Interlude 1/2
They are called together to this place, both the most sacred and the most profane of the strongholds of the Church. The most sacred due to the exalted nature of all who enter its halls. Any who seek to tread here are tested – physically, mentally and spiritually to the limits. Many fail and are discarded, sent to the more usual circles of the Church. Some fail and are discarded, permanently erased from the records with their bodies destroyed. The few who remain are holy in word and deed, willing to spend their lives serving God in secret and that their deeds will remain unknown to all but their peers.
The profanity comes from the forbidden sacrament practiced – the 8th Sacrament uses magecraft against Magus through expressions of faith rather than inheritance. The hatred of magecraft runs deep in the Church, it shapes the thinking of all those who know about the world behind the world. The Executors of the 8th Sacrament are forbidden almost all worldly power for fear of what they would do with it. Yet even in this place there must be leaders. The High Table of the Church meets to determine what happens when faith meets heresy and it cannot be extinguished.
That isn’t to say that is the only thing which happens at those meetings.
The Curia had been particularly dull today. The infighting was vicious, as it always was when the cardinals were beginning the serious process of bribes, blackmailing and bargaining which accompanied the deciding of a new pope. There would be unfortunate deaths as well, some avoidable. After the secret vote there would be recriminations and those shouting of betrayal when they did not receive the support promised. The whole pantomime was essential to prevent the majority of the faithful from discovering the truth of the appointment. The High Table selected the successful candidate, someone who could be trusted with the responsibility and who was free of malign influences. It was too important to have any other way. Now they had the task of choosing the next candidate. This was proving less straightforward than it had been, historically.
“Why are we talking about India again- didn’t Clocktower resolve this months ago? I heard the place got wrecked.”
The table turned to look at Joseph. He was old but not senile. Mentally several of them downgraded their estimations of his intelligence networks. The pause didn’t last however, “We have had news recently from Alessandro Franchi. They arrived, yes, but not in sufficient numbers to stop the monstrosities from emerging again and laying waste to many towns. Their focus seems to have been on other things.” Nobody around the table was foolish enough to think that was all Gioacchino knew about the situation.
Joseph coughed, “And has Franchi failed to come up with a solution? It is his responsibility, not ours.”
This got some mutters of agreement - it was hardly the kind of thing which they needed to be troubled with when their numbers were inexcusably reduced. Antonio leaned forward, “I concur, this is precisely the kind of problem which should be left up to his own initiative. I recall Franchi from his failed training and the man was not entirely incompetent. Wrath, why was this tabled?”
Felice sighed - he had only made it halfway through his report before Joseph had interrupted him. There were relevant details but… they would need the summary. “Skipping ahead, Franchi has indeed come up with two options. The Raj is desperate for someone to solve the problem before the entire country is destroyed and has asked him to use the powers of the Church to step in. As to whether we can afford the distraction at a time like this, well… there would be significant rewards. Many people with holdings there have seen them laid waste. There is room for occupation.”
There were nods around the table from all but Gioacchino who noted, “You said two options. The other one?”
Felice leaned into his papers, as though checking. “Ah, I believe that he has been approached by the Giant’s Pit. They are still looking to make inroads into India and this would give them the opportunity to do so. Naturally this costs us nothing.”
For a moment it seemed like the High Table might actually discuss the topic. The Giant’s Pit, otherwise known as the Atlas Institute, was a sore point with many Executors, especially after what had happened in China. It was not to be.
Joseph put up one hand and waved the table to silence. “It is good that we have been informed of this. It is not good to make enemies of Clocktower lightly. Send Franchi to them and see if they can make him a better offer. He will enjoy the change of scenery I suspect.”
And that was that. The High Table moved on to the next area of dispute.
“Now, I’m sure we’re aware that there have been several candidates put forward before the Cardinals already. Our own interests in this have disturbed me. I will not tolerate division on the High Table on such a crucial decision. There are serious matters we should be addressing instead,” Pride started to drone on and on. Most of the table tuned out. The decision had already been made. It was only a matter of time now.
