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Rotipher of the FoS
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

The reading's final three cards, though ominous, go over to good effect. Though seemingly as skeptical of the Prison's significance to herself as the bard -- And is there a lesson for you there, Crow-my-lad? Don't be so quick to seek refuge in denial, it's a weakness whose price you know too well... -- the professor seems impressed, and not a little intrigued, by the Druid's implications in particular. Something afoot in her own life, perhaps, or was the disquiet the Glyph-card posited to do with Crow himself? He really should learn more of her plans and motives; in the few letters they'd exchanged since Darkon, Kingsley had made vague reference to "recent prospects" which had quite raised her hopes, but had given no details.

Outside factors, alas, intervened before he could fish for such.
Nathan of the FoS wrote:Brother Perrison, who had approached them from behind, applauds stiffly. "Bravo, Brother Crow!" he says, smiling his half-witted smile. "Very pretty! And you, do you seek redemption? You are an ascetic, yes? A man alone, a man who bears the blade on behalf of the meek of the earth? Every man's hand shall be against the righteous, yet he shall overcome...or will he?

"The soldier may triumph, or he may fall;
The cards show much, but they do not show all.
"
At the oddball Brother's interruption, the spy grits his teeth -- dash it, he'd had it in mind to have a word with the man, but not now, nor in front of Kingsley! -- then forces a bemused half-smile onto his features. Damn this "Perrison" for his boisterous blather; he'd far prefer to have forfeited his own cards' contents and meanings ... rather, a judiciously-sanitized interpretation of their meanings ... to the professor at her request, not in self-defense against this "prophet's" poetic insinuations!

"Sir," the bard rises to confront the new arrival, and speaks with a civility not quite devoid of affront, "you seem to have mistaken me for someone else entirely. 'Redemption' implies that one is not already beyond saving: a capacity I'm sure my reputation has long since surpassed, by the judgments of society. Nor is 'ascetic' a word I'd use to describe myself ... save, perhaps, where certain exigencies of Art are concerned." As he utters this remark, Crow draws back the cuff of his right shirt-sleeve, revealing the edge of a stiffened leather wrist-brace -- a commonplace precaution, amongst instrumentalists prone to overstrained tendons -- wrapped round his forearm.

Looking back to Kingsley, still seated, the spy notes her skepticism and confusion, realizes a more vivid demonstration of good faith is called for. Returning to his seat, he dips into his Tarokka-deck and replaces four of the five cards in the cross-array with new ones: the Ones of Glyphs and Swords, then the Three of Swords, and last (hesitantly) the focus-card.

Pointedly ignoring the onlooking Perrison -- a man he's realized knows far too much for comfort, yet whose self-evident derangement might (so the spy sorely hopes) undermine his credibility to the FoS leaders; if it doesn't, the bard's dead anyway, so why let himself get distracted? -- as if snubbing the man for the rude interruption, Crow dives into his own fortune's interpretation brusquely, as if embarassed by the necessity and desirous of a quick summation.

"The Monk," he begins, tapping the card at Kingsley's left. "Self-reliance and the improvement of body, mind, skill. Appreciative of tranquility and calm thought, yet ever-prepared for the ordeals with which life -- or dark forces -- may confront us. A philosophy much respected in your own homeland if I'm not mistaken, Madam, though the customary iconic figure is Rajian.

"Past influences. My teachers' influences, I'd propose, from happier days of music and training ... though, heavens know, I've had ample need for self-reliance in the past decade."

(Crow's eyes close, very briefly, as he lifts his hand from the card. Sorry, old sage, he silently apologizes, for his inability to rightly credit the man whose books' heroic example had likely saved his soul.)

Quashing a pang of too-familiar regret, that he'd never had the chance to meet Van Richten face to face, the spy reaches across to the card opposite.

"The Avenger: future influences. A questor's card, indicating a thirst for justice and due retribution for foes' past wrongdoings ... something we Manoir survivors, I should think, would well understand, knowing first-hand the true depth of the traitor's offenses." He briefly glares at Perrison -- outrage at a man who wasn't there at St. Ronges, yet presumes to judge those who were, or so it would seem -- then taps the card, with its motif of the bloodied young hero perched atop his mounded, monstrous foes, again.

"Perhaps a sign I'll be recruiting adventurers' aid, when the time comes to beard Van Rijn in his foul den. Would-be heroes can be useful at times, can they not? Or perhaps a clue that it'll be up to me -- to all of we survivors, in fact -- to keep the Fraternity fixed upon its goal, not dilly-dallying with extraneous projects or neglectful of its higher duty to expunge its betrayer, no matter the cost." For an instant, Crow lets the fires of righteous outrage at Van Rijn's atrocities burn in his eyes: for all that he is no member, he does whole-heartedly share the Fraternity's goal of seeing the undead transmuter pay in full for his crimes.

