate and learn to play it fast."
The raccoon started to waddle off. "Good luck to you," it said.
Simon called out after it. "If I may ask, what is moonmetal?"
"It's a chimerical metal. It's very potent here in the Umbra, but nearly worthless in your world. It can only exist in your world under the light of the moon, but it will melt at the first touch of either sunlight or strong banality. However, remember this place," the raccoon said, indicating the land around him. "There's much of it here, as you can see. If are caught in the Umbra and need weapons, you now know where to find them."
Saying this, the raccoon disappeared. One moment it was there, the other it was simply gone. Blinking, Simon gazed down at the flute and then at the light. He shivered. He shivered not from cold but from realizing that part of him wanted to travel toward the beacon, - and to join with what waited there.
Wednesday, June 21st, 1995 11:09 p.m.
Simon slid his way back down the snaking, moonlit path towards the solid lands, not focusing on the path, just letting his feet move of their own accord. The pull of the physical world was strong, tugging him forwards like gravity, but he was too wrapped up in thinking on what the raccoon spirit had told him: the Sun Child, and its plans. Its plans for him.
Shaking his head, Simon stared down at the Umbral terrain. He couldn't think about that, not yet, it was too soon. It wasn't safe to dwell too long on such thoughts, and so he wouldn't. The path opened up before him into the frostbitten spirit-forest he had set out from, seemingly days ago. The rocks, the trees, the feel of the ground. Simon set his mind on these, and clutched the wooden flute with white knuckles. Soon he was moving swiftly through the underbrush of the canyon, heading back towards campus.
Thursday, June 22, 1995 1:55 p.m.
Rubbing his eyes blearily, Simon backed up against the wall and did his best to slip sideways through a crowd of music students pouring out of an auditorium in the Performing Arts building. Some class or event of some sort was just getting out, apparently. A few undergraduates gave Simon odd looks as he sidled between them; he was a bit out of place, his appearance scruffy and undisciplined in comparison with some of the clean-cut classical musicians. Simon hardly noticed, too intent on finding what he was looking for -- someone who could teach him to play the flute. He reached into his satchel and felt for the reassuring smoothness of the raccoon's flute. He'd hardly let it out of his sight all night. It was hard to keep calm, to dodge the sense of urgency and panic that was edging in at the corner of his consciousness, but Simon was determined now, determined to fight the Sun Child as best he could. And for now, his sole weapon seemed to be a wooden flute.
There was a directory of faculty up ahead. Simon cast his eyes over it -- Theater, Visual Arts, Music -- Individual Instruction. H. Rasmussen, Flute. V. Killigrew, Flute. There was no room number for Rasmussen, but Killigrew's office was nearby, only two flights up. He headed for the stairs, and took them two at a time, just hoping this professor was around.
The office seemed small, buried in an out-of-the-way nook on the third floor. An impromptu cardboard plaque had been attached to the wooden door, reading "Victoria Killigrew, Music." Simon inhaled deeply, still a bit out of breath from racing up the stairs, and knocked sharply. A woman's voice called out, "Come in," and so he opened the door and did so.
The office was small, and sparsely furnished. Metal bookshelves on the walls sagged a bit under stacks of cassettes, and the usual array of textbooks, academic tomes, sheafs of paper. Black instrument cases were lined up against one wall. The room felt organized but somehow unpacked, as if someone had just moved in. You know, thought Simon, smiling inwardly for a brief moment, if I signed on full-time with Professor Shelby and followed all his advice, I too could have an office like this...
There was a standard metal desk between the bookshelves, with a neatly organized surface, and behind the desk there was a rolling chair with a young woman sitting on it. She looked up at Simon and adjusted a pair of thick, squarish spectacles.
"May I help you?"
"Professor Killigrew, right? I was hoping to speak with you about, ah... private instruction? In flute?"
A bit nervous, Simon focused his gaze on the brown bun of hair behind the woman's head. It was held in place with two lacquered chopsticks that were probably the most ornate aspect of her rather severe but not entirely unattractive appearance. Her dark grey eyes blinked.
"Well, the enrollment period for the summer has already gone by, but..." she pulled open a drawer and rifled through some papers, then stopped and peered at Simon again. "You're a student, yes? Undergraduate or graduate?" He scratched the back of his neck. "Ah... graduate, I suppose. Anthropology." "And I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name....?"
"Oh, forgive me. I'm Simon, Simon Keatings." He was abruptly aware of the unkempt growth on his chin and the rather rumpled state of his clothing. Unexpectedly, Killigrew smiled.
"I thought I recognized your face from somewhere." Swiveling around, she pulled a newspaper off the top of a stack behind the desk. It was a copy of Currents, the student newspaper. "Lost student returns from Australia" she read. "Lived in Outback for eighteen months." She tossed the paper onto her desk, in front of Simon, with a wry grin. "Quite a headline."
Simon picked up the paper and felt his cheeks redden. The story was on the bottom of the first page, but it was accompanied by a photograph of him, and a rather poor one to boot, taken a few years back at some party he couldn't quite recall. He looked back up at Killigrew. "Uh... yes. That would be me."
"Well, I suppose that means you're not actually registered for this semester, doesn't it?"
Simon nodded grimly. He'd nearly forgotten all the red tape and paperwork that went along with university life, but this was bringing it all back. Somehow he hadn't expected to run into this sort of problem... and perhaps he had grown more accustomed to bargaining with minor spirits than with petty bureaucrats.
"That shouldn't be a problem. I can always just give you lessons as a professional courtesy. Perfectly legitimate."
"Professional?" Simon raised an eyebrow. She chuckled.
"Yes, well, you're not officially on faculty yet, but the way some people are talking you might as well be. People were saying that you were one of anthro's prize students when you vanished, and now that you've come home there are rumors that they're going to try and get you on faculty somehow."
Feeling flustered and still blushing a bit, Simon managed to answer.
"People... they tend to exaggerate, I think. I don't know anything about all that, actually."
Professor Killigrew laughed quietly and shook her head.
"Oh, don't worry about it. To tell you the truth, I have an extra slot open this semester for flute instruction anyway. A couple extra spots. As you might be able to tell," she said, indicating the office with a small movement of her hand, "I'm not exactly senior faculty. Harold Rassmussen is the real guru for all the serious flutists, and I end up with whoever else has an interest. No offense, of course."
Victoria Killigrew opened up a brown spiral notebook sitting in front of her and studied it intently.
"Let's see... how about Tuesdays and Thursdays at three in the afternoon?" She saw Simon nod, and went on, saying, "The practice rooms are downstairs, and I should be able to reserve us one... which just leaves the matter of an instrument. Do you need a flute?"
"Oh, actually..."
Simon reached into his satchel and grabbed the raccoon's flute.
"I'm sorry, I should have mentioned this. This is the kind of flute I need to study."
He extended it gingerly towards her with both hands. "I hope that's not a problem."
Killigrew took the flute from Simon carefully, sensing the delicate way in which he handled it.
"No... I don't think it will be. What an unusual instrument! I don't think I've seen one quite like it before... but then, I'm not an ethnomusicologist."
She lifted the mouthpiece to her lifts and blew tenatively. A clear, eerie note sounded, and as she moved her fingers the single tone turned into a flowing minor scale. Simon cocked his head, certain for some reason that the raccoon had spoken truthfully and could hear the young professor playing. He only hoped he could play a fraction as well.
Killigrew had lifted the flute away from her lips and was looking at it oddly.
"Yes," she nodded, "I believe I have something sufficiently similar that I can use to demonstrate for you. Still, I wonder... do you think I could borrow this at some point? I have a colleague here who'd love to take a look at this."
Looking uncomfortable, Simon shook his head apologetically. "Actually, it's... it's not exactly mine. I'm borrowing it to study with, you see." He groped for an explanation. "I have to learn how to play it, since there's this... ceremony of sorts that I've been asked to participate in."
She nodded. "This has something to do with your trip to Australia, does it?"
Simon blinked and nodded once, not willing to say any more. Killigrew smiled slightly and handed Simon the flute again.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't pry. I'd be more than glad to help you out for something like that. When is this ceremony?"
"Oh... the date hasn't been set yet, but it will be soon. Very soon, I'm afraid I don't have too much time, maybe just enough to pick up the basic techniques."
Killigrew frowned, and Simon knew he'd made a minor faux pas, telling her he had to study the instrument in a rush.
"Still," he continued, "I want to learn it as well as I can, which is why I was looking for a teacher... and today's Thursday, isn't it? Can we start the lessons today?"
"Hmm?" Killigrew looked a bit surprised. "I had penciled the first lesson in for next Tuesday, but I suppose we can start today since you're on a deadline... like I said, I have this slot open." She glanced at a slender watch on her wrist, and nodded sharply. "Well, it's still a while till three." She glanced critically at the way Simon was holding the flute.
"But since you're obviously starting from scratch, we can use the extra time. I'm sick of this office, anyway."
Simon walked after the professor as she left the cramped office and headed down the way he had come in, the clack of her low heels followed by the slower, softer padding of his recently purchased tennis shoes. The practice rooms were at the other end of the building, off of a long, low corridor. Killigrew unlocked one and stepped inside; Simon followed, taking in the soundproofing, the carpeting, the music stands.
His first lesson was painfully reminiscent of his attempts to play the violin as a youth. His parents had wanted his education to be well-rounded, and so they had chosen the violin -- or rather it had chosen them, since they'd inherited an older cousin's leftover instrument and Suzuki method tapes and books. Young and not particularly patient, Simon had never really gotten into playing, and doubted he could manage even the simplest tune at this point. Still, he could at least read music, which was a relief to Professor Killigrew. On the other hand, he'd never touched a wind instrument in his life, and by the midpoint of the lesson he had barely managed to produce a few spittle-distorted notes.
Possessed of an acute feeling that the raccoon was listening to his every blunder, Simon kept apologizing profusely, even after Killigrew insisted he didn't need to, which earned him some curious and impatient looks from her. I'm trying too hard, he thought, but what choice do I have? I've got to master the basics, at least, so that I can stop tormenting my poor teachers. That was only part of the problem, of course, but Simon didn't want to think about the rest, about the consuming darkness that waited for him when he slept, and that might be stalking him in his waking hours as well...
Friday, June 23rd, 1995 9:43 a.m.
"There might come a time you'll regret those words, my child."
Simon thought on the raccoon's words as he pedaled up from the Boardwalk area towards Beach Hill. The spirit had sounded uncomfortably like the Godfather, he'd realized. It was ridiculous, but he kept hearing Marlon Brando saying, "Some day, and that day may never come, I will call upon you to do a service for me."
Absurd as the comparison might be, the fact remained that he was now firmly in debt to the spirit world and to the raccon in particular. Not that that was a bad thing; as Shelby had told him many times in the past, getting yourself in debt is often the easiest way to integrate yourself into a community. Shelby, of course, was used to dealing with small, isolated villages and people who didn't have the slightest idea what an anthropologist was. The spirits knew all too well about the dangers and benefits of bargaining with will-workers, and Simon was thankful that they were at least more cordial towards shamans than other types of magi.
A wind off the ocean blew steadily at Simon's side, filling his nostrils with salt and making his uphill climb slightly more arduous. The noises of the Boardwalk had long since faded behind him; he was among large houses, even a few fenced-off estates. Sighing slightly as he pushed his way uphill, he remembered that he had absolutely no idea where to find this Alexis Affery person. The phone books had turned up nothing; he didn't even know why he'd tried. Affery was no doubt a mage of some sort, or perhaps a Garou, or a spirit made flesh, or even one of the walking dead, though he sort of doubted the last possibility. Whatever the case, it wasn't surprising in the least that he or she or it wasn't listed.