Scene End
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Interlude 2/2
It was rare for the alchemists to have an opportunity to relax. They toiled day and night in the laboratories of the Giant’s Pit. The main result they had was ‘Laplace’s Demon’, the great accumulation of wisdom which transcended possible knowledge about the world. It was impossible to know everything about the world, to know exactly what will come in the future - that was not even written in the Akashic Records. Yet it was possible to come close. The world was in ignorance about what was to come compared to the efforts of the Atlas Institute. Every family which devoted their lives to study was another glimpse, another possible world that could come about. It was the work of many thousands of lifetimes.
The Beast of Atlas had been labouring for hundreds of years, imprisoned by his own people as he became too skilled for them to permit the freedom lesser Magus were allowed. The Crest of his family went deep, some said that it was even sunk into his bones. His very existence was considered a threat to the nature of humanity. The Giant’s Pit never threw away anything which it could potentially use, no matter how great a danger it could be. Otherwise it could lack the resources to face another, greater threat. So the Beast had been released under the strictest of supervision and readied for a task no other could complete.
Still, everyone needs to have some time off once in a while.
Nobody had died as the Beast made their way free but many would be nursing serious injuries for months. There had been sightings of him for weeks throughout the Mediterranean. The agents of Atlas would find him soon, no doubt about that. It was easier to find him if you knew him though, if your family had known him of old. If you knew his favourite pub in Constantinople, for instance.
There was a cheery wave from the corner as she came in, “Come, sit! You’re two weeks late. I’ve nearly drunk them out of aslan sutu.” The Beast was hulking in a corner next to the equally cheerful owners of the bar. It seemed as though he had taken enough funds to excuse the lack of other patrons. That and the rudimentary atelier he had established kept the place away from the casual visitor.
“You are as discreet as I had heard. My grandmother said that you appreciated this place for secluded meetings. She also said not to touch the drink,” she said as she sat down, pouring one of the tiny glasses for herself and the Beast.
He smiled broadly, showing teeth filed and shaped to tear flesh, “Unlike you she followed that advice. Have the Aleksandrov degraded so rapidly?”
She sipped before answering. The liquor was rough but with an undeniable sweetness in the aftertaste. “Things have changed a great deal since you were last free. The world moves on and we must move against it.”
He took the drink she had poured and sipped it, an incongruously delicate act. “The Church, they are still strong as ever. I got your message and, yes, I would hear more.” The Beast lowered the glass slowly and flicked some coins to the owners of the bar. They quickly left, pulling curtains across as they went. Normally they would be able to listen in easily and possibly were trying to - the wards around this atelier would prevent that kind of mundane snooping as well as more sophisticated attempts. They could hear the bustle of the market but none of them would be able to guess if a full marching band were playing inside or a cannon fired.
“You are aware of the work my father did on enhancing the work of the Demon?”
A laugh. “I would not be here if I did not. And for your information, your grandmother did most of the hard graft, aided by none other than myself.” The Beast had a glint in his eye now, an interest beyond idle curiosity. He seemed as though he were examining a rare flower, caught in bloom once in a generation, which had been nurtured for many years. “I also know that he failed. You did not.”
She held back a shudder, “I will not reveal to you how I managed it but yes, we have succeeded. The Demon can be altered to analyse more than simply the destruction of the world - with the correct guidance, decisions can be identified which will change the course of humanity.” Her family had known the Beast for many generations and now she wondered if it had always been this way, with him guiding them towards a result which he knew was possible. She had seen the records of the Demon for his own aims and knew the terror he would inflict on the world if he were loose. She mentally cursed the short-sightedness of the alchemists which had not permitted her to continue her analysis of what she was about to do.
He leaned back, the chair groaning and the wall behind bowing, “So you have seen the future, alchemist. They caught you after a single vision was created. Now you have an army at your back headed to Rome, you are wanted by the Mage’s Association and you have an item which has caught my own interests,” he gestured expansively, “Quite the achievements for someone who was a mere researcher a year ago.”