The Prison, the bard does not touch. He's already described its meanings to Kingsley, for her reading; she'll note the omission, and possibly suspect he's concealing his personal take on its relevance, but she should also appreciate his not slogging over old ground. (Besides, the fact that they'd been issued the same card, in the same position, was highly uncomfortable for Crow. Given his recent, tentative hopes for friendship with the Zhesirian, it bespoke an intimacy to Perrison's insights which hinted at real prophetic power: a terrifying thought, that such might rest in the Fraternity's hands ... and not solely for the sake of his own imposture!)

At the bottom of the array: "The Soldier, of the suit of Swords. Like the Avenger, a card of strife; unlike the previous card, the agendas and boundaries of the factions set at odds are unclear, undefinable as right or wrong, as underdog or clearly-dominant. A battle resolved by luck or the hand of destiny, not by either combatant's superiority. As fitting a card as one might choose, I'll grant, for the struggle presently besetting us all, not just myself." He looks to Perrison, and grudgingly nods.

The imagery of the Soldier -- the swordsman pausing, uncertain of his choice, at the rack of blades: black, gray, white -- the spy does not discuss. She questions his motives quite enough, as it is, and will surely deduce that side of its symbolism for herself.

Crow's eyes glide around the points of the cross -- Swords in abundance, the suit of ravens ... his suit, damn Perrison's eyes! -- before they settle, at last, on the center card. Inverted to Kingsley, but upright to him as he's placed it; its grim malignance makes him shudder, a reaction beyond even the bard's capacity to mask. Swords, again, too ... damn the man! How much could this Perrison possibly know?!

He looks away, turns the card, hears Kingsley's breath drawn in sharply at the horrific image. Fraternity or not, Lady Scalpel yet had it in her to be dismayed by such things. Good for her.

"The Torturer," Crow speaks, eyes distant, face turned away. "Darkness beyond all reach of illumination, corruption beyond hope of redemption. Significator of fiends, of murderous madmen, of fallen souls so twisted as to thrive on purposeless misery. No other card of the Lesser deck is equal to its terror; only the Dark Master and Prison signify comparable malignity, to the Vistani, and only the Horseman exceeds its evil.

"A darklord's card, Madam, if ever there was one."

Now truly shocked, Kingsley looks up to the bard. Whatever she'd feared of his motives or intentions, this plainly wasn't within those doubts' scope.

"But... it's reversed, is it not? So it should mean..."

"The opposite?", Crow ruefully finished her query for her. "Not quite. As your own focus, the Temptress, still embodies temptation of a kind if inverted, so the Nine of Swords always bears the mark of darkness upon it. Reversed, it speaks of the prospect of redemption -- of atonement, of amends made, of honor or reputation restored -- however slim a prospect that might be ... but, alas, it also warns of the need for redemption, and the very real possibility of failure in that attempt."

He turns the central card back as it was, to spare her the full impact of its haunting imagery in upright configuration: the broken, shackled captive, body marred by endless days or weeks of torment; the nine blades, glowing redly within the brazier, ready to inflict still more suffering; most subtly, and most alarmingly of all under the circumstances, the shadow cast over the tortured prisoner's form, its contours distinctively those of a raven ... or a crow.

Though he'd blocked it from his thoughts, upon first being given the slip of paper, seeing the cards -- his cards -- physically laid out upon the bench has undermined the bard's resolve to think Perrison's handiwork sheer folly. Shaken, he grips the edge of the stone bench, to steady his thoughts, even as he rouses his deviousness to his imposture's defense.

"I... did not tell you everything, when last we met, about events in Il Aluk, Madam. There were ... others, other friends, I could easily have spared from their fate, had I but asked them to come with me. I have tried, tried hard, to believe that I am not to blame, in this ... but it would seem, if these cards do speak truly, that there is more I must do to make amends, before I wholly accept my own lack of culpability in their fate."

His words ring true, are true. The bard has not lied once, in all his words, merely presented facts as his wits -- and his troubled conscience -- have aligned them.

(They'd been so certain, those young fools he'd dispatched on their own mission -- so confident of their own invincibility, so assured they'd be back with their reconnaisance-reports within a day's time -- and he, so very preoccupied in probing Van Richten's disappearance, he'd set tales of the Ebon Fold's movements and the convergence of so many Kargat aside, for later consideration. Later consideration, like his search for the missing doctor, had come far too late. That graveborn whisper, those terrible lights that wracked the sky ... he'd been so close, close enough to feel the heat leeched from the air at the city's fringes, close enough he'd almost shared his associates' downfall....

(...and that was just the failure he did remember. Swords, too many Swords, in a world where there are no coincidences ... the crow's shadow, cast black and unforgivable upon the prisoner ... how can one atone for offenses one dares not remember committing....)

Working. You're working, damn it! Don't go there: don't feel it, just use it as you must, use the guilt and then push it down....

Denial, the bard's weakness and strength, brings him through it. He blinks away the fugue, stares accusingly at Perrison.