But that was precisely why Simon had spent so many months developing other senses, to help him find and detect the unusual. He kept riding, turning down a side-street now, and as he did he began to feel outwards, feeling for the subtle tension of the velvet curtain and the worlds beyond. Simon closed one eye; it wasn't as easy as having both eyes closed, but he was riding a bicycle, after all. And it was what he had been taught. With one eye I see the threads of life, he thought, with the other I perceive the weavings of spirit. Warp and weft? No, that was a metaphor suited to the witches, not to his path. He slowed as the spirit world came into focus, and he was still riding, but along a dimly lit road with bizarre edifices of webbing looming on all sides. Faint shapes moved in the trees and in the gutters, watching him.
Simon called out to the spirits in the trees, who often knew all that went on in their domain; surely they would know of Affery. But as he approached, their wary watching turned to fear. He sensed it a moment before they fled, and the streets were bare before him. Making a left turn, he found what looked like a small park, and again spirits fled before him, even a small Weaver-spider scuttling away when he drew near.
Anxiety crept into Simon's mind. What was going on? Still riding, now with an agitated pace, he glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see some great hulking Wyrm-thing pacing behind him. There was nothing, of course.
It dawned on him suddenly, and he slowed, stopped, leaned one foot on the ethereal curb. He was the Wyrm-thing. They were fleeing him because of the taint left by the Sun Child, just as the other Speakers had shunned him because of the yawning darkness left within him by its predations.
Everything was falling away, it seemed. Simon felt like screaming, throwing his bike to the ground. His knuckles grew white, clenching the handlebar, but he stayed still. Uncontrolled anger was no solution - it much a tool of the Wyrm as any fire-demon. He was no Garou, no moon-driven warrior, to be guided by blind rage. He was only a shaman, and a half-trained one at that. A dark mood settled over Simon as he kicked off from the curb and kept riding. He had no allies now. The spirits of the city and the land, who many a shaman called brother, would not come within fifty paces of his tainted soul. That was all he had been taught, really -- how to deal with the spirits, bargain with them, give them their due. What was he supposed to do now? Might as well give up, came the thought. After all, how bad can being the living incarnation of a fire demon be?
"NO!" he screamed, aloud, the denial of that thought ripping through his mind with a wrenching feeling of helplessness.
What was -- and suddenly, the world flashed, there was a sound, a car honking, and he tumbled off his bike onto the sidewalk. The world was bright again, the sun in the eastern sky, the sky blue, the houses made of wood and stone instead of the Weaver's webs. A navy blue Toyota revved and sped away down the street.
Simon shook his head to clear it. He had been focusing on the spirit world, ignoring the real one completely, without even being aware of it. The car, with no substantial counterpart across the curtain, had sideswiped him without him even noticing. He breathed heavily. Something was still going right; he was lucky he hadn't been killed. And lucky that this was such a quiet neighborhood, with little traffic.
Picking up his bike, he glanced around, noticing that he was on 3rd Street. There was no time to dwell on dark thoughts that he shouldn't be thinking. He had to locate Affery soon, before... before his legs gave out. They were already aching from riding up and down the hill. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps I can use the flute. Then the spirits -- he stopped, his hand halfway to where the flute lay in his backpack. There was no point in trying aimlessly, not when he could barely play the thing. He doubted it would do much good anyway. "You're not an idiot, Simon," he muttered, swinging himself back onto the seat.
"You weren't an idiot before you had the help of the spirits either. There are many a dozen paths up the mountain, like they say."
The houses in this section of the hill were large and imposing, many of them done in classic Californian style complete with red-tiled roofs, some of them with wrought iron gates flanked by low walls. Simon paused by one of the latter, and peered through the bars. There was a small garden, the front door only a few yards from where he stood. The house itself was not of extraordinary size, but was impressive nonetheless; dormers and gables emerged from the pale yellow walls, and a three-faced tower loomed at one corner, characteristic of some antique style Simon couldn't remember. The whole picture created a refined impression, but there was something gloomy, brooding. Or perhaps, he thought, it's just me. Coming to a decision, he pushed the small white button on the pillar to the left of the gate.
It was a few minutes before someone appeared. A man, dressed in a white shirt and slacks with a pale blue tie, swung the door open, stepped outside, and closed it. His hair, Simon noticed, was almost the same color as the walls of the house, a rather yellowish blond. Straw, perhaps. The man said nothing, but only stared at Simon from the top step with a rather blank impression. His features were striking, probably handsome, a pleasant face dominated by a piercing blue-eyed gaze. After a few uncomfortable moments, Simon realized that he was supposed to speak.
"Pardon me... I don't mean to bother you, but I'm looking for a house in these parts. A person, actually, only I don't have the exact address. The name is Affery, Alexis Affery. The one I'm looking for, I mean. You wouldn't happen to know... ?" Simon realized he was starting to stammer, and fell silent.
The young man in front of the door nodded slowly, and silently extended an arm, pointing to something over Simon's shoulder. Simon's gaze turned; there was another house across the street, a tall blue one on the corner.
"Right there, on the corner?"
Another slow nod. Simon turned his bike around, calling out a thank you even as he began to pedal back up the street. The man watched as he left, then disappeared back inside the house.
Affery's house, if indeed it was the right house, also had a gate, but no buzzer. Simon left the bicycle leaning against the fence and pulled one side of the small gate open. Climbing up the steep stone stairs to the house, he breathed a small sigh of relief. Maybe something was going right after all; he had ended up very near to the house without even trying. Perhaps there was something watching over him. Or perhaps this Affery had pulled him here somehow.
He was on the front porch before he realized it, his hand extended to knock at the door. Mumbling a quiet prayer to Gaia, he rapped several times, then mumbled the prayer again. There was a sound of movement inside the house, the clomp of a man's footstep, and then the door swung partly open. A man poked his head and torso out. The head had short reddish hair and a concerned look, and the torso a dark red sweater. Simon began to stammer something again, but the man spoke first.
"Yes, I've been expecting you. Come in."
"Are you Affery? I'm Keatings, Simon Keatings. But... perhaps you know that already?"
The man cocked his head. "Well, I've been told you were coming. But I didn't know your name. And yes, I am Alexis Affery. Won't you come in?"
(Perception = 3 successes). Simon noted that a good amount of heat was escaping the house threw the open doorway; which seemed odd given that it promised to be yet another hot summer's day. Sniffing the air, he thought he could smell woodsmoke, as if from a fire.
Simon nodded politely and stepped past Affery into the house. Almost without thinking about it, he sniffed the air, probing with his will to try and ferret out what the strangeness of this place was, and the nature of his host -- his mind still unsettled by recent events, he turned to face Affery, examining him for a second time.
(Awareness = 1 success). Looking around him, Simon noted odd bits of fleeting sensations. It was as if hidden things were keeping themselves just beyond his senses; but which were there, nonetheless. The effect of knowing this was anything but settling.
Continuing to look around him, Simon tried to focus past the mundane, into whatever might lay hidden around him. As his physical senses only just caught sight of these hidden forces, he focused on his awakened self to bridge the gap between sensing and seeing. (Spirit Sight = 0 successes.) Still the world that he felt just beyond him in this place eluded him. There was a dry brush of something against his ear. Simon turned but there was nothing there.
"Won't you have a seat?" Alexis said, offering a comfortable overstuffed antique chair in a back room that had an excellent view of the English Garden behind the house. The garden was complete with willow tree, arbor and chairs beside a pond.
As Simon started to sit, he tried his Spirit Sight once more, hoping for better luck (Spirit Sight = 1 success). Looking over at the fire, Simon was startled to see a pair of inhuman eyes staring back at him from -within! - the embers. It was a small spirit creature, red all over, basking in the flames.
"Ah, I see you've met Grandfather Salamander," Alexis said matter of factly. It was obvious he knew what Simon had been doing. "And this," Alexis said, raising his hand which was grasped by a non-corpreal hand of an elegant woman dressed in Victorian garb, "is Anita. She lives here too. I can't feel her of course, but I know she's there just the same. Say hello to our guest, Anita."
"Hello Alexis' guest," the ghost nodded.
Simon realizing that he'd been found out, caught himself, stopped scanning, and apologized.
"I -- I'm sorry. I don't mean to intrude. It's just that... it's hard to know what's what, you know? May I ask, sir-" Simon cleared his throat self-consciously and continued, "who exactly you are? And what you know of me?"
Rather than answer him, Alexis looked over to a small table beside his own chair where a number of cards were spread out. He shuffled them and began spreading them out.
"As for myself, that's easy. I am Alexis Affery, of the Hermatic Order of Magi. Now, for you," he said, looking at his cards that he'd pulled out.
"You're a mage. That's obvious enough already. You're a traveller, a seeker, troubled, in danger, bereft of friends because they are... afraid of something - you?." He pulled out another card, pausing to glance up at Simon before looking back to his cards, "You're not only in danger, you're in great danger I should add - but more of the senses or spirit I think than of body. And you've come to me looking for answers. I would say, judging by your profile that you must either be Verbena - which would be bad for me - or a Dreamspeaker. Which is it?"
"Dreamspeaker," Simon assured him.
"Well, let's hope so. Any other questions? - after which I might have a few for you."
Simon shifted forward in the chair, sitting on the edge of the seat. Apparently Affery didn't actually know the whole story yet... did the raccoon spirit know this mage at all? Or only know of him?
"Actually, I must admit I have quite a few questions... I'm wondering how you knew I was coming, for one. For another, I'm a bit curious about your, ah, guests..." Simon turned, looking at the spirit in the hearth. His training showing itself, he unconsciously inclined his torso in a slight bow towards the odd creature. Looking back at Affery, he blinked and shook his head. "But none of this has to do with the real reason I sought you out. The witch-- well, this is a guess, but I suspect that from how you mentioned them, the Verbena, you're aware of what they're doing. What do you know of the Sun Child?"
Rather than answer Simon, Alexis turned toward the hearth.
"No Grandfather, that would hardly be polite, now would it? If you're uncomfortable, then just leave."
He turned back to Simon. "I'm sorry. Grandfather feels a little off right now." Simon turned to the fire. Other than for flames, it was empty. The ghost, Anita, still lingered though. She at least, was not afraid of him. Rather, she seemed to want to observe Simon, gazing at him with a pale sad face and the dark circled eyes one would expect of the dead.
"So MANY questions," Alexis said, shuffling his cards. He started to turn them over. "There's another visitor coming. He'll be here soon, but not just yet," he announced.
Simon was about to ask who it would be but apparently Alexis had been seeking the same answer. "A warrior. A protector - but for you or I, I cannot say."
"Let's see," Alexis began, "My cards told me you would be coming. I sense a great change in things around me. Grandfather Salamander sensed it too. And being witness to events you cannot imagine," Alexis paused, "Excuse me. Actually, I think that you of all probably could indeed imagine. Anyway, I consulted the cards and they told me about you - a little anyway. As for my guests, Grandfather Salamander is an ancient fire spirit. He hangs about me as much for curiosity as for anything else. Anita, her story is her own to tell. She lived here once. I'll leave it at that."
Alexis paused. He got up and poured himself a drink, though it was early. "A drink?" he offered. "I have water if you'd prefer."
Simon shook his head.
"Now the Sunchild. That is a question. My cards tell me he crosses your path as well. I'll be glad to answer your questions on that regards. But first I think it might be time for you to volunteer something as well. How about it. What's your story?"
Simon nodded gravely. "Of course, yes. I am, after all, here seeking your assistance, and I should explain myself." He still wasn't sure how far he could trust Affery, but what choice did he have? Taking a deep breath, he began to tell his story...
"I have only recently returned to this area, you see, after studying with my elder in the desert, in Australia. On the voyage back, I had strange dreams, warning me of something dark." Simon ran a hand wearily through his hair. "But these were the last dreams I have had, many many days ago. I met a local drumming circle here, people of my Tradition, and they told me that my dreams were being devoured by the Sun Child. They also told me of the Verbena's role in the recent events, but I guess you know more of that than I."
