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| To the Chantry of Greater London; Of Warlocks, Rituals, and Introductions | |
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| Topic Started: Sunday, 30. March 2014, 22:24 (237 Views) | |
| Bounce | Sunday, 30. March 2014, 22:24 Post #1 |
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Dweeb
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OOC "London?" The elder ghoul turned back toward the young teen, echoing the last word that the boy had uttered. Many years before he had heard of the Tremere, Morgan Doyle's hair had turned a salt-and-pepper gray. Now, even immortal, it had gone silvery-white, which combined with the numerous lines on his face made him appear very much his age. What that age was, however, not even the young Warlock truly knew for certain. Leaning back against a table, the teen's self-declared vassal picked up a piece of earthen root from off the the work surface, turning it over in his hands as he spoke again. "We just got here," the man stated, in a low, rumbling baritone. "We did not just get here," the youth corrected, walking from the other side of the room with a small vial of oil. Brushing up alongside the ghoul, the young thaumaturge began organizing the ingredients for the ritual. A missive sat, face-up, beside the different implements. The letter that he had been reading earlier, embossed with the seal of the Clan and House Tremere. It was the official news that they were moving. For a moment, the youth paused as he realized that he was missing something. He uttered a ticking sound with his tongue, shooting a look up at the ghoul as he retrieved the root from out of the man's hands. Holding it up at him, almost as though it were a wand, the youth said, "We've been here since..." The dark-haired teen trailed off as he realized, he had no idea how long it had been. The point of the root dipped as the Warlock's confidence sagged. "What year is it?" the boy inquired curiously. "2014," the ghoul supplied dryly. The root again snapped up as though it were a wand, pointing at the man's face as the boy adopted a smug look at having been proven correct. "See, it's been twenty-seven years," the teen said, as he turned and set the root down on the table. Picking up a ritual knife, he seemed about to begin shaving the root when he paused a second time. Folding his hands down on top of the root, he looked back up at the ghoul and blurted aloud, "Bloody hell, it's been twenty-seven years?" "I only just started to like French women," Morgan noted gruffly, turning his head as he looked over what the young Warlock had spread out over the table. A metal dish with some water. A vial of oil. Some kind of... "What is that anyway?" the man asked, nodding his head to indicate the root underneath the boy's hands. "Tamarisk root," the teen supplied dully, answering without really considering the answer. Instead, he seemed distant, as though suddenly wondering where time had gone. Or even at what point he'd stopped noting its passage. "Wouldn't it be easier to, you know, do the whats-it," Morgan began, rambling on for a bit as he struggled to recall the modern innovation he was trying to recommend. "Skip?" he offered, even though he knew it wasn't the right word. "You know, that thing. That thing people use on their computers to talk over the internet." The commentary hadn't roused the boy from out of his brooding until it registered just what it was that Morgan was suggesting. "Skype," the youth corrected the man, sounding for all the world like a teenager who was frustrated by his grandfather's inability to understand modern things. "...and no." "I'm just saying, I can go get an iPad right now and we can just hit a button on the fucking screen," the ghoul stated, throwing a hand up with frustrations of his own. Raising one of his hands, the young Warlock cradled his face in his palm as he sagged over the top of the ritual table with a rather noticeable sigh -- particularly coming from one who no longer had need to breathe. Bringing his other hand up as well, the boy ran his fingers through his hair as he brushed it back, straightening up as he glared over at the so-called help. Which wasn't particularly helpful. "Thank you, Monsieur Doyle, that will be all," the youth stated crisply, taking both hands from off of his head and applying them, instead, to the ghoul as the teen pushed the man away from his work area and toward the door. "Perhaps you'd prefer I get you a cauldron instead?" the ghoul deadpanned, giving a wry smirk as he was ushered out. "Oot!" the boy commanded, a thick brogue coloring his speech as he became genuinely flustered. With a final shove the ghoul was pushed past the threshold, the door swung shut in the man's face as the youth leaned back against it and released another sigh. "Barmy git..." the youth uttered bitterly, reluctantly pulling himself away from the door and back toward the table where his ritual components awaited him. Flipping open a leather-bound journal, the young thaumaturge flipped the dog-eared and worn edges of the papers within until he had opened the tome to the page that he wanted, one written in a series of symbols. Then, taking the knife, he set to work shaving off some of the root as he prepared to make a call. Skype. The boy was fairly certain that suggestion had prompted every Tremere elder in torpor to spontaneously turn in their... where ever elders lay in torpor... thing.... Whatever. Carefully lighting a burner, and setting the flame underneath the saucer of water, the boy set about finishing the preparation of the root. As steam began to rise from off of the water's surface, a dab of oil and the root were added to the plate, its flame adjusted so not to set the contents to a boil. Waving one hand in a clock-wise circle over steaming concoction, the boy closed his eyes and began reciting a mantra-like invocation. He could feel the blood stirred by the words. Slowly at first, but then surging as a mystery passed between his body, the Blood, and the steam that was now rolling from out of the platter. When he had finished the incantation, the boy's hand dipped, then snapped upward sharply. His finger wove a series of symbols through the steam. And then he opened his eyes. It was done. All that was left, was to make the introduction. "To the Regent of the chantry of Greater London, I extend to you salutations from the chantry at Paris and offer you this introduction. I am Apprentice Eion Macnab, childe of Sean Murray of Edinburgh, of House Trismegistus. Upon receipt of orders, I am directed to your supervision and, with your consent, shall arrive on the morrow's eve." |