"How can you know these things, Brother? How, by the Fathers, can a giorgio hope to discern such truths, even if your deductions drawn from the cards' contents might be skewed out of true, in my case?"
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow
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Post by alhoon »

Nathan of the FoS wrote: In a moment Draxton finds himself alone with the sharp-faced and saturnine Exalted Brother, who looks at him with an expression of distaste. "A pleasure, I'm sure," he says, in a tone of voice that suggests the opposite. "If you'll accompany me?"
"Sure brother. I'm glad actually that we need these official invitations now." And follows Roeccha, hiding skillfully his distaste on being taken from Buchvold.
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Rotipher wrote:"How can you know these things, Brother? How, by the Fathers, can a giorgio hope to discern such truths, even if your deductions drawn from the cards' contents might be skewed out of true, in my case?"
Brother Perrison's face is blank as Crow gives his explanation, his gaze flicking back and forth between the cards; if Crow's icy politeness is noticed at all, it has no apparent effect on him.

As Crow addresses him, Perrison gives him a sharp, searching glance--an expression so totally unlike his previous smile that it makes his face seem that of another person. As quickly as it came, it is gone, leaving his eyes vacant with the deadly stillness of a building gutted by fire. Reaching to the deck, he flips through the cards with improbable speed and deals himself five cards: the Broken One, the Evoker, the Marionette reversed, the Abjurer reversed, the Mists.

Having laid out his cards, he stares at them for a long moment, then mutters, in a low, quick monotone, as if quoting something repeated so often it has lost any meaning it might once have had, "It is the greatest of errors to think that we must understand a symbol for it to rule over us the recruit who takes the king's skull is from that moment a soldier though he knows nothing of warfare or the management of arms we think that we define symbols but it is we who are formed by their sharp defining edges all physical things are a unity unique inexplicable and numinous it is only when we apply the symbol the word that they become discrete intelligible comprehensible therefore the symbols created by the mind define form and give meaning to shadow."

Standing, he sweeps the cards together and stares down at Crow. "A stranger reveals to a man five symbols. Which is stronger, Brother Crow?" he asks. "The five symbols, or the man?"

Turning, he walks away.
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

alhoon wrote: "Sure brother. I'm glad actually that we need these official invitations now." And follows Roeccha, hiding skillfully his distaste on being taken from Buchvold.
The Exalted Brother enters a small study (the same one where Crow and Buchvold had held their interview earlier) and gestures for Serd to seat himself. Roeccha sits at the edge of the desk and fixes the Richemulose with a gimlet eye, asking, "What was the subject of the first paper you gave at the Brautslava Institute? Also, who introduced you at that meeting?"

After Serd's reply, he nods and says, "Very good, Brother Serd. Now, please give me a full account of your movements and activities from November of last year onward, and the names of any brothers who can vouch for you on these points. Also, please inform me if you have been approached by anyone unknown to you claiming to be a member of the Fraternity or asking about Fraternity business."
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Post by Pamela »

Gertrude watched Perrison walk away, stunned into silence by the last couple of minutes. She bent down, gathering up the cards, but glad of the distraction after the tense, eerie exchange. Keeping her voice light, she quietly remarked, “Can you imagine what he must have been like before that accident of his…” She took up her cards, seeming to study them as she said, “I really must borrow a book from the library…”

She then looked up at Crow, and met his eyes. “I really must go and speak to Larner; he may have a letter from home for me, and I’m curious to know what his coming lecture will be about." It was an awkward moment; emotions were still high, but it wasn’t her place to attempt to offer consolation. All her paranoia had returned full-force as his reading had progressed. He’d been so angry at Perrison! And she had yet to think of a good reason why. Looking up cards would tell her nothing; only learning what he really was feeling guilty about. People dead ten years, over an incident he’d no reason to expect? She’d seen the guilt at home of Zherisians who’d been separated from their families unexpectedly by the Great Upheaval. Only the mad felt guilty a decade later. And Crow wasn’t mad. So what is he really feeling guilty about? Awash in suspicion, she was still able to wryly consider, At least I’ll be in the right shape to see the Shadowcloak… She rose from her seat, looking up at the sun, dizzy with the paradox: a beautiful sunny day filled with so much darkness.

“I am sorry,” she said, unsure what she was apologizing for, but filled with regret nonetheless. She presented him the cards.
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

The bard bites his lip, feeling the anger disperse, as Perrison walks away. Part of the anger is, perforce, at himself. Crow knows instinctively that he's gone too far, has let his snappishness at the odd man's intrusion on their privacy -- and his private feelings -- show itself too plainly for "Brother Crow's" ingenuous image. His training chafes at his silence, railing at him to fast-talk Kingsley immediately into dismissing all this as a joke ... yet, mechanical though they'd been, something in the half-addled prophet's recitation seems to directly mock that notion. Words as symbols, rendering us into merely-passive actors, whose roles "rule over us" ... am I to be as much a slave to stage-direction as that? To always play out the spy's craft, and lie by reflex to guard myself, simply because that's the role -- the symbol -- I've taken on?