"They were afraid," Simon continued, "perhaps for the same reason that the old fire, the one who just left, is wary of me. But I knew nothing of that until I had made further seekings, and traveled to a place near here, in the spirit lands. A battlefield of the faerie folk, all of them dead, driven mad by the presence of the Sun Child, or so I was told by a spirit I met there. He also told me--" and here Simon swallowed nervously, "that the Sun Child intended to use me as a mortal host."
Simon let this sink in, and continued. "That is the crux of it, and that is why I seem to be causing discomfort wherever I go. The spirit helped me a little bit, but he suggested I seek you out and ask your advice. So here I am -- I hope I have not brought trouble to your door, and I apologize for disturbing your friend."
Alexis' eyes raised a bit at Simon's confession but he didn't interrupt and spoke only after Simon had himself finished speaking.
"Well, I guess the cat's out of bag now. I wonder how much in tune you are with the Sun Child - or Resheph, I should say. The only reason I'm asking is that if you are too much in sync, everything I've said and would say would be known to our enemy. Would you mind if I had a quick look at your aura?" Simon, still not totally trusting Affery, felt he had no choice, given this latest revelation.
"Please," was all he said, indicating his agreement.
Affery took Simon down into the basement, which was quite extensive and medieval looking.
"I've had some renovations done," Alexis explained.
Taking Simon over to a large oak table, Alexis began to combine a number of ingredients: powders, liquids, crushed rocks and gemstones, sprinkling all of them in carefully measure degrees into a brass bowl. The bowl had a somewhat luminescent green patina in its basin, probably due to previous experiments.
"Now, hold this bowl. I'm going to light it. And it's going to stink quite a bit, I'm afraid but I need you to hold it tight so I can have a proper look at you."
Simon held onto the bowl while Alexis lit it. A smoke which seemed equally composed of sooty black and cloudy white instantly erupted into his face, nearly choking him on a stench which was beyond description. (Willpower = 3 successes). Still, Simon managed to hold onto the bowl at first. His sense of smell, thankfully, stopped working, and he was able to brave the first part of the ordeal. But Simon found that the rather hot bowl was fast growing cold until the point that his hands were burning from a chilling frosty bite.
(Willpower = 3 successes). Surprising even himself, Simon managed to hold onto the bowl nevertheless. He was sure he would have frostbite, but felt that he needed to prove to Affery, and to himself, that he wasn't so totally in the thrall of darkness. The cold vanished, but looking down, Simon couldn't say he was comforted. A noxious mix of writhing black snakes and spiders coiled and crawled around inside the bowl's insides. The moment he looked down, they swarmed around his arms, entering inside his sleeves. (Willpower = 1 success). Simon held his ground. The spiders and snakes bit him everywhere, and more of their kind swarmed out of the bowl until they were everywhere, on his face, inside his clothes, biting him everywhere. Then they started to feed. Simon held onto the bowl nonetheless, but the pain was unbearable so he screamed - and the spiders came inside him and feasted on the flesh inside his mouth and throat while snakes wriggled into his gullet. Then they were gone.
Sweating, Simon looked down at his shaking hands and at the bowl, whose burning mixture, now mildly warm, was almost spent. Feeling the sweat bead down his face, its saltiness stinging his eyes, Simon held onto the bowl, glancing not without a little anger at Affery, who stood observing Simon calmly and with great intent.
Against all desire, Simon's eyes were drawn down to the bowl. It was filled to capacity with a brimming frothing wash of blood. Simon knew it was blood and could feel its living warmth on his hands through the bowl His hands raised themselves like they belonged to someone else, bringing the bowl to his lips. It was obvious he would drink it but he struggled for his soul to resist the temptation. This was the worst revelation - appearing not in pain but in desire for Simon truly wanted to drink the blood. He wanted it all, and more so besides. He wanted it so badly that nothing in his life seemed as important as tasting this mixture of life. (Willpower = 1 success). With a force of will he didn't know he had, Simon kept the bowl at bay, while it's warm brass lip touched his own, blood spilling around his face. His tongue darted out for a taste, but Simon clamped down with his teeth and lips and the only blood he tasted was his own.
Feeling his arms drop once more, Simon closed his eyes unwilling to see another vision. His ears eared the sound of tiny laughter. It was delightful and the aches of his trials instantly vanished. Opening his eyes, he glanced down at the bowl and saw that a sprite, a fae creature of great delicacy and beauty, was frolicking in the bowl, amusing herself with a shell button. She was the most beautiful thing Simon had ever seen and without thinking, he reached down to touch her. As soon as the shadow of his hand fell over her, the sprite looked up from her simple revelry and screamed in terror upon seeing Simon. (Willpower = no successes). This angered Simon. How dare she react to him in such a way? Hadn't he always been the friend and helper of all good spirits? He reached down, intent on showing the sprite, proving to her that he was a man of goodness. But the moment his hand grasped her, she gave a terrible scream. Looking at his hand, he hardly recognized it. It was blackened and bloated like a corpses, oozing with grey pus out of open sores. As soon as he touched her, the fey spirit shrieked and fell to corruption at his touch, dying in a moment.
Then she too was gone.
Simon sagged to his knees and wept, finally dropping the bowl and ending his torture.
He felt Affery try to lift him but he swung out and threw him back.
"How dare you!" Simon sobbed.
"Simon, it's all right," Affery assured him. "I don't know what you saw, but I want you to know that none of it was real. It was all illusion."
Simon looked up. Alexis, nursing a bruised cheek where Simon had punched him unwittingly, stood a respectful distance off, nodding at Simon.
"You held onto the bowl a lot longer than I would have thought any man capable. Don't worry. You're not so much in the clutches of darkness as you might have feared - not yet anywise. There's still time to save you."
(Willpower = 2 successes). Simon collected himself and rose to his feet without help. Looking at the bowl, now sooty from the spent flame, he asked, "But why did you choose such horrible visions? They were cruel and I do not thank you for them."
"But I didn't," Alexis assured him. "You did. Those visions came out of you. Maybe whatever you saw reflects the fear of the thing that has a part of you now."
Alexis took Simon, who was still a bit unsteady, by the arm, leading him out of the basement. "Come, I'll see that your clothes are washed while you bathe. When the other visitor arrives, I'll tell you more."
Friday, June 23rd, 1995 2:05 p.m.
Simon had taken Alexis up on his offer of lunch while they waited. Simon noted that the fire spirt, perhaps having grown more used to him, had returned to bask in the glowing flames. The room was uncomfortably warm now that the sun's full force was felt outside.
At some point, Alexis announced, "He's here." And got up to greet the new visitor.
He returned shortly with a rather nondescript man, sort of a professional business type, who's outstanding feature was that he wore a long coat, defying the heat outside. Still, he looked around the room, noting Simon, the fireplace and the garden.
"I'm Alexis Affery," Alexis said, sitting down in his chair opposite Simon. Alexis indicated the new visitor should sit on the sofa across from them. Alexis nodded toward Simon. "This is Simon. He's here to help me in my quest."
Simon nodded cordially.
"Why don't you introduce yourself," Alexis said to the man, "and tell me why you're here, though I think I know. Then we begin our plans in ernest."
"Currently, I go by the name of Timothy James, although some call me Christophe. As to why I am here, I'm either your exicutioner or your protector, depending on who I am working for at the moment. It seems that you are the only one who can rid this world of the Sun Child. Therefore, Gert and company wants you eliminated, while the Chorus wants you kept alive. Part of the plans better include relocating."
Tim sat back on the sofa placing his gym bag next to him.
Simon's eyes widened as Tim spoke. He inched forward onto the edge of his seat, brushing wet locks of hair out of his face.
"So I take it you're not working for this Gert at the moment? He's one of the witches, I suppose."
"Both of you are still breathing," Tim replied with a grin, "for the moment."
Friday, June 23rd, 1995 2:12 p.m.
"Let's hold here," Alexis suggested. "There's someone at the door."
Both Simon and Timothy tensed.
"Don't worry, he's not an enemy. He's here to join us. Just as one of you is the dreamer bereft of dreams and the other is the guardian; whereas I am the delver of secrets; this one too has a part in our drama. He is the leader," Alexis revealed a card and glanced quickly at Timothy, "And he too it seems, was sent at the behest of the Chorus."
Alexis shuffled the cards and put them back into a neat pile. There was a ring at the door. Alexis got up and returned with a Spartan looking fellow, very lean and weather-beaten. This man was probably in his late thirties or forties and he looked around the room like a predator surveying a waterhole for the first time - readying itself for the coming kills.
"I am Alexis Affery," Alexis said, sitting down and indicating to the new arrival that he should sit next to Timothy.
"This is Simon and this is Timothy. Why don't you introduce yourself. Then you can all make your acquaintances and then I'll tell you what you've all come to hear."
Alexis nodded to the stranger to begin.
The man moved with a casual grace that was less smooth than it was careful. He wasted no motion as he glided into the room, glancing first at the fire, then at Affery and Simon. His gaze lingered on Timothy for a moment, his expression unreadable on a face too weatherbeaten and cragged to be considered even slightly attractive. He was a lean man, not too tall, dressed in fatigues and a loose fitting gray shirt. A short staff lolled in his left hand, and a Desert Eagle rested comfortably on his right hip, in a holster both old and well maintained. He folded himself into the offered seat, left foot on the cushion in such a way that his knee was up close to his chest. He wraped his arms loosley around it, easing forward in the seat, his staff leaning on the cushion and stretching out over the floor in front of him, caressed by the fingers of his left hand. His right leg remained on the floor.
"I am Brother Lloyd, of the Akashics," the man replied easily. His voice was a confident blend of whisky baritone and controlled emotion. "I have been asked to win this war, if I can. I hope the information revealed here will be enough. I am honored to meet you."
He inclined his head slightly to each man, and awaited their response.
"And I am honoured to make your aquitance as well. As you all know, I am Alexis Affery, Mage of the Hermetic Order. Simon, why don't you introduce yourself to Lloyd here," Alexis suggested, indicating the man seated oppositte from him.
Simon raised an eyebrow, looking a bit apprehensive, and then nodded. "As Mr. Affery said, my name is Simon, and although I'm involved in this whole mess I'm afraid I can't make quite the contribution the rest of you do -- I'm not a warrior or a general, and I don't know much about what we are facing. And I'm not a paid assassin." He smirked good-naturedly at Timothy, pushing his spectacles back up his nose.
"I'm just a simple shaman -- some people call us Dreamspeakers -- recently returned to Santa Cruz. But... uh, the Sun Child. It's after me, and my guess is that it would not be in your best interests, or mine, to let it have me." He glanced over at Alexis, unsure whether to continue or stay silent.
"Thank-you, Simon. I'm sure that will be fine. More will become clearer when I tell you all what I know. But, first," Alexis nodded towards Tim, "I think my guardian should introduce himself so that we all know each other. And then, " Alexis looked at Lloyd again - I got the impression that you have an attendant entourage. You might want to tell us a little about them so we know who exactly is friend and who is an enemy."
"Paid?" Tim said sounding some what surprised. "You mean I'm geeting paid for this gig? I gots to have me a talk with my agent. She never gives me all the details of a job."
Tim leaned towards Simon, "Hey, if the Sun Child is after you, I guess you're the one I'm suppose to protect. You would happen to know which one," Tim indicate Alex and Lloyd, "of these two I'm suppose to assassinate. Would you?"
Simon glanced sidelong at Tim, not looking particularly amused. "If you really feel the need to kill somebody, how about that Gert guy? Or any of those witches, really..."
"Your side asked me to play bodyguard, not cannon fodder. I believe that role is being played by Lloyd here," Tim said.