![]() To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream -- ay, there's the rub. For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come... - Bill Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III, scene i NOTE: Due to Admin changes, this character's Avatar was removed. This is the link to the old avatar: http://www.baku-panda.org/eion/rotator.php | |
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| NPC | Monday, 31. March 2014, 07:27 Post #2 |
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The Game Master
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Eion had finished sending the message as a familiar feeling crept up his spine slowly like a small spider or insect. Gradually, it slithered into his consciousness and balled up in the back of his head. He was no longer alone. He felt eyes upon him from a position he could not discern, looking at him. Watching him. Judging him. There were curls in the smoke that rose from the concoction and ripples appearing on the surface. The lighting made it difficult to say, but with a bit of imagination, it looked as if the ripples and gusts of steam made up a rudimentary face. The room had fallen silent and the sizle of the ritual components was soon gone, drowned out by whispers that reached his ear, growing louder as the words were becoming clearer and clearer, finding their way directly into his mind as the many tongues combined into a disembodied voise. "Apprentice Eion Macnab, I have received your message. I ask you to give my regards to the regent of the Paris chantry and consent to your change of supervision and will await your arrival tomorrow. How many persons am I to expect and what form of transport will you choose ?" |
| The NPC is not an admin nor does it have one singular user behind it. No PM's may be sent to the NPC and neither can you communicate with the NPC outside of role-play. Please contact Staff if you have any questions or queries. The NPC serves to only bring new information into role-play, members of staff have access to the NPC and will regularly be different people. | |
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| Bounce | Monday, 31. March 2014, 21:05 Post #3 |
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Dweeb
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Skype, indeed. As the whispers took root in his mind and the weight of another mind pressed against his consciousness, the immortal adolescent was very much aware of the fact that he wasn't alone. To be certain, he was the only one in the room. Physically speaking anyway. But Tremere communicated with one another in ways few could appreciate. In that respect, Eion wasn't sure whether he envied or pitied Morgan Doyle. He had been that ghoul once, and young. There was a time that he believed he didn't want to be a vampire, but to remain a ghoul. Looking back now, the power he had achieved, the enigmas he had discovered, and -- what was more -- the very many mysteries that remained... To be anything other than Tremere. What a sad, dull existence that was. Immortality, yes. But, there was so much more to life, death, and undeath than mere immortality. That was merely the beginning. But, to the conversation at hand. The regent had consented to the transfer. A perfunctory matter, but a necessary one. Eion had orders directing the transfer by someone in the upper circles of the Pyramid. To put it bluntly, the whole matter was above Eion's pay grade. Now, it wasn't that apprentices had never been turned away from a receiving chantry, but it was certainly rare enough that the young Warlock had viewed the matter a done deal even before he'd begun setting up the ritual. Now the Prince... That would be another matter. Cainites seemed to have a terrible habit of putting Elysium in nightclubs, bars, or other places where Eion could not easily go. Why not a coffee shop, museum, or library? Perhaps not the museum. They'd never get the Toreador to leave. "The regent is gracious," the boy responded respectfully, inclining his head toward the disembodied features that had taken form in a literal head of steam. It was another perfunctory response, and also necessary. Eion hadn't held his own in Clan Tremere for the last eighty years without learning the right words to say and who to say them to. "My associate will bring me up by car. We'll take the chunnel and the A1 into London, I expect," the youth stated, shifting his thoughts away from his musings on the situation and focusing instead on the logistics. "I have a homunculus in my possession, as well as the usual items. The use of public transportation would pose issues through security," the boy reasoned. By the Eurostar, he'd be in London in under three hours. A plane would be cheaper, but Eion had never been one for planes. No, with Bob, and whatever else Morgan might have in his possession, car made the most sense. Even for the nine hour drive, which meant they would have to set out while the sun was still up. Joy. Eion did so relish folding himself up in the boot like so much luggage. Regarding Morgan however... "If the regent will indulge me, will there be any issue of my associate staying in London before I've had opportunity to get on the Prince's schedule?" the youth inquired. It was no matter either way there, really. Morgan was the type that he could toss down for a few months just about anywhere, connect with the right labor bosses and find work for himself, making the trip into London every three weeks or so for his fix. As long as he'd brought it up, it made since to go ahead and get his other question regarding the presentation out on the table. "And, if I may inquire, would the regent prefer to coordinate such matters through the chantry or should I contact the Prince directly to request time in which to present myself?" After all, the presentation might well be the only time Eion ever saw the Prince. Given his habit of taking root in the chantry library, a quite real possibility in fact. He wondered what books that the chantry had on hand... He'd found an illuminated manuscript of The Travels of Fedoso and copied it onto his iPad for textual comparison with the accepted forms of the poem. As much as he enjoyed a good bout of Latin symbolism, it'd be nice to get his hands on something he hadn't read before. |