It was more than the intrusiveness of Perrison's 'reading', or its disturbing content, that had upset the bard so badly. Deflecting challenges to his impostures was a skill so routine, for Crow, as to constitute a habit; while he'd not expected such a threat to be levied on a personal level, as opposed to mundane fact-checking or magical scrutiny, it wasn't so odd an experience as to set him off his game. Perrison's cards hadn't told him much he hadn't already known, in truth -- his conscience did not let him forget what disgrace he saw in the mirror, beneath his masques and his denial -- and the inherent vagaries of Tarokka ensured he could steer others' interpretations safely askew from the truth.

But a reading such as this, delivered by a man not even Vistani, yet seemingly valid in spite of this incongruity ... it smacks of darker forces at work than the Fraternity of Shadows, alone. Worse, it smacks of an implicit belief in fate: a notion that one could never defy or escape the hand of destiny; a warning that one's ultimate course in life, for good or ill, couldn't be changed. And such a presumption is utterly anathema to the bard, a mockery of all his past efforts to make of himself a better creature than the one he sees in that aforesaid mirror.

Accident?, the spy ponders, at Kingsley's remark about Perrison. He mutely watches the oddball Brother disappear into the mass of tents and attendees. There are no accidents, not in this world....

(An intriguing hypothesis, if he's rightly intuited the organization's overall agenda. It will definitely bear further thought.)

Crow turns back to Kingsley, sees suspicion and skepticism still heavy in her eyes. A rationalist, this woman, hence reluctant to credence his 'survirors' guilt' -- even though it is genuine -- not being so strongly swayed by emotion, herself. There is sympathy, at least ... he's not lost her that completely ... but her wariness is fast suffocating the fragile rapport he'd achieved in his past dealings with the professor. His training, again, chides the bard to calm her fears, still her doubts, seduce her thinking until she no longer questions a word he says ... but a puppet isn't what he wants or needs Milady Scalpel to be, even if he believed his skills equal to the task. He respects her far too much, and to do such a thing to her truly would feel like treachery, not tradecraft.

He still owes her a dinner, he recollects. Perhaps later, after she's fully ordered her thoughts, he'll broach the subject; not today, though.

"Thank you, Madam," he softly replies, accepting both the cards she has gathered and her words of empathy. Sensing that Kingsley feels equally ill-equipped for further conversation, at this awkward moment, he bows in quiet acknowledgement of her wish to escape the scene, waves and nods respectfully as she adjusts her veil and moves off into the crowd. Seeking her fellow-Zherisian, no doubt. He'll have to make a note to meet this 'Larner', before the gathering's end.

Scanning the crowd near the manor's grand entrance -- No sign of Buchvold's return, as yet ... where has that pompous martinet wandered off to? -- and replacing Perrison's and Kingsley's cards in the deck, Crow resolves to direct his mind back onto business. Whatever their deeper implications, the Tarokka-notes might be a useful ploy for getting information from the minor Brethren -- even Perrison doesn't seem to have had a deck of his own near to hand, so it was a safe bet there'd be plenty of others curious as to their "readings'" composition and import -- and more efficient than his original intent to search for Conrad, as an excuse to poke about. There were certain to be more security-checks ahead, probably at least two but less than seven, though some aspects of magical screening would surely be consoli-

He's just tucked Kingsley's "Temptress" into place, and is reaching to collect his own array of five from the bench, when the bard suddenly sees the forest for the trees.

Five cards -- his cards -- still arranged in their basic cross. Cards which, he can no longer dispute, are indeed meant for him ... for Crow the spy, not "Brother Crow" the Il Aluk refugee and Fraternity member, despite how he'd spun their interpretation for Kingsley. Five cards, that the gracious professor had not gathered up, doubtless on the assumption he might wish to contemplate them further, in private.

Five cards aligned so that she could view them as listed, when she'd sat on the opposite side of the array from Crow ... but she is not seated there now, and in her absence, Perrison's prediction re-orders itself to his sole perspective:

The Avenger, inverted and to the left: a history of futile struggle, an idealistic fool borne down by the mounded corpses of his own fruitless efforts. The Monk, likewise inverted and to the right: a future of rash folly and degraded ability, Van Richten's significator -- and legacy -- overturned by incompetence to come. The Soldier reversed, ascended to the top: the endgame an ordeal, yet decisive, and already begun, hence beyond mortal power to avert. The Torturer, a centerpiece still, yet no longer inverted -- no longer tempting with hope of redemption -- but dark without light, malice without mercy, evil without end.

And at the bottom, at the outcome....

The bard's eyes widen. His hand freezes. His breathing seems to stop.

For any other man, the Prison reversed would have been a good sign: an omen of freedom, of opening one's mind to new possibilities, of physical release from bondage. For Crow -- believing, in his soul, that it was not to help Dr. Rudolph van Richten, that he'd been sent to Mordentshire ten years ago, memoryless and disguised -- even the Horseman would have been kinder.