Lloyd smiled a grim smile. "A role I am accustomed to." He gave Timothy a long look. "And one I excel at, as well. Given the circumstances, I would have it no other way." He glanced at Simon, then back at the man in the trenchcoat. "We all have our paths, each as important as the other. I follow mine, with no regrets." He sighed, perhaps regretfully, meeting Alexis' gaze. "But time is not our ally. To the point, Mr. Affery."
"Gentlemen, as Mister Lloyd says, to the point. Let me summarize what has happened. Some of this may or may not be already known to some of you. About four years ago, werewolf shamans in the East Bay Area, in the area of Oakland, summoned a very powerful fire spirit to their aid. They were unable to control the spirit and it went wild, destroying many of those who had summoned it and as well, scorching a good part of the hills above Oakland and Berkeley. Having failed disastrously, most werewolves abandoned the idea of using this ancient spirit to fight their enemies. Only a few young apprentice shamans continued to even toy with the idea of trying to make use of it once more, having been seduced by the vision of so much power. They were excited at even the thought of being able to rein it in."
"What the lycanthropes lacked - or more to the point - what the wiser shamans were unwilling to ever consider using to control the spirit was a powerful ingredient - life's blood. However, there exists a group of magi, one of our sister traditions in fact, to whom the use of blood in ritual is second nature. These are of course the Verbena. But since magi and werewolves rarely mix - and then - seldom with anything but animosity, one would think that the likelihood of forging such an alliance to be unlikely. After all, both magi and werewolves compete for the same sources of power which both desire greatly - nodes, or cairns as the werewolves call them. However, despite this, there DID already exist a cooperative alliance between both Verbena and werewolves in an area not too far distant from Oakland; that being here in the Santa Cruz Mountains. About ninety years ago, the werewolves, gave shelter to a group of Verbena who were fleeing persecution from the Santa Cruz Celestial Chorus. Sheltered by the werewolves, they cultivated a node of their own creation and gave help to the werewolf tribes in keeping their common enemies - the Wyrm and the Technocracy at bay. However, recently, because of attacks by the magi rabble who call themselves Hollow Ones, many werewolf nodes were destroyed and the werewolves were unable to maintain their vigil in the mountains, being forced to defend themselves from this new threat. Inroads were made and at one point, the Technocracy came very close to destroying the Verbena's sacred oak grove, their seat of power."
"At this point, it begins to look very dark indeed for both the Verbena and the werewolves. They are being assaulted from two fronts, and no one offers to aid them - except a group of werewolves who arrive from Oakland with knowledge of a ancient ritual to summon a very powerful forgotten spirit - one that will make them powerful again, and if controlled can actually be used to bring destruction on those who would seek to destroy them. Being desperate and fearing immenent destruction by the Technocracy, the Verbena agreed to add their own knowledge of blood ritual to the werewolf cause; and they take on the task of securing enough blood to both sustain and keep in control this 'Sunchild.' It is they who perform the rituals while the desperate werewolves capture both Hollow Ones and those of the Technocracy to feed it. The Santa Cruz werewolves also agree to protect the Verbena and the embryonic spirit until it has been given enough lives to grow powerful enough to protect itself and later aid them."
"This spirit, which they called the Sunchild, is very ancient. It was at one point, worshipped as a god in ancient times by an extinct people living in what is now the area between the Ukraine and the Turkic republics, like Kazakistan. These people, who had a strong tendency towards lycanthropy in their bloodlines, grew very powerful - but the more power they collected, the more blood their 'god' required to aid them. As long as they fed the Sunchild, it gave them power over their enemies. But there came a time where they could not satisfy the Sunchild, so great had its hunger grown. The Sunchild took all of them instead and after it had consumed every life of every nearly every man, woman, child, and even the beasts and plants of the region, it was finally banished back to the void, having nothing to feed it and thus give it the power to remain in our world. However, this was not before it laid waste to an entire region and turned a vast portion of the earth into a barren salt desert that in time became an inland sea. The rituals for summoning this entity were known among a few select shamans, who survived and passed their knowledge among their werewolf descendants. Remembering the lesson of what had happened before, these descendents never availed themselves of the spirit's power - fearing the cost. However, in time the knowledge of these rituals fell into less guarded, younger circles. Arrogance and desperation combined to convince some that control of the Sunchild was possible. Rather than be frightened by their failure in Oakland, these werewolves were captivated by the raw power capable in the spirit. And wanting itself to come back, the Sunchild tried to convince them in turn that the destruction caused by it was not its own fault, but rather a failure by them to give it its proper ritual and sustenance, which is partly true. It promised them great power if they could only bring it back from the void. And thus far, it has kept its promise. The werewolves who serve it have unparalleled rage at their command, which can fuel them to stupendous feats of violence and power. For their parts, the Verbena are totally freed from the effects of Paradox and can make use of even the most vulgar of magicks to wipe the earth free of their enemies. And they have - with a vengeance. However, the Verbena now count among their enemies those who they used to call friends; and we can include ourselves in that number. The werewolves, needing little reason to hate us, for except for the Verbena, they see all magi as the same - are more than willing to aid the Verbena in hunting us down." Alexis paused to let all of this sink in before continuing.
"Wine anyone?"
After he had poured himself and anyone else some Chardonnay, he continued.
"Now, let me tell you something not even the Verbena and their lycanthrope allies know. The Sunchild is not necessarily evil in its own moralistic sense. In reality, it is above such concepts as good and evil. What it really is is a total aspect of hunger and consumption of life - which is turns into destructive power which it channels to those who serve it by gleaning it more and more lifeforce - souls and blood. This of course, IS EVIL, by 'our' standards. It really always has been. There is something about the Sunchild that, by our understanding, is incredibly evil. Because of this, the Sunchild exists and has always existed in TWO forms. It has always been two entities that are part of the same whole. Often, these who halves of itself were thought to be in fact different beings, when they were actually part of the same dual spirit. In ancient text, there is spoken with great terror a demon who went by many names, among them, Resheph, which is Hebrew for the destroyer. Resheph, the corrupter and the possessor is the evil embodiment of the Sunchild. They are one and the same and one cannot exist in this world without the other. For all its beauty and divine aspect, the Sunchild must have a channel, a seeming for its evil acts and perverse hungers - and that embodiment is Resheph. In the distant past, those that knew the Sunchild's true nature as a destroyer, named it Resheph. But, others, seeing the putrid evil of Resheph and the godly beauty of the Sunchild failed to conceive of them as one being. Thus, Resheph, which is Hebrew for the destroyer, came to mean the weaker, foul seeming aspect of the wondrous, worshipful, Sunchild. Any destructive capability and use of vast power remained in the aspect of the Sunchild. Resheph, though it is vile, and capable of wreaking great harm on select individuals, cannot wield vast power in that guise. Do not mistake me, it is very dangerous and deadly to anyone of us; but it is nothing compared to the Sunchild at the height of its power. Also, whereas the Sunchild is total energy, and spirit, Resheph must take on mortal form - and is thus VERY vulnerable. It must possess a physical body and much of its ability to exist is dependant on the strength of the being it inhabits."
"Now remember, to exist in the world, no matter how much blood and souls are fed it, the Sunchild must also exist as Resheph. One cannot be in this reality without the other being here too."
"You ask me how I know this? Because I have SEEN BOTH! I have seen the Sunchild and I know where the Verbena keep their hidden sacred grove where the Sunchild rests. And I have seen the foul corruption of Resheph. Currently, it possesses the body of some poor homeless soul - one weak in power and thus unable to contain its corruption for long. Even now, Resheph's host is decaying and it will soon have to move to another - a more powerful host - and one which can sustain it and allow it more freedom as well as power." Having said this, Alexis gave a quite pointed look at Simon.
"And it has already chosen this host," Alexis said.
Simon had been staring morosely at his hands for the entire speech. At Alexis' last words, he shuddered and turned away, staring at the wall, his face ashen pale and his expression bleak.
"What happens if it's current host dies before it can possess another body?" Timothy asked.
"I can't be certain," Alexis admitted, "but I believe that Resheph - and hence the Sunchild - are banished back into the formless void, once again exiled from our reality."
"This brings us to our other questions. What are the capabilities of this incarnation? How can it be found? What must it do to make a successful transfer?" Lloyd met Simon's eye, his expression both sympathetic and resolute. "And what are 'we' willing to do to prevent it?"
"No." Simon's voice was quiet and flat. "It... it might be safer, perhaps, if we -" He swallowed, blinked, and continued, "If you let it take me, trick it into taking me, and kill me before it gets a chance to do anything. We can't waste time looking for it any more... too many have died already, and I - I am not important. And that way, you could... control the situation better, you could -" Simon abruptly fell silent again, a hopeless look on his face.
Lloyd spoke firmly, allowing no room for argument. "No! Too dangerous. We can't afford to give Resheph what it wants, because we don't know why it wants you. What if it seeks your ability to work the True Magick to make itself stronger?"
His tone changed, becoming kinder and respectful. "Do not belittle yourself so harshly, Simon. It's not your place to judge your importance. Let history and your peers do that. You have enough to do being a man. From where I sit, you are one hell of a good one, and I would hate to not have the chance to get to know you. I'll do everything I can to give myself that chance. I expect you to as well. Clear?"
Simon shot Lloyd a grim look, rising from his seat. He began to pace slowly around the room.
"Mr. Affery is optimistic, but you may not have very long to make plans. Besides, you could lay a - lay a trap, with spiritual wardings, and im-imprison me, keep me from - from -" Realizing he was beginning to stammer, Simon fell back into his seat, looking exhausted.
"I - I'm sorry. I am not thinking very clearly at the moment, I'm afraid." He ran a hand through his reddish bangs. "You are right, my strategy is foolish, even if it would let me play the role of martyr." Simon's mouth curved into a sarcastic grin.
"But what are we to do, before this war consumes magi and Garou alike? Before the fae folk destroy themselves completely?"
"Alex, do you have a description of this homeless person?" Tim asked as he reached for the wine. "And where we can find him?"
Alex regarded a sunflower, one of many found in a vase on his mantle. Having plucked this one flower, he returned to his chair and placed it on the table.
"It wasn't his appearance as much as his smell that struck me," Alexis admitted. "It smelled nothing more than that of death itself. I encountered a taxicab driver who'd met Resheph later. From his description it seems that Resheph's host has entered a state of putridity that would preclude it from being able to travel openly."
Alexis glanced at Simon.
"But I would think that it would be nearby. It's not living in the state we consider life. Resheph's host is being held to any form of cohesiveness by sheer force of evil will and power. It may not be as powerful as the Sunchild, but again I warn you not to underestimate it. Also, the Sunchild can and will aid it's 'Resheph' aspect if need be. That's why any plan we make must take into account any reaction by the Sunchild and its lupine and Verbena thralls." Simon nodded in agreement. "The one who warned me about the Sun Child also told me that Resheph would probably stay somewhere nearby, watching me, and... waiting."
"You don't happen to know how much longer they are planning to wait do you?" Tim asked.
Lloyd sat back. "And Resheph's capabilities? What can it do? What resources can it call upon? This is the question we must answer above all."
Alexis waited for a while; then noticing that all other eyes were turned to him, he said, "I don't know. I do know that it is weaker, and that hints are given as to some sort of power of corruption - whatever that means - but as to the specifics, I just don't know."
He stopped to pour himself another glass of wine.
"I've been thinking along the lines of something according to what Simon here said. We should not carry it all the way towards killing him, mind you; but threatening to kill him - doing him some small harm might flush Resheph out into the open. The problems is, how do we keep the Sunchild and it's minions off our backs as well? I would suggest a diversion as I do know the location of the Verbena node, but anyone sent on that mission would be sent to certain death - as recent events have all to well testified. Any thoughts on this, gentlemen? After all, two of you are warriors and I'm proposing that the other stand in as bait."
"I tried a frontal assault on one of those nodes last time I was in town. I died then and I doubt that I would fare any better this time around. We could crash a plane full of fuel into the node, that would flush them out. Do you have a topo map of the area that shows the location of the node?" Tim asked Alexis. "That may help us in planning the suicide mission. And the location of the werewolf nodes too?"