She held her tongue and, unconsciously, her breath. He already knew far too much for it to be safe telling him any more. He had contacts still inside the Institute which were feeding him information. He had more knowledge of her research than he should have.
A smile then, the teeth wider than before, “You have a better eye for secrets than your grandmother. If it were her, I would already know exactly what the prophecy was and a good guess on where the Catalyst is,” the smile broadened, “and she would be dead, with no more use for her. What is your offer?”
Breath returned to her. “You need to help me. The army will do half of the work but… I am indeed a researcher. They need a commander capable of stopping the conclave. Kill all the cardinals and my work is done, you can do whatever you want with the Catalyst afterwards.”
There was a moment of creaking as the legs of the chair settled back down onto the ground. “No, not interested.”
She shrugged. “I thought as much.” She sipped again, the drink was starting to grow on her. “You realise that your handlers will be the ones to make the deal once the time is closer to the war? The price will grow greater as the time grows closer.”
He shrugged and emptied his drink, “There are three elements to victory in any Grail War - the power of the Catalyst to summon a Heroic Spirit, the support of a powerful group and, most importantly,” he winked, “a Master capable of battle in such an arena. I will have the Giant’s Pit behind me and there will be no Master capable of challenging me. The Servant I summon to finish the job is a formality.”
They poured out another drink between them. “To victory?”
“And to the future of this world.”
They left, going their separate ways. The Beast to his handlers. Roxandra to the West. There were other buyers she could find before the conclave began.
Scene End
Interlude 3/2
Paris was in full flow, with preparations for the World Fair taking control of the rhythms of the city. Building frantically in progress to make up lost time, strangers and neighbours battling over space to set up stands, display inventions and house the hundreds of thousands of visitors who were expected. There was even expected to be a grand sculpture on display - the head of Libertas, a vast project to celebrate the joint victory of France and the USA in the war of independence and the recent civil war. Paris was booming and prosperity returning to the streets after many lean years.
Certainly curious things were happening. Sometimes entire streets would go missing, only to reappear weeks later. Crime was up and who to blame but the foreigners. There were strange sights in the skies and sometimes the streets glowed at night. All of this and more could be ignored.
It was only when the sun started speaking to people that the Church admitted defeat.
The cover up must end.
The Wandering Sea is the headquarters, so to speak, of the Sea of Estray. Unlike Clocktower which co-operatively remains in the same place most of the time this is located in a mountain range. For most mountains this would not be a great problem. Visitors to the Sea of Estray must first locate the range of mountains, then identify the secret locations of the council. Beyond that there are many guardians and wards which deter anyone who would dare intrude. The Tomb does not receive uninvited guests often and it was a great surprise to them when the Church sent a representative to their council.
You should be careful of who you invite to your strongholds.
Especially if they have debts.
The council meeting was packed, with representatives from more than had been seen in years. The Thule Society had several representatives, of course. They were even more furious than usual, their warnings about the Diatama family’s research had gone unheeded. They had yet to present anything which would compel the council to act.
The Mesmers had sent one person, they had been hit hard by turf wars in Paris. Their tricks tended towards the subtle, the enchanting. They had tried the stuff, of course, everyone had, but their abilities were most useful when the target was unaware of them.
Rumours abounded that some of the various Hermetic orders present had been infiltrated by Rosicrucians. Many didn’t believe that they existed, a secret society created by the Church inside Magus families. The Church itself claimed that no true believer would ever pursue such a heretical path. However it happened the Church found out a great deal of what happened in Estray. Some even claimed it had people inside Clocktower as well.
Speaking of which, Sponheim Abbey had come out of hiding, possibly only for the few hours it took to come here. Their holdings in Paris had been the first to come under attack, all of their atelier destroyed within hours of open hostilities. A weakness of their open structure, every Magus in Paris knew where they lived. The few who could still maintain their defenses were divided between the strong and the well-hidden. The Abbey was neither but they had the resources to avenge themselves. Or they would have usually.
The Prague Association had arrived to chair the meeting. They had no holdings worth mentioning in Paris and were trusted to give an opinion on the nature of the threat. The fact that they contained some of the oldest and most powerful families also helped their claim.