...return to tribe and family...

(Was this truly Crow's fortune, or that of the man he once had been?

(Could it be both? Could both be true? Could the outcome of Crow's reading, and mission, avert the outcome of the Torturer's?

(Damn them, he wasn't that man anymore! He wasn't going back! Even if he remembered it -- even if he remembered HER! -- he wasn't going back to such a life!)

Shuddering, the bard's fugue breaks. His hand descends, to cover the faces of the center and nearest cards, blocking their hateful omen from his sight.

Harko Perrison couldn't have known of this. Not even a Vistana could have. Even Hyskosa's prophecies had been vague, imprecise, subjective things, distorted by the seer's imperfect Sight. Sun's blood, even the nigh-mythical Madame Eva surely couldn't have foreseen the bard would lay out the cards himself, and in precisely this way, between himself and another!

Only one source of future insight, in the universe he knew, could conceivably account for this double-edged prediction, in the bard's understanding. The game of tauntings he played against the darkness ran both ways, sometimes.

The spy's eyes close, his thoughts focus, his breath ceases voluntarily. He lets the loathing build, musters it, feeds it with harbored resentments, tends it with care.

Then, he ladens a single thought with all the revulsion and acrimony he has conjured, and directs it to the ones who surely chose these cards for Perrison to draw, those whom he designates only as "bastards", and which the Fraternity knows euphemistically as "Watchers":

NEVER!!!

Then he scoops up the cards, one by one, and places them in their proper positions within the deck. Barely looking at his hands, Crow counts his way through the deck from the top, glancing only to confirm they're right side up as he lays the One of Glyphs, the One and the Three of Swords (damn them!) and the Prison back into place, squaring up the corners neatly. All but the last of the five.

The Torturer, he replaces without looking, and by counting the deck down rather than up. Crow doesn't wish to look at that card -- or the raven-signed company it keeps -- again.

(Perrison was wrong. It wasn't whether the man or the five cards were stronger, that posed the bard's real quandry. Of course he believed the man was the stronger of the two; were fate the stronger, all his efforts to atone for his former life would be meaningless.

(But as to which man within him was stronger ... to that question, the VRS spy had no answers. In a life built around feigned identities, trusting his own nature was as difficult as trusting others'.)

Whatever the future -- whatever his true nature -- the bard is still Crow. He pushes it down, seals the cards in their case, and resumes his work.
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Llana wrote:“I am sorry,” she said, unsure what she was apologizing for, but filled with regret nonetheless. She presented him the cards.
As Gertrude walks across the lawn she realizes that the number of Fraternity brothers has declined considerably; most have apparently gone inside while she and Crow were discussing their "messages". As she turns toward the house, she sees Brother Larner come through the Dementlieuse window and scan the lawn; seeing her, he approaches, his air perhaps a little more formal than even Zherisian reserve demands.

"Professor Kingsley," he says, bowing to the correct degree. "It is a pleasure, as always, to see you. Would you be so kind as to accompany me?"
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Rotipher wrote:Whatever the future -- whatever his true nature -- the bard is still Crow. He pushes it down, seals the cards in their case, and resumes his work.
Perhaps Crow has spent longer than he thought in his reverie (if so tranquil a word can be used for his intense self-scrutiny); when he looks up the lawn is almost deserted save for a few whom he identifies as servants. Apparently the Fraternity brothers have retreated to the Maison again.

OOC: (This assumes Gertrude went in a few minutes ago, while Crow was thinking about the Tarokka reading.)

Brother Quiret appears from the shade of the great tent, still being worked on by a handful of servants, and walks toward Crow; even in the bright sunlight his dark clothing and dramatic coloring make him seem a very figure of Shadow. "Brother Crow," he says, smiling slightly. "Would you do me the honor to accompany me?"
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

The gratified nod. The apologetic smile. The casual remark ("Dear me, have I been woolgathering here so long? Yes, yes of course I'm coming, Songmaster; so sorry if my quest for a moment's quiet thought, before the tide of speeches and discussion sweeps us all away, has kept others waiting..."), ad-libbed as easily as he might whistle a tune. His role, his work, coming to the dark-curled spy's rescue, grounding Crow in matters he can control, not the cryptic and adverse ephemera of fate.

Suddenly, the cards he slips into his jerkin-pocket are just cards, not divinatory omens. Doubt, resurgent, is pushed down safely below the reach of his consciousness: denial, his weakness and his strength, as potent and pervasive in his blood as magic or subterfuge.