Tim stood and started to pace as he continued, "But perhaps we are going about this all wrong. What do we know about the Verbs and the werewolves? I know they can use funky magic that the three of you can't touch, but that's not want I need to know. What I need to know is: How many of them are there? What are there names? What do the look like? Where do they live? Where do they hang out? Basically a file on each of the enemy, you know, they type the paid killers always get in the movies. I've meet a few of them. I've met Beth, so I know what she looks like, but that's all on her. There's Colleen, who runs a coffee shop up on Highway 9 in Brookdale. And I've seen three of Beth's lapdogs around. Can any of you fill in anything else on the Verbs or the wolves?" Tim stared out the window into he garden as he waited for someone to reply.
Lloyd shifted position slightly, turning to face the man in the trenchcoat.
"The Werewolves are divided into two camps; those who support the Verbena, and those who do not wish total war among their kind. I have several contacts among the latter group, who have provided me with a great deal of useful information, but no overt combat assistance. I also paid a visit to one of the Black Fury nodes in the region. While I was unable to weaken them at all, I do have some very useful intelligence on that area and its defenses, as well as some of the notable leaders. However, I am not sure a frontal assault there would be useful. Those defenses are no doubt strengthened since my last visit, and it is not a central location."
"The Verbena are a different story. All in this region are apparently united behind Gert. I have several names and locations, supplied by my contacts, but have lacked the time to move on them. Why? What do you have in mind?"
"No Lloyd, there are three groups of Verbena and Werewolves." Tim said as he turned away from the window. "Those that support your cause, those that support the Sunchild, and the fence sitters. You asked why, I want to know everything. The first rule of war is: Know your enemy. The second rule is: Know yourself. Or have you forgotten those rules General?"
Alexis turned to Timothy, deflecting conversation away from Tim's jibe at Lloyd. "I'm afraid I don't have topographical maps of the area you've requested. We could get them from Bowman & Williams downtown, as they keep a stock of maps of the area. There's always the possibility that the maps have been doctored in some way. As that area is not explored in detail, I'm positive, and since the Verbena and lupines do not like to advertise the presence of their secret nodes - I don't know that such information is readily forthcoming. And certainly I have have not been keeping much in the way of social contacts with the local Verbena. Any of you..."
Alexis' eyes preceded the distraction of a white bird landing on his garden porch. "If you'll excuse me," he said to the assembly. He went outside and could be seen taking a tube from the dove, reading a scrolled bit of paper while stroking the bird's chest with one finger. (Perception + Awareness = 3/5/7) All present observed a startled look on Alexis' face. Alexis glanced at the three of them and then crumpled up the paper, putting it in his pocket. When he withdrew his hand, he conveniently produced a packet of birdseed, which he sprinkled on the ground for the dove to peck at.
"Sorry about the interuption," he said while coming back inside. Before anyone could ask about the contents of the note, he announced, "That was from someone named Raef, an acolyte of the Choirsters. He says that our friend...," Alexis pointed at Timothy, "is an imposter. He says that the real 'Christophe,' whoever that is, is at the Temple right now and that this man is probably a spy."
Alexis looked at Timothy. "You've impressed me as being someone very 'new' to this hidden world of ours. Something tells me you've never faced a magus in combat. For your own safety, I'm going to to ask that you do not make ANY sudden movements. Do you have something to say to us?"
Simon's shoulders tensed as Alexis spoke. He had been gazing moodily out the window, but now his head swung towards Timothy, his pale blue eyes examining the man with an unflinching stare. Adjusting his position in his seat, Simon reached out and picked up a black cotton jacket slung over one of the chair's arms.
[OOC note for John and Tim: Simon is attempting to hone in on and keep track of the colors in Timothy's aura. More specifically, keeping an eye out for reds and purples, rapid shifts and swirls.]
(Q: John, did Simon's Awareness roll succeed? That is, can Tim keep me informed of his aura colors and any changes that show up in them?
A: Violet, light green and orange.)
Since no one else had any suggestions at the moment, Timothy decided to have a staring contest with Simon.
"Hmpf," Tim snorted, finally breaking off the contest with Simon. "A spy is it?" Tim said as he faced Alexis once more, "When I first arrived here you called me the guardian; then Simon over there called me a paid assassin and now you're calling me a spy. Why don't the three of you put your minds together and decide on my job description. I would say to call Raef and get him in on your conversation. But we both know how much he loves to chat on the phone. In the meantime, I'm going to stand here and finish this here grape juice," Tim said as he turned back to the window. With Alexis' revelation and Timothy's reply, the room became deathly quiet. No one made a sound. Even the fire seemed to still itself a bit.
"Well, we do have a predicament. Gentlemen, any suggestions?" Alexis asked the other two, while still keeping an eye on Tim.
Lloyd remained seated, apparently still perfectly at ease. Perhaps his eyes became harder. Perhaps his expression shifted to a more probing one. It was hard to tell in the shifting firelight. His fingers still brushed his staff lightly.
"Know your enemy," he said thoughtfully. "Good advice. Who do 'you' know?" He turned just enough to direct a question toward Alexis, his eyes never leaving the man by the window. "How well do you know Raef, and how secure are your communications?"
"I don't know him well. Choirsters and Hermetics never mixed well in this town and I've inherited the old animosity. Our's is just a marriage of convenience. As for how secure our communications are, I would say via pigeon, moderately so; that it until the Verbena manage to bring in trained hawks or shoot one of the birds down without attracting too much attention - not a hard feat in itself. I think this last message was one of desperation since Raef was alarmed to learn that the man he'd sent her wasn't the one he thought he had."
Simon's eyebrow raised slightly as he continued to stare at Timothy. Leaning forward again, he addressed the subject of his gaze.
"Perhaps you should tell us the whole story, Mr... well, I'm not entirely sure what to call you anymore. Is it Christophe, or Timothy James, or something else?"
"Mister will be fine for now," Tim said as he turned to face Simon once more. "Raef asked me to help eliminate the Sun Child. I said I would and so he sent me here. Now do you boys want my help or not?"
"So, " Alexis said, turning once more to Timothy. "Just who is this Christophe and who are you then? Raef alluded to the fact that you might be a Verbena spy or assassin. Is that it? Are you their vehicle to eliminate me or to learn of our plans?"
There was the sound of the front door bell. It sounded before Timothy had a chance to answer the questions. Alexis gave everyone a quick glance and then said, "Hopefully that is the 'real', Christophe. Raef said that he would be arriving soon. If you will excuse me."
Alexis departed and returned with another man. He was shorter and his hair a bit lighter than Timothy's. His eyes might also have been a bit more hazelish but all in all, he was a remarkable match for the Timothy and it was not hard to see why anyone would not mistake them for each other.
Rather than addressing any of them, the man turned to Timothy, saying, "I am Christophe Auxier, once of the Knights Templar, Paris Chapter. And with you, sir, I believe I have some business. I have been told you have been usurping my name around town. Would you care to discuss this matter elsewhere - away from holy ground?"
Simon blinked at the newcomer, then looked back at Timothy, unable to repress a faint smirk. "Are you sure you don't want to tell us the whole story? I'm sure it's quite... interesting, and we'd all love to hear it."
Ignoring Simon, Tim answered the newcomer. "Not in particular," Tim said as he returned to the sofa. "But I don't think you're the type to let this go."
He reached down and picked up the gym bag next to Lloyd and started towards the garden door.
"Alexis, mind if we use your garden? I don't know about him," Tim said indicating the new arrivial, "but don't intend to do any pruning."
"You joining me Sir Knight?" Tim said as he left the room.
Simon got to his feet, looking a trifle alarmed, his gaze shifting from the newcomer to the rapidly departing Tim and back again. "Could someone perhaps explain what's going on here?"
"At least one of us will be back shortly to enlighten you," Timothy said as he walked out the garden door.
Christophe looked at Tim, then at Alexis and the others.
"There will be a time for that later. I see no reason for us to trouble these kind people. You may leave if I have your word that you will not come here again. I shall find you in my own good time. And do not call me knight. Though I belonged to the order of knights, I was only a squire, but a good one - as you shall no doubt see."
Tim stopped dead in his tracks on the patio. He sighed as he turned to face the others. "I'm not leaving unless Raef comes here," he indicated the spot where he was standing, "and tells me himself that my assistance is no longer needed nor wanted."
Christophe nodded, turning to Alexis. "With your permission then, monsieur?" He nodded toward the garden. "I'm afraid I must."
Alexis shook his head. "I want no blood spilled on my property. Can either of you tell me what is going on here?"
It was new Christophe who answered first. "This matter is of a private nature, unique to beings such as myself and this 'person.' Some time ago, I came to this area to help the Chorus out with some 'problems.'"
Alexis' face darkened. "I think I heard of you. You butchered members of my order and," he looked at Lloyd, "...those of the Akashics as well. The Dreamspeakers fled to the forests rather than fight you."
Christophe smiled. "Yes, well, that is in the past. It was nothing personal, I assure you. I work for pay and the Chorus paid me well. Now, ironically, they pay Christophe to protect you. However, another one, claiming to be me, has preceded me here. I heard rumors and came right away. I must agree that there is a resemblance - but I assure you it is only a superficial one - and a short lived one; that I promise you."
Alexis turned to Simon and Lloyd. "Well, I'm at a loss. I would not see innocent blood shed, though. I am not certain that either of these men need be an enemy of ours - but in the current climate, I can't be sure. I would just as soon dispense with either of them - but then our enemies, if one of them is a spy, would certainly know our plans. Do either of you have a suggestion?"
Putting his hands behind his back, Simon regarded the two Christophes. "I, for one, would like to hear the rest of the story." He glanced at Lloyd, then directed a rather pointed gaze towards the man who was also called Timothy James. "And as I mentioned before, there seems to be one person here whose chapter is missing."
An awkward silence fell over the room. Everyone seemed unsure of what to do or say. Finally, it was Alexis who spoke up, breaking the silence.
Turning to the two Christophe's, he said, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you both to leave."
Turning to Timothy, he added, "I'm not sure who you are; but I don't get the impression that you are my enemy, despite what Raef has said. The cards also confirm this."
Turning to second Christophe, Alexis remarked, "And you - I know your type well. You're an efficient killer - but one who kills for gold. Oh yes, I know - not literal gold. And I'm sure that you would be an efficient guard for me but given your past deeds against the fellows of my order - one whom I'd just as soon do without. However, in the current climate - we have to take what help we can. Ours is a fight for our very existence. But know sir, that if it comes to such, my association with you shall end the moment it becomes convenient."
Christophe nodded. "Of course, sir. I wish you to know however that I bear you no ill will. Had your forbears had sufficient 'gold' as you say, I would not have taken arms against them but would have been as much a plague to the Chorus. Raef knows this as does his superior; and she is willing to make use of me, knowing my talents. It is strictly a matter of business with me."
Alexis shuddered but didn't reply to this last directly. "Alright then. I will dispense with you both. Neither of you are welcome here until this matter between you is resolved. Whoever returns - and I think it fair to surmise only one - should come back to this house. I will be gone but the door will be open. Grandfather Salamander will then direct you where to find me. May your fates bring you what you each deserve."
Both men hesitated to leave so Alexis pointed out, "Gentlemen, you are in the seat of my power. I am quite capable of dealing with you both here. I suggest you leave. If I were as tactically mercenary as you, monsieur," Alexis nodded to the second Christophe, "I would eliminate you both rather than take any chance that either of you is working for the enemy."
Alexis indicated the hallway with his arm and after a calculating exchange of glances, both Christophes moved back to the front doorway. Alexis escorted them out.