![]() To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream -- ay, there's the rub. For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come... - Bill Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III, scene i NOTE: Due to Admin changes, this character's Avatar was removed. This is the link to the old avatar: http://www.baku-panda.org/eion/rotator.php | |
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| NPC | Monday, 7. April 2014, 22:32 Post #4 |
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The Game Master
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"There will be no issue with your associate staying at the chantry until you have had your introduction. London as such might be tricky, but the chantry threshold is where the Prince's jurisdiction ends. Introductions will be arranged overthe chantry. That way introductions can be done in one sweep." The voice paused and the sizzle came back. Then, it returned and spoke anew. "You will find the chantry at 15 Milbank Street in Kingston upon Thames. Will there be anything else you require, apprentice Macnab ?" |
| The NPC is not an admin nor does it have one singular user behind it. No PM's may be sent to the NPC and neither can you communicate with the NPC outside of role-play. Please contact Staff if you have any questions or queries. The NPC serves to only bring new information into role-play, members of staff have access to the NPC and will regularly be different people. | |
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| Bounce | Tuesday, 8. April 2014, 14:53 Post #5 |
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Dweeb
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Whether an intentional or unintended consequence, the regent's words painted a somewhat bleak picture for the young apprentice. If the chantry were handling the affair of his introduction, then Eion might have no receipt or proof of his intent to fulfill the Tradition. As such, he could find himself a prisoner within the walls of the chantry, a concept not entirely unheard of. Fledglings and first circle apprentices were often tethered as such to the immediate supervision of older Tremere, prohibited from departing save for exceptional circumstances in which their time was to be closely accounted for. The boy would have rather hoped for some latitude, being more experienced with the Clan than his most of his peers... but this was Clan Tremere. Control and adherence to protocol and hierarchy was all part and parcel to the whole warlock gig. Of course, it was precisely his experience with the Clan that might well be the issue of why he'd be put under thumb. After all, Eion had no way of knowing why he was being transferred to London, on whose orders, or by what request -- if any. Had he a voice in the matter, he would have hoped for a transfer to a chantry in America. A location far, far away from the influence of some members of Clan and House Tremere; most notably Damian Lochsley and his strictly Traditionalist cabal of Euro-fanboys in the Pyramid. It was the consequence of a bridge burned. A bridge burned with the foresight of having avoided becoming involved with the betrayers of House Goratrix, but a bridge burned nonetheless. It had become the first lesson he had learned about Clan and House Tremere. Be careful that doing the right thing didn't cause an elder to lose face. Of course, whether this London regent was part or parley to Lochsley's following was neither here nor there. Eion was going to London and there was no option or alternative to the contrary. If doing so meant entering into house arrest, then he'd best merely prepare for a long stay in merry ol' Britain. "The regent is most gracious. Thank you for your time, sir," the boy stated perfunctorily, even as his own doubts of this assignment coupled with suspicions or concerns worked their way through his mind. The boy was already calculating the knowns and unknowns, and finding it quite lopsided with regard to the multitude of undefined variables. Whatever awaited him in London, it would be quite the enigma. But then, so had Paris been, when he had first arrived. "15 Millbank," the young apprentice echoed back to the disembodied voice. Of course he knew that. One of the first things he'd done when he'd received the missive was to look up what information was on hand in Paris about their London office. It was an old terrace house in the Royal Borough of Kingston upon Thames, putting it at a fair distance from London proper. The Underground did not even reach that far, stopping at Richmond. He'd have to catch the rail to Richmond or Wembleton if he was going to catch the Tube, then. Of course, Kingston had plenty of sites worth visiting in its own right, not the least of which was the Coronation Stone, but one did not hunt in their own backyard. That was just bad form. He supposed he'd be sending Morgan out for take-out then. Which sufficed, but a beating heart did add a bit of flavor to the experience. He could bite Morgan of course, but they'd known each other so long, that was just... awkward. Onward, then, to London. Pip, pip, cheerio. "I do so look forward to this opportunity, Regent," the boy offered in closing. Opportunity for what... that remained to be seen. Edited by Bounce, Tuesday, 8. April 2014, 16:27.
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![]() To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream -- ay, there's the rub. For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come... - Bill Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III, scene i NOTE: Due to Admin changes, this character's Avatar was removed. This is the link to the old avatar: http://www.baku-panda.org/eion/rotator.php | |
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