The bard re-slings his guitar-case, nods respectfully to Quiret, and heads back inside in the half-elf's company without a trace of fear or hesitancy. Whatever tests the VRS spy's hosts might have in store for him -- whatever games of subtlety and deceit fortune might demand he play next, to safeguard his mission and his skin -- Crow's ordeal for this day has already passed.
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow
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Post by Pamela »

Gertrude smiled gently at Crow’s quiet thanks, and returned his wave as she turned away. Her pace slowed as she noticed that the calisthenics had stopped and its participants departed. She walked over the verdant grounds, glad for the moment’s silence. She arranged her skirts, and the effort was extended to calm and arrange her thoughts, an old simple practice. She had no intention of examining the library’s books on the tarokka; she had no intention of inviting anyone else’s curiosity on the matter, let alone encouraging certain types into thinking her yet another gullible woman who would add this new art to her tea-reading. That study would be done alone.

Crow…A fanning of her skirts to release any small leaves and loose thoughts. Again, a matter for private consideration. She also needed some distance to consider it all, including Perrison’s own remarks. She made a mental note to learn more about Perrison’s own studies, and see if perhaps Hazan might be willing to elaborate on the Brother’s background, and accident.

And despite your protestations, Crow, you do still seek redemption… A brief pause, at the question, Has your hiding been a form of atonement? She thought of the bard’s natural – and professional- desire for attention, and his paradoxical anonymity within this society, and the world at large. He made no mention of works, or recitals… What a waste, she thought, And for what?

She shook her head, and turned towards the house. She halted as she saw a familiar figure, and raised her hand in greeting as Alfred Larner approached. She made a curtsey, her smile brilliant at the familiar, long-missed Zherisian. “The pleasure is mine, Esteemed Brother, and I would be glad to.” She moved to keep pace with the ginger-haired man, and curtailed her curiosity for news at home. His manner did not invite conversation; he seemed set on some purpose. Now what…?
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

OOC: MM, Llana, Rotipher, you may now "leave the building". :lucas: alhoon, when your conversation with Roeccha is over you will be called upstairs.
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Pamela
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Post by Pamela »

A little later...

In a somber frame of mind, Gertrude descended to the main floor once more. Enough about the past…time to look to the present and future, she chided herself, and decided to seek out Larner once more. She was curious about his coming lecture, and whether he might have any information on the Shadowcloak's whereabouts. She was unsure as to whether she should seek the Father out. She feared not only looking presumptuous, but suspicious, considering his reputation; Larner would be able to at least give her some advice on the matter.

She turned to the brethren to ask if any knew where the Zherisian might be.
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

BUCHVOLD

The exalted brother leads Buchvold out of the ballroom and up the stairs to the second floor, bringing him down a narrow hallway to a closed door. Opening the door, he glances inside, then nods once to Buchvold and gestures for him to enter. As he does so Lacomte enters behind him and swings the door closed.

The room is large--it must be the master bedroom--but it seems rather small under the circumstances, as there are several people in it and it is quite dark. Buchvold quickly identifies the Countess von Lovenhorst, Viktor Hazan, and Lacomte; it takes him a moment longer the others present as Jan Mikkelson, Father of the Fraternity, and Eonarda Roeccha, the director of the Brautslava Institute. All are seated around a small table, with several pins, tiny glass tubules, and a lit candle thereon.

"Step forward, Brother Buchvold," Mikkelson commands, his voice soft but compelling. "Prick your finger and take a little bit of the blood into the tubule, then give the tubule to me."


Buchvold finds it hard to hide his surprise. Everyone here was an extremely senior Fraternity member. Why did they need to congregate in such secrecy in one of there own strongholds. Mikkelson's words do not inspire the Borcan with a great deal of confidence. However, what choice did he have.

He pricks his finger, wincing as he does so. He had the impression... No, they wouldn't, it was insane, it would inspire rebellion, not stamp it out. Buchvold manages however, not to let this idea show.

However, whatever this was for, he did not trust Mikkelson. In spite of this, he handed the Father the tubule.

Mikkelson takes the tubule and places it near the flame, where it does...absolutely nothing. Nodding once, he then touches it to a tiny sample of metallic powder on a paper produced from beneath the table. The blood runs into the powder, staining it with red.

"Excellent!" the Valachani says, smiling his disturbingly perfect smile. With a quick gesture he folds the paper and gestures for Buchvold to take it. "We apologize for the inconvenience, Brother Buchvold, but we have found it necessary to institute another round of identification procedures. You have passed with flying colors; if you would care to step into the next room, an explanation of the test can be furnished to you. I'm afraid we must insist, however, that you remain on this floor until we have had opportunity to examine everyone."


Buchvold smiles

Well, that is one unplesent thaught that turned out to be quite unjustified.

"Certianly, Sir" He replies.

He turns, and exits the room, going into the next one.

The room he enters is rather full--it is the same size as the other, but now has fifteen or so Fraternity brothers in it. Honored Brother Quiret is talking quietly to a brother Buchvold doesn't know, who appears rather annoyed; Quiret gestures for you to come over.

"Sampling blood presents several challenges to a would-be infiltrator," he says, as if continuing an explanation. "The blood of a doppelganger, being itself alive, will flow away from the heat of a candle; alchemical quintessence will be activated by the heat and flow toward it. The blood of other shapeshifters will react with a metallic antigen. All simple principles and easily applied, and yet devilishly hard to fake--especially before five expert witnesses."