When he returned, he said to Simon and Lloyd, "It is time we should be leaving. Though I don't suspect either of our martial friends of working for the enemy, we cannot take the chance of making such an assumption. I will have friends of mine keep an eye on them both. Time will tell if they are enemies or not. Besides, I don't know what great ill lies between them both - but I have no wish to be in between until it is resolved. Let us each go our own way. I must go into hiding. I think the plan should be this. Our allies must mount an attack on the Verbena and the garou. Whatever the cost, the Sunchild must be forced to aid his allies - even if he knows our plan. Then, we together will attack Resheph and if we can defeat it - thus banish both incarnations back to the void where they came from."
"How...?" Lloyd began to ask.
"I know," Simon volunteered. "By using me as bait."
Alexis nodded. "You yourself know that Resheph will do anything to protect you. If we threaten your person, it will intervene on your behalf. If we time it right - neither the Sunchild, the Verbena nor werewolves can aid it. It will be our best and only chance. If you are agreed, then be at the Surfer Statue on West Cliff Drive, the one by the lighthouse, on July 27th at eleven p.m."
Both nodded and left, leaving Alexis free to pack up.
Outside, each man was taking his leave of the other when Simon, perhaps sensing the terrible yet intimate presence of that other within him, happened to glance over to a tree.
It was the smell that Lloyd noticed first, pungent and reeking of death. In the tree in Affery's front yard, a homeless wreck of what once was a man stood gazing down at them both. It's mouth had long since corrupted away, and it stood without a lower jaw, full of bile and putrescence, gazing at them both. Unable to speak, it simply pointed at Simon and then at itself. Then it quivered, as if laughing.
Lloyd darted back inside to warn but then he came back outside.
"Affery's gone," he told Simon.
"You go too," Simon told Lloyd. "It won't follow you."
Lloyd didn't even want to ask why Simon knew this. He took it as a terrible truth. "Good luck," he said to Simon.
Simon waited until Lloyd was long gone and then walked back down the hill, heading back to campus. He didn't bother to look back. He knew it was there, clinging to the shadows, following him.
Tuesday, July 4, 1995 9:02 p.m.
Fire was blossoming above the waves near the Boardwalk, and nearly every head within view of the spectacle was turned towards it, watching half a dozen colors burst outwards and fall towards the waiting sea. Those who had not already assembled by the water were hurrying towards it, some alone, some in twos and threes or larger numbers. A young couple, holding hands, strolled unhurriedly down the dunes onto the beach; a pack of pre-teens, oblivious to the fiery display, raced past them towards the stages where the bands had fallen silent for the moment.
Simon was moving down the street from the hills behind the Boardwalk, the stately old houses of the Beach Hill neighborhood at his back as he paced his way towards the crowd. A few lamplights had flickered themselves on now that the sun had gone down, but they illuminated the streets near the water less than the fireworks did. Simon hunched his shoulders as a cold gust of wind blew by, tousling his reddish-brown bangs and breezing right through the thin cotton jacket he wore. He pushed his spectacles up into a safer perch on his thin, angular nose and walked on, towards the Boardwalk.
He usually avoided this area -- it was too crowded, too tacky, too much of a blatant spectacle, and one that was wearing a bit thin to boot. He couldn't just sit around at the university, though... he'd had enough of that lately, hanging around in his room, schmoozing with the faculty, even giving a couple guest lectures. The only bright spot in the weeks that had gone by since his meeting with Affery and the others were the lessons he'd had with Professor Killigrew, an hour here and there where the notes of the raccoon flute could pour through him and empty out the growing despair that threatened to fill his heart. Affery had said... or perhaps the tests had shown... that he was strong. But strong enough? For the hundreth time, he wondered why the twenty-seventh of July had to be so far off...
Only a few steps further, and he was at the edge of the throng that had gathered by the sea, and then he was moving through it, his tall, lean frame bobbing through the ranks of motionless watchers, snatches of conversation rising around him and then lost in the din, just as the falling sparks were extinguished in the dark waves. Circling around a fat man in a tank-top, moving aside for a stroller, he kept moving, keeping his eyes and ears open, instead of drifting off into his own thoughts as he did all too often. The thing called Resheph was here somewhere, no doubt, watching from a dark corner. And others might be here as well -- Affery, perhaps, or Lloyd Davies... or the Verbena. He pulled his coat a bit tighter and slipped through the swarm of bodies towards the ocean. Perhaps between the salty tang of the sea and the all-too-human odor of the crowd, he could lose the scent of decay and putrefaction that had been lurking at the edge of his perception all week.
Simon reached a thin spot in the crowd, where a small, decaying ramp angled down towards the beach. It was old and decrepit enough to dissuade anyone from trying to go up or down it, but the small platform at its top seemed servicable enough. Sticking his lanky legs through the bottom gap in the railing, he sat down and let his feet, clad in worn black tennis shoes, dangle over the edge. There was a cool breeze wafting upwards from the nearby surf. Sighing, he pulled a thin wooden flute from his pocket, brought it near his lips, and began to move his fingers up and down its length, practicing silently and without breath. He wasn't quite confident of his skills just yet, and it wouldn't do to irritate the raccoon more than he did every few days at his lessons. The crowd around him was staring up at a flaming red pincushion of a firework that had just appeared. He followed their gaze as it turned down, following the fading sparks, and waited for the next part of the show.
After watching for a while, silently tapping his flute, Simon lifted his head away from his flute and sniffed the air. The smell of gunpowder and sulphur was strong, floating with the smoke from the firework cannons, but there was something else in the air, a hint of strangeness. Pulling his legs back through the railing, he got to his feet and looked around. Both smells grew stronger as he walked along the railing. He craned his neck and peered down at the beach just beneath the Boardwalk. There was a loose crowd of people down there, just a bit back from the water. They were standing around several makeshift tube-cannons -- the staff who were putting on the display. They lit a long fuse and stood back; Simon stared upwards, his fingers twining around his wooden flute. A boom, a flash, and three green plumes exploded outwards in the night sky.
"Very flashy," he remarked, glancing at the tall, dark-haired woman near him. She was wearing a billowing blue dress with unusual embroidery, and silver hoops dangled from her ears. "But a bit smelly too, you know?"
The woman turned to him and smiled, opening her mouth to say something, but then looked a bit startled, as if she'd been expecting someone else. She considered his comment, then replied, "I'm not sure whether I like them or not. The display is beautiful, but the sounds and smells remind me of less happier times. Still, it is compelling."
She paused for a moment, "I heard you... well really only saw you playing earlier. I take it you're not with one of these bands?"
Simon blinked, a bit surprised. "Me...? Oh, no, not at all. I don't play very well, hardly at all to tell you the truth."
He twiddled his fingers across the smoothly carved holes of the flute.
"I was only practicing just now, that's probably why you didn't hear me -- I try not to play out loud, in order to spare my listeners' ears."
Leaning on the top rail, his back to the ocean, Simon smirked. "Besides, the bands performing here aren't exactly my style." As if to illustrate his point, a long-haired man in a leather suit bellowed loudly and threw himself off a nearby stage into the waiting crowd.
"How about you, miss?" Simon's gaze passed over her ornate skirts. "Are you... a performer?"
She certainly wasn't dressed in the bland, tourist garb of many of the other people around them, or the riotous post-punk gear of the rock fans.
"Yes, but not that kind." She laughed, "Although if a certain person had his way, I'd be banging my head on trashcans and screaming at the crowd now."
The expression on her face hinted that such a thing happening was all but impossible. Maybe she was a folk singer or something. Simon repressed an inward shudder, a leftover from his hipster college days when he'd sooner have listened to fingernails across a chalkboard than folk music.
She indicated her dress and continued, an Irish lilt to her voice, "And no, I don't usually dress this way. We were supposed to perform here tonight, but... there was obviously a misunderstanding."
The strange woman looked at the flute in Simon's hands. "Wood. Good choice. Metal flutes sound so cold and..." she searched for the right word, "mechanical." "The best sound comes from the wood ones. The wood lends its life to the notes so they are full and warm."
She indicated the flute, "May I see it?"
Suspicion flashed in Simon's mind, but he told himself it was probably nothing... still, this woman 'was' a bit odd, and there was something about her that reminded him of someone he'd met recently... what was it?
He stared at her for a moment, trying to gauge her intentions. Briefly, in his vision, a few colors swam around her head, and Simon nodded. There was definitely something mysterious about this woman, but she was honorable, and caring, with a hint of something else... nobility, perhaps? It wouldn't hurt to let her see the flute, he decided. Besides, maybe she knew how to play it, and he was beginning to feel a hollow mental aching, a longing to hear the flute's notes once again.
"As long as you promise to be careful." He smirked. "I'm only borrowing it, you see." A trifle hesitant still, Simon extended the short wooden flute towards her. "Is the flute your instrument? I'd be honored to hear you play."
"I will be careful," she promised. She took the flute carefully, handling it with a delicate touch. Turning it over, she looked at it closely.
"I can play the tin whistle and recorder, but I don't have a great deal of experience with a flute. I'm sure I could fake my way through something."
She smiled at him, "Of course with all the noise, I could claim to be playing as sweetly as Aeonghus himself."
Hmm, Simon thought. One of those Gaelic folk singers. At least they're not as corny as the midwestern folk singers. He cringed as a discordant riff erupted from the nearby stage. On the other hand, maybe folk music in general wasn't so bad. At least it'd be a change from this.
Simon smiled faintly. "Aeonghus?" He repeated the unfamilar name fairly well. "An Irish bard, or something like that?"
"God," she corrected absently as she examined the flute. "This was surely made by a master craftsman; I am not surprised you value it so highly."
She handed the flute back to Simon with care. "Where did it come from? Do you know who fashioned it?"
Simon looked puzzled for a moment. "Now that I think about it, I really have no idea. It's on loan from a friend of mine; perhaps when I see him again I will ask him." That is, if he saw the raccoon again... if he survived to pay off his debt to the spirit.
"You know, it's too bad about the mix-up in performing. I was hoping to hear some folk music myself." Simon paused for a moment, thinking. Well, not entirely true about the folk music, but he was being honest. "On the other hand, I did see a flyer somewhere around here, announcing a smaller celebration at Coffeetopia. I haven't been there in quite a while, but compared to this place it's definitely less... well... just less. Perhaps they are looking for musicians to accompany their fireworks?"
"The rest of the band has lost themselves in the night," she replied. "I doubt they have any desire... or ability to perform now. However, that is an inspired idea."
The woman smiled, "While I recognize that musical forms change over the years- and that in time I may become enamored of this particular form, right now I am unable to appreciate its... pecularities."
As an afterthought, she added, "I'm Dearbhail."
Simon blinked. "Oh, sorry. I'm Simon. A pleasure to meet you. And yes, music does change, but this stuff seems a lot like the loud, angry music of the last decade, or the one before. I can't say I've ever been into any of it, it's just not my style..." What was his style...? It seemed like so long since he'd listened to any popular music. Just the cool tones of the flute, and before that, over the ocean, the whistle of Aboriginal fetishes and the low droning of digereedoos. Anything before that was lifetimes away, an era gone by...
"I think I said that about blues music," Dearbhail smiled. "And now? Well, I'm willing to give this a decade."
Dearbhail looked over at the band, uncertainly, "Or perhaps two."
"I think that I'd like to see what's going on over at Coffeetopia. If nothing else, it will at least be quieter." She paused, then added, "Were you planning on going over there as well?"
Simon cocked his head, then nodded. "Yes," he said, "I believe I was. They have a very large tree there that I like. And good coffee. I believe they were going to start the show around ten or so..."
He couldn't quite remember, but there was some other reason he'd wanted to go to that place. He hadn't been there in ages. Something someone had said, about the coffee shop up on Route 9 in Brookdale...
Tuesday, July 4, 1995 10:36 p.m.
Beneath a great tree, a young woman ascended the stage, and stood at the microphone.