Finally there were the free agents, people like Philippe de Lyon who had arrived because they felt important or, in his case, because he had a message to deliver from the Church. They had tired of trying to keep a lid on the area of Paris, making up excuse after excuse for the war going on. The exhibition would start soon and Paris had to be at peace by then. Any Magus still in the boundaries of the city would be slain by the Executors.
As it turned out, the threat was unnecessary.
The Prague Association’s report was thorough and short. The attendees finally agreed on a resolution to the Paris problem, a rarity for any agreement like that to be reached. They even managed to reach the last item on the agenda, a matter of approval for the Thule Society to take more extreme action.
Philippe mused that the Church really should have paid him to tell them what happened at the meeting as well as carry the message. He also resolved to stay well clear of Paris for the time being. That and give Clocktower a wide berth for the next summit. There would be some people even he would have hesitated to make a deal with appearing.
Scene End
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It was a small farm which formed the borders of the atelier. The place was littered with the ruins of what had been there before many thousands of years ago - the occasional rock ploughed up by farmers with mosaics and inscriptions which few people could read now. And the farmers always brought those little scraps of rock, anything they found really, straight over to the writer who had a rent-free cottage on the edge of the land. Their family had some kind of arrangement with the landlord which the farmer didn’t mind as long as they didn’t upset the sheep. It was a sparsely grassed area anyway, only good for sheep and grazing. For some reason it was good for that - not a single sheep ever strayed away. And that was how it had always been.
For the Connor family this was a wonderful location to live and study. The farmers didn’t suspect that they were gathering materials for the Magus who lived there and their research didn’t come to the attention of the Mage’s Association. Their eventual goals, the obsession of their ancestor with resurrecting their lost love, had long since changed to a far more intense exploration of what it means for someone to die, how they lived, their thoughts, feelings, something more precise and intense than a bodily resurrection. They explored the depths of the human soul much like an anthropologist, cataloguing the emotions and thoughts on slides of crystal, filing them away. It was careful, exacting work which took decades to finish a single subject.
It was therefore a great surprise to them when the ground opened up beneath them, trumpets blaring and a small army (more on that later) emerged onto the surface, setting up camp near one of the sheep. John Connor had noticed that the ley lines around the farm had been strange but, with the focus of his research going through a fascinating period of loneliness after being ‘dumped’ in favour of a city boy, he had paid it little mind. Ley lines were constant things after all and nothing to be concerned about.
Eventually it came to his notice that he had visitors. They explained first that they had sheared all his sheep, so that he would have time to help them. He explained that they weren’t his sheep and that he was therefore still quite busy. They left, muttering.
Next they returned saying that they had milked his cows. After some discussion it emerged they had purchased him some cows then milked them. Then he checked outside to find two very confused-looking goats. They left again but left the goats.
Finally they came back and told him that he had better have time to speak to them, because they had gone to great lengths to fix the fences. Looking out the window at the significantly restored ruins, John told them that they would only get in the way. He needed to see the person he was reading and the shepherd couldn’t be spotted from out of his window. They pronounced him a lost cause and left, saying they’d have no more of it. John cowered in his hut, praying that that would be his last visit from the, admittedly tiny, army of inhuman monstrosities. And that night the tents did pack up, though they left a little awning swaying off the side of the sheep they had used as four pavillion tentpoles.
They were gone for about two weeks when the cauldron arrived. Massive, dark and foreboding, deep enough to stack twenty men inside and inscribed with many dread runes. There was a polite note attached, informing him that Manannan had graciously completed his family’s work for him. Thanks to that, he would have time to deal with certain matters of interest to the Lord of these lands. He saw the list of demands, starting with the elimination of all the towns that lay within a week’s travel and concluding with vaguer requests to do something about ‘all that smoke that comes from England’. John Connor looked at the cauldron and decided that something needed to be done. So he wrote to Clocktower.
But he had to do it himself. The shepherd had run off after his love in the city, realising that life in the country was just too odd for him.
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