"And how long will this go on?" the brother asks, somewhat mollified.

"Another half-hour should do, I suppose," Quiret answers.
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Esteemed Brother Larner leads Kingsley out of the ballroom and up the stairs to the second floor, bringing her down a narrow hallway to a closed door. Opening the door, he glances inside, then nods once to Kingsley and gestures for her to enter. As she does so Lacomte enters behind her and swings the door closed.

The room is large--it must be the master bedroom--but it seems rather small under the present circumstances, as there are several people in it and it is quite dark. Kingsley quickly identifies the Countess von Lovenhorst and Viktor Hazan; it takes her a moment longer the others present as Pierre Lacomte, curator of the Great Library, Jan Mikkelson, Father of the Fraternity, and Eonarda Roeccha, the director of the Brautslava Institute. All are seated around a small table, with several pins, tiny glass tubules, and a lit candle thereon.


The professor returned Larner’s nod as she made her way into the darkened room as casually as she could manage. She raised her veil, helping her vision as it adjusted to the candle’s light, and blinked as the figure who strode towards the small gathering was not the Zherisian. She glanced at the door, then back at the group. She curtseyed to the group; Lacomte was a vague acquaintance from her past investigations in the Great Library; Roechha and Mikkelson were faces she’d seen in oil paintings, and whose names were slowly slipping into her memory.

"Step forward, Initiate Kingsley," Mikkelson commands, his voice soft but compelling. "Prick your finger and take a little bit of the blood into the tubule, then give the tubule to me."

These names were still coming to her as Mikkelson made his order. She nodded silently in response, taking up a pin as she thought, Blood magic? Her face set in concentration as she pricked her finger, then carefully pressed it to encourage more than the single drop which rose. She managed three drops, and quietly asked, “Is this enough, Father?”

Mikkelson takes the tubule of Kingsley's blood and places it near the flame, where it does...absolutely nothing. Nodding once, he then touches it to a tiny sample of metallic powder on a paper produced from beneath the table. The blood runs into the powder, staining it with red.

"Excellent!" the Valachani says, smiling his disturbingly perfect smile. With a quick gesture he folds the paper and gestures for her to take it. "We apologize for the inconvenience, Initiate Kingsley, but we have found it necessary to institute another round of identification procedures. You have passed with flying colors; if you would care to step into the next room, an explanation of the test can be furnished to you. Please do not leave this floor of the house until given permission to do so. That is all."


Gertrude watched the odd tests, wondering how they were able to determine her identity. Or perhaps they only confirm that I am human…? She recalled the jackalweres' presence at the last gathering with some distaste.

She blinked at the Father’s smile- she'd thought it had been an artist's flaw but alas, he'd been quite faithful to his art, after all... She returned a more humane version of it as she gingerly accepted the bloodied fold of paper, careful not to spill its contents. I must be careful about how I dispose of this, she thought, considering the...interests...of some of her Brothers. “I quite understand, Father; we cannot be too cautious, after all. And thank you.”

She curtseyed again to the small gathering, and walked to the indicated door. She gave a light tap on the door before turning the door knob…

As she steps into the room, Kingsley is struck (almost literally) by how full it is; surely a clear majority of those in attendance must be in this room, and it is not much larger than the last. The atmosphere is slightly tense, but subdued; the brothers present converse in low voices. Behind her the door opens again, and Lacomte appears; he nods briefly to Brother Quiret and another brother Kingsley doesn't recognize, who step through the door. Lacomte lingers for a moment to say, "You will have guessed the purpose, Professor Kingsley; a test to detect imposture by shapeshifters. Please excuse me; we hope to finish very soon."

Gertrude smiled in response to the already departing curator, her eyes adjusting once more to the lighting. She waited for the throng to move forward and out of the room, making small talk with any of those nearby who seemed open to the idea. Otherwise, she quietly waited, and thought about their predicament.

One man obsessed with his inability to rise in one society, to the exclusion of all others that would be ready to have him, and his particular interests. One society reeling in the backlash…again…from the practice of necromancy. Van Rijn steals from their library the plans to a Doomsday Device which can possibly create a second Necropolis. We now have set up headquarters in a land renowned for its black magic. It is a classic example of a complex.

Where have we gone wrong?
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Ibelis leads Crow out of the ballroom and up the stairs to the second floor, bringing him down a narrow hallway to a closed door. Opening the door, he glances inside, then nods once to Crow and gestures for him to enter. As he does so Ibelis enters behind him and swings the door closed.

The room is large--it must be the master bedroom--but it seems rather small under the circumstances, as there are several people in it and it is quite dark. Buchvold quickly identifies Viktor Hazan and Pierre Lacomte; the blond woman must be the Countess von Lovenhorst, but it takes him a moment longer to recognize the others present as Jan Mikkelson, Father of the Fraternity, and Eonarda Roeccha, the director of the Brautslava Institute. All are seated around a small table, with several pins, tiny glass tubules, and a lit candle thereon.