"Welcome to Coffeetopia!" she proclaimed. "I'd like to thank our bands for being here, our sponsors for contributing tonight, and, of course, all of you for coming out to Coffeetopia." The audience applauded. "In a few minutes, we're going to begin our fireworks display. Dusty Rhodes will be providing music, but the spectacle, truly, comes from your own imagination." She seemed to glow with some sort of hidden power for a moment.
"July Fourth, day of power, Give us your magic this happy hour."
She stepped down from the raised stage, and turned towards an open area. Raising what appeared to be a foot-long, elegantly carved stick, she seemed to conduct the fireworks as they commenced.
Red, white, and blue. Green and yellow. Sounds and colors mixed, as Dusty Rhodes played a pop rendition of "The Stars and Stripes Forever."
Simon wandered towards the performance as the young woman was on stage, speaking. He paused at the edge of the clearing and watched, taking in the pleasant scene. As the woman recited her poem, he shivered for a moment, and then blinked. Something was definitely a bit odd about that. Who was that girl? Colleen, he thought, not realizing exactly how he knew. But where had he heard of her, and who was she? He began to move closer, and nearly bumped into the redhead standing at the cordoned entrance outside the tree.
She smiled. "That's a 3-dollar cover charge, sir."
Simon looked amused. "To stand outside? What about if I sit over here, ten feet away and don't drink any coffee? Can I pay, like, fifty cents for that?" It was bad enough that he had to live in a boxy gray building while he was here... now he was supposed to pay to walk and stand under the sky?
In the clearing beyond, the light show continued, several bright balls of sparking light spinning and bouncing around, seemingly in time with the young woman's graceful motions. Simon squinted, looking past the redhead at the performance.
He was still standing outside the entrance when an unusual man in a green trenchcoat paid the cover charge and swept by into the audience. There was that odd smell again -- a hint of strangeness. Rolling his eyes one last time for the benefit of the redheaded girl, he handed her three dollars and followed the tall stranger into the clearing.
Trailing along behind him, he followed the man's gaze and noticed Dearbhail, who was sitting and watching the performance, occasionally taking a bite of food from the plate in her lap. A smile of recognition crossed his lips -- so she had come after all. Perhaps he could find out exactly who she was. When the man in the green trenchcoat sat down, he circled around the edges of the clearing towards her. The fireworks were still going in the middle, and most eyes were on the colorful display, but Simon was more intrigued by the odd smells in the air, and the people he'd seen that night: first the unusual Dearbhail, and now this gloomy looking guy who'd been staring at her. What next?
Pausing in the shade of a smaller tree near the edge of the enclosed area, he stared up at the moon, nearly half full now, and then continued on. Walking up to the stand of tables, Simon pulled up a chair near where Dearbhail was sitting.
"Hello again."
He glanced at her, and as he glanced at the plate of food she was holding, his stomach rumbled plaintively. Perhaps, he thought, he should follow her example. But there were other things besides hors d'oevurs to think about.
"Say, you see that guy over there in the funny-colored trenchcoat? The green one. Tall, with Slavic features... he was staring at you just now, and there's something rather odd about him. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it bothers me..."
Dearbhail frowned, but did not look over at the man Simon indicated. "Yes, I saw him. I do not know him, but he may be following me. I'm afraid that I have not only friends in this city."
Not the usual confession, but Simon was hardly surprised. He smiled, a bit sadly.
"And I'm in more or less the same situation, actually."
He glanced over at the Slav, who was staring off at something else -- studiously avoiding their gaze, perhaps?
"He could just be a harmless weirdo, but I wonder..."
It was a bit risky, but he had to know if the man was some sort of servant of the Sun Child, or one of the Verbena, tainted by the fiery darkness. If Dearbhail had attracted their attention, she could well be in more danger than she realized.
Simon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and squinted at the man. Lifting his right hand, he rested his jaw on the base of his palm; all in all, an unremarkable pose, save perhaps for the fact that his long fingers had covered his right eye. The left one continued to squint, and the patterns of change blurred into a bizarre focus. There was something... wrong with the man, although he didn't seem tainted per se. A faint, roiling luminescence, like wisps of steam, was boiling off of him, energy leaking slowly as if from a defective battery. And there was power there, the power of erosion and transformation, of which Simon knew very little. Troubling, but this one was probably not a servant of the Wyrm, although he might know much of its ways. Dearbhail was talking to him, but the words seemed distant.
"Indeed? And here I thought that Santa Cruz was a quiet, pleasant town," She smiled as she spoke. It wasn't clear if she was being sarcastic or not.
"So, does Balor's eye show you his true form?"
Simon's vision snapped back to normal, his concentration dissipating. Had he made a mistake, been too obvious with that one? It was too late now, in any case, but it looked as if he had been right about this Dearbhail knowing more of the occult than the average folk singer.
He sat back up and gave Dearbhail a strange look.
"Balor's eye? I'm not sure what you mean, but since you ask... I don't think he's dangerous, at least not in the way I had feared. But he's unstable somehow, uncontrolled, you know? Like a leaky battery. Perhaps we should both steer clear of him."
Dearbhail considered what Simon said about the man, "I'm not sure I understand. What about him is unstable? Do you mean emotionally? Or perhaps in a spiritual sense?"
Simon twisted his mouth around, thinking. "He has power, but perhaps not fully under his control. Like a kettle with a loose lid, the steam escaping outwards." He shrugged. "That is just my impression, I am not an expert in that sort of thing."
He regarded Dearbhail, his mouth twisting into a half-smile. "Truth is though, I'm not sure if I should be more worried about him or you -- who are you, anyway?"
She laughed, "You have nothing to fear from me. I am merely a musician who was left without an audience. And an old Irish lady who makes reference to stories of the past unaware that few others will recognize them." That's funny, she didn't look that old... unless, of course..."
"That is what I meant by Balor's eye. Covering one eye is a magical gesture, although it is usually combined with standing on one foot. It's also called a Crane stance. I did not intend to make fun, just making connections to the past."
"What of you? A silently playing piper. A unknowing user of magical gestures. One who likes, yet does not like the exuberance of a crowd. Surely there is more."
Simon smiled. Whoever she was, he couldn't help but like this woman a bit.
"Oh, there is, yes. But I don't think this is the place to discuss it, and it's not a pleasant tale in any case. At least not the last few chapters."
Simon regarded Dearbhail carefully. "You seem like a nice old Irish lady, even if you don't look all that old, so I'll tell you that not all is well in Santa Cruz. Dark things walking in the night, and so on... you'd be wise to steer clear of odd characters like that one, or like myself for that matter."
Dearbhail smiled, "There are two characteristics I have that nearly all old Irish ladies possess. The first is that we like a good story- whether it be happy or sad is not as important as its quality. I hope that one day I will have a chance to hear yours."
"The other is that we know that evil waits in the night- and sometimes in the clear light of day. But instead of hiding from it and pretending it doesn't exist, we seek to learn the nature of the evil in order to fight it and protect our families from it."
She continued more seriously, "Santa Cruz has perhaps more than its share of darkness, but it also has more than its share of light. It is in my nature to seek out both- to learn how to defeat one and how to bolster the other."
"If that man is who I suspect he is, I will have to deal with him sooner or later. And I would rather face him with knowledge of who he is and what he wants than be surprised unawares."
The tall stranger cleared his throat as she finished her sentence. He had silently slipped up to their table, somehow unnoticed. His brown eyes met hers for a moment before gesturing her to wait a moment before reacting or saying anything. His attention became focused on Simon.
"Tell me which tradition you belong to, mage. Falsehood is not an option."
A strange demand asked with a cool intensity, but Simon managed to stay calm, at least on the outside. He had spotted the man, and the man had spotted him... it was not so unusual. He only hoped this was not one of the Verbena, or their allies.
"Nor is it my intent." Simon smirked, trying not to look surprised. "I didn't think I could notice you without noticing me back, and I was wondering if you'd come over."
He glanced sidelong at Dearbhail, who had gotten warily to her feet at the other man's approach. Once it became clear that the man in the trenchcoat was not a threat, she sat down again.
"If you are not an enemy, then please join us."
She moved the plate of food a bit closer in his direction. Simon continued, gazing up at the man.
"Since you ask so nicely, I belong to a group that some call Dreamspeakers. And now I'll ask you the same in return: who are you, and what do you want?"
He met the other man's gaze with a stare, trying to make it as cool and steely as possible. Why hadn't he just stayed in Australia? You just didn't have to deal with this kind of thing as much out in the desert...
The trenchoated man simply nodded and visibly relaxed with a sigh. Did that mean he was relieved the answer hadn't been 'Verbena?'
"Strange night. I am Euthanatos. Very interested in the cycle of the wheel of life and death. And surprises on top of surprises, I meet two different people that found different ways to slip out of it." he said, nodding to Dearbhail.
"I was rude, but I am not a diplomat, even in my best days. Nor am I a danger. My staring was simply out of curiosity. No threat or spying." There was a moment of silence.
"As for what I want... I am curious. About you,", looking at Dearbhail with a disturbing intensity, "and about the war that is raging in Santa Cruz, if you heard," the man said, looking at Simon.
Simon didn't recall Davies or Affery saying anything about a Euthanatos. This was a somewhat unexpected development. Still, perhaps their interests coincided, even if their paths were different. He didn't know a whole lot about the death-mages or their beliefs... Damn... if only Davies were here.
Simon chuckled. "You could say I've heard, yes. Although I'm not the best person to ask about it." He craned his neck, scanning the crowd. "There are others, though I don't see any of them here. And you, sir? Were you worried I would answer Verbena just now, or are you with them?"
The man just shrugged as he took the seat Dearbhail offered after her moment of wariness.
"If Verbena would have been your answer, I think only one of us would have walked out of here. They dragged me in a war I didn't want. Tried to bribe me, manipulate me, threaten me and finally kill me. Things I usually find unpleasant and quite unsettling. Anything you heard that you are willing to share? The Choristers are under siege back at the temple."
The Euthanatos looked at Simon's serene face with a frown. "I envy you your detachment. I'm here to escape it all. If only for a night."
Simon laughed, and there was a grim, unpleasant tone in his laughter. "I seem detached, do I? If I give that impression, I'm afraid it's a sham." He smiled faintly. "Or a defense mechanism, if you believe in that kind of thing. To tell you the truth, perhaps more than any- but no, never mind. You say the Chorus is under siege? I will pass the news on, thank you."
If Davies hadn't already heard... but that wasn't likely. He imagined the military man probably had an extensive information network of some sort, but it was best to be safe and tell him in any case.
After a moment, he turned his attention toward the strange woman. "I feel you managed to escape the cycle somehow. I find it extremely stimulating. I'm used to seeing a limited number of options, and tonight, I learn there are some I never even imagined. Seems my vision of life and death is not up to date and I would be curious to know more about you and your kind, my lady.", finishing off his sentence with a small bow of the head and a discreet smile in his brown eyes.
Simon blinked. Escaped the cycle? This woman certainly wasn't one of the walking dead, he would have noticed that... so what was going on? Suddenly he realized who she reminded him of -- the two Cristophes, one of whom also called himself Timothy James. A very strange bunch... "old Irish lady" indeed. He smirked faintly, and listened to Dearbhail's reply.
"Before I answer your question, I would like to know who I am sharing a table with. I am Dearbhail MacKenna."
He acknowledged the demand with one of his usual nods. "I am Igor."
Dearbhail considered the grim man for a moment before responding. "No one can truely escape the cycle of life, death and rebirth- and indeed, why would one want to? To continue on while family and friends move onto the next world and are ultimately reborn in this one. Who would wish for such a fate?"
"No, I have not escaped it, but am trapped in it. Unable to move on and continue my journey."
Igor frowned at that, taken aback. "Your condition is very peculiar then. My interest is increased tenfold then. How did you become trapped and you are willing to escape it? Maybe I could help you find an exit." The reply was straightforward, with no trace of irony... only a tint of compassion.