Large though it is, the dim-lit room's confines seem to concentrate the air of power and malignity that inundates the spy's intuition, as he crosses the threshold. Outside in the gardens, the touch of malevolence had been subtle and taunting; below in the entryway, the sociable mundanity of the arrivals' proceedings had muted the participants' collective malice. Now, in this place, with their mannerly scholastic camouflage for the nonce set aside, the full impact of the vipers' callous conceit is palpable, the ruthlessness and pride of those he confronts worn like livery proclaiming their organization's pitiless grandeur.

Like Crow, the people in this room play games against the darkness. Unlike Crow, they have the ambition to imagine that they will profit personally from such endeavors, and the hubris to believe that they will win. The possibility that they might not be wrong hadn't actually occurred to the bard, until now....

(The spy slams that heretical line of speculation down, deeply and instantly. It presumes -- and promises -- too much, by far, to dare give credence.)

Scanning the faces, Crow lets his breath catch, his lips part a fraction of an inch. Not wholly a feigned reaction -- he'd not expected the senior members' direct involvement in the security-checks, quite so soon -- but his bearing makes it one of a neophyte's awe, on finding himself in such exalted company. Viktor, he knows just well enough to catch the academic's eye for an instant -- a questioning look -- and he lets the obligatory trace of surprise at the Countess's presence flit over his features: if Kingsley's expectations were any example, it's what this FoS Sister would likely be accustomed to, as well. The darkling, he glances at, then looks away in haste, as if fearful to offend by gawking; the bard has seen fallen Vistani before, and knows the telltale signs, but "Brother Crow" isn't half so world-wise or enured to such blighted creatures' gaunt physique.

When the bard's searching gaze settles at last upon the central figure of the tableau, he needs no calculated pretense to stare as expected, Mist-gray eyes widening in half-captivated, half-repelled wonderment.

Mikkelson....

Amber-colored eyes, the FoS Father has. "Cat's eyes", in the parlance of his homeland. Buchvold had never mentioned that; the Borcan likely hadn't known.


"Step forward, Brother Crow," Mikkelson commands, his voice soft but compelling. "Prick your finger and take a little bit of the blood into the tubule, then give the tubule to me."


Wry though he was, 'Brother Crow' couldn't possibly have the nerve to sass this man. "Sir," the bard responds, meekly lowering his gaze, and nodding acknowledgement of the Father's instruction like a schoolboy to the headmaster. He diffidently approaches the table, turns the lone vacant chair sideways so his guitar-case won't thump against the back, and -- with a momentary glance at Viktor Hazan, as if checking that it's acceptable to join such revered company -- perches there, reaches for an ampulle and lancet.

(The VRS spy has been expecting this, has resigned himself to the need. As in so many other respects, this mission is different, the stakes too high and threat too catastrophic for half-measures. Though every fiber of his training rebels against such a concession, he must demonstrate his apparent loyalty, in this regard. From this moment on, there will be no more disappearances into the night, no place they cannot find him, given sufficient motivation for the search.)

At least I won't have to keep replacing my dashed clothing every five minutes, if they already have this for a divinatory link, Crow chides himself silently, as he lifts the lancet ... hesitates, glancing down at his left hand's fingertips ... looks, for an instant, to Viktor again. He turns his hand palm-down, sets the lancet against the back of it, looks warily to Mikkelson. "Acceptable...?", he deferentially queries, seemingly still awed by the Father's presence and rank.

The dark-skinned man frowns slightly, then glances past Crow to Quiret, evidently receiving confirmation that such a request was not purely impertinent or unwarranted, in a guitarist. Mikkelson nods, and the bard quickly pierces his skin, collects the required sample, passes it forward. Not having been provided with a bandage -- And isn't that just typical for the vipers... -- he presses the tiny puncture with a fingertip until it ceases to bleed.

Necessary though it was, Crow's wrists twinge fiercely, as if in protest, as the Fraternity Father claims his "gift" of lifeblood.

Mikkelson takes the tubule and places it near the flame, where it does...absolutely nothing. Nodding once, he then touches it to a tiny sample of metallic powder on a paper produced from beneath the table. The blood runs into the powder, staining it with red.

"Excellent!" the Valachani says, smiling his disturbingly perfect smile. With a quick gesture he folds the paper and gestures for Crow to take it. "We apologize for the inconvenience, Brother Crow, but we have found it necessary to institute another round of identification procedures. You have passed with flying colors; if you would care to step into the next room, an explanation of the test can be furnished to you. How many more?"

Ibelis responds in some way Crow fails to catch--holding up his fingers, perhaps? Whatever his answer, the Umbra seems pleased. "Very well. Please step into the next room with Brother Crow here and inform them that they are free to leave this floor of the Maison again."
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