Oh, Gaia's bones, Simon thought. He had heard of this, the Euthanatos obsession with ending lives at "the appropriate point," whenever that was... He grimaced, tried to catch Dearbhail's eye without attracting this Igor fellow's attention, and shook his head, just a bit. He hoped she wasn't blind enough to take him up on his offer.
Dearbhail considered for a moment, "I have spent a great deal of time thinking about the reasons. I have heard many theories, but do not know which, if any, are true. I do not think that something like is accidental, there must be a reason for my continued existance. Therefore, I will not leave of my own choice until my purpose has ended."
Igor stared at her intensely for a few moments, a cold and distant mask hiding his feeling and thoughts.
"There is sensible wisdom in your vision. I also think the world is richer by your presence and the time of your Death has not come yet, even if your life has been longer than most. Do you know anything about your kind and what made you what you are?"
Dearbhail changed the subject, perhaps unwilling to speak of herself. "But it seems that my story has less urgency than does your own. I have some knowledge of your kind. Of the war you fight and the methods you use to do so. But I am not aware of any battle being fought in Santa Cruz. Perhaps you would be willing to enlighten me?"
Igor looked a bit uneasy, unsure if he should adopt a secrecy or not. "There is a war of mages, a war of reality. The Verbenas allied themselves with the lupines and brought into this world a demon of some kind. Immensely powerful. The other.. traditions oppose them, but the war is not going well for our side. Their summoning is an abomination and they are bound to loose control over it very soon. Their pride and overconfidence will be the death of many good people. Care to share some of your experience, Dearbhail?"
Simon nodded, inwardly relieved that Igor at least claimed to be fighting against the Sun Child, regardless of what the truth might be. "Sadly, what he says is what I know to be true as well. Do you plan on fighting the Verbena, Igor? You should speak with Davies if you do, I think..."
"I have no choice to fight. I have been dragged in this war, against my will. Who is Davies and where can I find?", the Euthanatos mage asked, his interest seemingly acute.
Simon nodded seriously. "Colonel Davies is the War Leader, an Akashic. Although from what little I know of him he seems to be a hard man to find, I am sure he would be interested in speaking with you. Do you have a phone number where messages can reach you, or something like that?"
Igor considered for a moment, without coming up with a good answer. "I tend to move around a lot. But I've been hanging around the Klub for the past few days now, so he could probably reach me there. If he asks around, someone might know where to find me. Just know that the place is being watched by the Verbenas and the wolves."
Klub Kulture? Simon thought. It was certainly a gloomy enough place for a death-mage, but Igor's style somehow didn't seem exactly congruous with the goth-punk scene that dominated there. In any case, he made a mental note to get in touch with Davies.
Dearbhail added, "I am surprised to hear that the Garou would bring such a thing into existance without being able to control it. What do they hope to gain?"
"They did not bring it into existence, I think. It is using them and the witches more than they are using it; using their sadness and rage. They are a great people, but they have been tortured and pushed into desperate measures to try and reclaim what belongs to them. That, at least, is my guess. I do not relish the thought of having to fight them, for more than one reason."
Simon looked away, his face darkening as his thoughts moved forwards, towards the 27th of July. He would not even get to fight them, of course... he was only the bait for Resheph and the Sun Child. While he was more than willing to play the part allotted to him, he couldn't help but envy the warriors like Davies who would carry the battle to the enemy... but what foolish thoughts were these?
The Euthanatos nodded at Simon's words before adding his two cents.
"Althought I am not well informed of all the details, Simon's comment coincides well with my own feeling of the situation. Desperation for the wolves and hunger for power for the Verbenas were the cards that were played to bring us in this situation."
Simon sighed, and looked at the other two. They continued conversing for a while, but the discussion turned to other subjects; nobody seemed willing to mention the war or the dark undercurrents beneath the festive atmosphere that pervaded Coffeetopia. Eventually, the three parted ways. Simon lingered at the cafe for quite a while longer, satisfying his hunger at the buffet.
Wednesday, July 5, 1995 12:01 a.m.
Simon was sitting on the grass not far away from the entrance to the building, chewing on a long stalk of celery from the buffet. He blinked when he saw one of the Christophes emerge with the woman who'd been on stage earlier, Colleen. It was the awkward one, the one who couldn't decide whether his name was Christophe or Timothy James. How curious... He watched them talk for a while as they set down some trays of mugs. Coming to a decision, Simon lifted his arm and waved at Timothy. The tall man didn't seem to notice, and kept chatting with Colleen.
Simon was about to get up and go over to talk with them, when he realized where he had heard of Colleen. Timothy had mentioned her over a week ago, at Affery's place -- she was one of the Verbena, the one who owned this place!
Simon slowly got up and moved off into the trees, hoping the pair hadn't noticed him. So perhaps this Christophe was working for the Verbena after all... it was too bad, since he had seemed like an amusing fellow, if a bit confused about his identity. And there was that disturbing similarity to Dearbhail to worry about. -- He had better inform Davies, and maybe Affery, of what he had just seen. Retreating towards the road, Simon shook his head, thinking dark thoughts.
Wednesday, July 5th, 1995 1:54 a.m.
Simon shifted nervously, leaning against a street light. He glanced down at the slim volume in his hand again, but quickly folded it closed and shoved in a pocket, giving up any pretense of reading. It was times like these that he regretted not wearing a wristwatch like everyone else. He couldn't be sure if he was five minutes early or ten minutes late, but it felt like he'd been standing around for far too long. He was late in some sense, at any rate; he should have sent this note off to Davies days ago, maybe even on the night of the fourth. He took a deep breath, feeling the heavy, sluggish air fill his lungs. The atmosphere was humid and slow, but Simon felt certain that events were darting much more rapidly, beyond his awareness. He ran a hand across his dampening brow. Hopefully Davies knew more than he; not a difficult accomplishment.
There was a slim, neatly dressed girl to his left, who cleared her throat as he blinked and swiveled to face her. Was there a faint smile on her lips, her eyes staring at his tired features? If there was, it vanished after a second. Very businesslike: Celestial Chorus. The crucifix pin was the giveaway, even in a Latino neighborhood.
"Mr. Keatings, right?" She was a bit wary, not coming any closer than necessary.
He nodded. "Yes, that's me. And you're-"
"Here to pick up a letter, yes. To be delivered to the Colonel."
Simon nodded again, and fumbled in his pocket for the envelope. At least he'd had the foresight to stuff it into an envelope. Too embarrassing to hand over a crumpled ball or a slip of paper folded into a grade-school triangle. He extended it towards her, and she plucked it neatly out of the air. Without hardly looking at it, she slid it into her purse. Young, an acolyte? But very businesslike, very professional. Three Hail Marys and an Our Father.
There was a howl off in the distance, and Simon swung his head involuntarily towards the east. The acolyte didn't seem perturbed in the least, but only regarded him curiously, waiting for his gaze to turn towards her again.
He blinked. "You're sure he'll get it?"
She smiled and nodded, snapping the purse closed. A final glance up at Simon, and she turned and walked away, disappearing quickly into the muggy night. The dark air was holding all the warmth deposited during the day, waiting in anticipation of the morning, when the sun was sure to add layer upon layer of heat yet again. But it would be cool by then, he hoped. The early hours of morning, after the longest part of night, when he would be lying on his rented bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to a solitary car passing by the campus.
Simon was walking back that way now, thinking about Lloyd Davies. Also awake, perhaps, sitting over a table. Charts and maps? No, not that kind of war. He'd get the note tonight, maybe, and know what to do. Igor, Timothy James, Christophe. Resheph. He let a breath back out, pushing the hot air from his weary chest.
Friday, July 7th, 1995 12:42 p.m.
The melodies were coming more easily now, as his confidence grew. Practicing all the time probably helped; he couldn't remember the last time he'd thrown himself into something with such desperate energy. Playing the flute was his only remedy -- the notes that bubbled from the slender wooden pipe were the only things that seemed to fill the aching dreamless void that still gnawed inside him. At least his progress seemed to be making Victoria Killigrew happy. She had teased him yesterday about having a more rigorous practice schedule than students who were competing for orchestra chairs. Simon couldn't help but smirk as he remembered that, and lifted his lips from the flute for a moment.
The sun was beaming down on the path nearby, and Simon fancied the air above hot concrete was almost quivering. Thank Gaia for the shade that offers us a respite from unrelenting Helios, he thought. Even if it is from this unwieldy box of a building. McHenry Library. He tensed his lips into the proper form again, and brought the flute to meet them. A tentative note whispered out. Reaching the ears of a raccoon, somewhere? But the next notes were mingled with the flutter of wings.
A small white pigeon had alighted on a water spigot protruding from the base of the library wall, and was staring at him with unblinking bird eyes. No, wait; not a pigeon, but a dove. Blinking, he moved closer. The dove stepped sideways a bit but didn't fly away.
There was a streak of blood on the dove's wing, and curiouser still, a small tube of some sort attached to its leg. A message? How unusual. And the wound, the messenger intercepted in flight? Poor bird, Simon thought, and wondered if he should remove the little cylinder. He reached towards it, and to his surprise, the dove stayed still long enough for him to take the thin papery tube. He unrolled it, unfolded it, and unfolded it again; inside his gaze fell on lines of letters in a neat, compact script:
'To All Followers of Ascension: The Sun Child is a threat we cannot ignore, nor is it one we can overcome individually. Only as a group can we hope to stop this entity from further wanton destruction. I urge you, meet with me at the Cloisters of the Celestial Chorus. I have a plan that, if successful, will rid this world of the Sun Child. Time is short. The enemy grows stronger with each passing day. We have all taken losses, all felt the terrors of this war. I ask you, help me put an end to it. Let us lose no more to this otherworldly aberration.
'Brother Lloyd, Akashic'
And below, in a different hand, there was more. Calligraphy in jade green:
'To those of the Traditions: Brother Lloyd Davies has been assigned as War Leader by we of the Celestial Chorus. The Dreamspeakers, Hermetics, and those calling themselves, Hollow Ones, have also agreed to this appointment. Please heed his word and follow his directives as we shall. Only united can we hope to prevail and guard the paths of Ascension - so dear to us all.'
'Brother Louis, Celestial Chorus.'
Simon unfolded the bottom flap of the letter. Near the bottom, in Davies' neat script, was written a third short note:
'To Simon,
I have met this man, Igor. He could indeed be a useful ally, if my judgment of him is correct. Be strong. I have a plan. It needs only that you remain yourself long enough to bring it to fruition. I will do all I can to bring you through this with your soul intact. You have my word. I have faith in you, Simon. Don't lose heart. My hand will cover you soon. Anyone who speaks to you of the Brother's Eye can be trusted.'
'Brother Lloyd'
Simon let out a long sigh. Yes, things were moving as he sat and played his pipe. They were all going out to the Choristers' Chantry on Seabright, to meet and talk of many things. Bound to be amusing, like sitting on an island circled by sharks. There were Garou and Verbena swarming around that place, between the churchfolk and everyone else. Quarantine. How lucky for Simon that he had his own personal bodyguard! He chuckled a bit, but his laughter quickly died away as the unpleasant sounds reached his own ears.
It was good to hear from Davies, at least; the military man's reassurances echoed in his head, and though he could not entirely convince himself, Simon felt a bit less hollow for their presence. A cloud passed above, and the harsh light of the sun was muted into a hazy grey. Suddenly, a wave of fatigue swept over him, and he was tired, terribly tired. He just wanted it over with, so he could sleep a while without feeling like his insides were being nibbled at by vermin. So he could lie down peacefully in the grave.
Simon shook his head to clear it of such thoughts, and noticed that the dove was gone. Fled? Or perhaps off on another mission, steadfast servant of the Chorus. Tweet tweet tweet. He got to his feet.
Simon Keatings, Chapter 2
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