Phillips Harbour.
Thursday, October 29. Morning.
After a last discussion of plans, the Players and their weary Companions retired to their respective beds for the night. Except for Mr. Shaft, who spent the night working on an anti-possession device incorporating the Seal of Solomon.
In the morning, Caliban prepares breakfast and brings it to his master, whom he finds awake beside a now-cold pot of tea, still at work in the boathouse. As the chimpanzee carries a food-laden platter to Shaft's side, the dishes on it start to rattle. The Englishman's teacup clinks against its saucer. The Analytical Engine suddenly powers itself on, the needle on its Ouiji board spinning crazily.
The section of floor where Bernice had worked the spell to contact the Frenchman yesterday is still clear, the pentacle in place. The candles at each point flare to life, and a grey shape coalesces at the center. Great shadowy wings flap at the back of a humanoid form, feet touching down inside the star, dropping to a crouch. The amorphous figure becomes more distinct: dark hair and stylish clothes, one arm hugging a bag to his chest. The wings flutter: for an instant, they're an angel's wings in brown and beige, sweeping across the room. Then they shrink into themselves; the illusion of an angel is dispelled, transformed to a falcon perched on the shoulder of a now-solid man.
The man sags down, catching himself on his free hand as he crouches. He coughs and gasps for breath.
Looking up from his research books and diagrams, Herbert nearly falls off of his stool. "Good Lord! Shouldn't there be some sort of warning before things like this happen?" he complains while trying to regain his composure.
"Ook!" The ape sets the tray down hurriedly and then holds up a small fork, which he brandishes pointedly at the arrival. The intent is clear, Hey, who are you and what're you doing in here?
The falcon on the man's shoulder seems content to take a moment to preen itself, working its beak under this wing or that tail feather, until it seems satisfied. Then, it begins to preen the man it rides on, pulling his hair out of his face and tucking it away behind his ear!
The Ouiji board needle slows its gyrations, then stops. With a murmur, the Analytical Engine ceases its humming and goes quiscient. The recently-arrived man drops his bag on the floor with a thump, still wheezing and trying to catch his breath. "Ahhhh. Gah. Guh." He gets out a few unintelligible words of French.
The chimpanzee holds the fork at the ready and looks at his master for instructions. Boss, want me to put some holes in or just crinkle the edges a bit?
"Ahh... Messieurs Girard, I presume?" Shaft asks carefully, holding out a hand to keep Caliban from attacking.
Caliban puts the fork aside reluctantly. He makes quiet ooks and eeps at his master. Y'know, boss, when the Doc said to expect Giraud to come, I kinda thought she meant he was gonna be on the next carriage in town. This pentacle business... Innit demons dat show up in pentacles?
Caliban approaches a little closer, sniffing for, well, brimstone.
That is merely speculation of a mind uninitiated in the occult, a scholarly voice insists, ringing out in the assembled group's collective head. The pentacle has symbolism and power from times older than the era of witch hunts and so-called demon worshippers. It sounds rather old, as if it might belong to a wizened, bearded man with a cane, hobbling about and lecturing students.
Whozat? The chimpanzee looks up and around for the speaker.
The man smells faintly of cologne. He rocks back on his haunches and takes a deep breath, then shudders. "Ugh. That was appalling. I'd rather a carriage any week." He turns to look around at the chimp and the man. "Ahh. Ah, yes. I am M. Girard. This ... is not Mlle. Townes's residence," he observes astutely.
"Ahh!" Herbert yelps, and looks around for.. a ghost? "Oh.. that was one of you then? And.. ah, yes. Miss Townes is working with us, and Islington is living here now so..."
One reed breaks easily, a thousand reeds is strength, the oddly origin-less and scholarly voice observes. Meanwhile, the falcon on Girard's shoulder takes a moment to flap, puffing itself up a bit, before looking around with that darting, jerky motion of birds.
Herbert eyes the falcon. "Ah, quite true.. especially when building a boat."
"That's Horus," Girard confirms. He pats the bird's back affectionately. "He always talks like that. Mademoiselle Townes told me ... er. Very little, in fact. But there's something badly wrong in the Game, I gather?"
The chimpanzee scratches behind an ear, then decides to take care of the mundane business first. Another for tea, breakfast, then? What'll you have, bird-- er, Horus? He bustles off to the kitchen.
"Well, seeing as how several Openers and Closers have joined forces, you might say that," Herbert notes, shuffling some of his papers around. "Firstly.. well, Mrs. Everchild is dead at the.. hands.. of St. John. And St. John herself is mostly dead now herself. The location of the event has been located: the Hill, which I'm sure you're familiar with."
Astute of you, the voice of Horus agrees with Herbert. Horus appears to be your average peregrin falcon, male by the size and coloration. When patted, he takes a moment to worry Girard's finger affectionately with his beak. I do not require food at this time. It is Girard who has expended a great deal of mystic energy -- the road through the material sphere is not lightly treaded.
The chimpanzee tilts his head, listening to the voice. Extra bacon 'n eggs it is, he calls back. Savory grilling smells quickly arise from the direction of the boat's galley.
"I'd most appreciate a meal," Girard says, listening to Horus and glancing at the tray. His stomach rumbles. "If you would be so kind. Er. Mrs. Everchild? The old woman? Then she was a Closer, I imagine." He looks ashen -- but then again, he looked that way when he got here. "And the portal's to be on the Hill. Splendid."
A few minutes later, another platter is brought out by the chimpanzee, heaped with several thick slices of bread, a small saucer of butter and pot of orange marmalade, a tiny mountain of scrambled eggs, thick slices of bacon, and slices of a light orange cheese and apples. The chimpanzee juggles (not literally) this with a fresh teapot and another teacup hanging from a pinkie.
"Well, St. John's spirit is now in control of the Hill, along with Alorn's," Shaft notes. "We've been in contact with one of the originators of the Game - the Unicorn, Kari. She's told us about the origins of it all, and that the items we know as Game Artifacts are actually bound spirits that also originated it. The other side of the portal is the natural realm of spirits, and some opened the first portal ages ago in order to escape the control of other powerful spirits. All of the spirits of this world came through then, and the originators were the first Closers, keeping it sealed up so the Overlords they fled could not come through. All fine and good, except that the spirits on this side are starting to die."
This is functionally similiar to the first platter which he has already brought his master, except the quantities of food have been doubled. Caliban sets out forks and knives and motions for people to dig in.
A bit winded, Herbert takes a moment to eat while the Frenchman absorbs what he's said.
The Hill, Horus repeats, adding an ominous weight to his telepathic words. Yes, we are familiar with The Hill. Would it be, then, that The Hill itself has taken an interest in matters, or are we to be bringing it forth from its earthen dwelling? He listens, or at least appears to listen since he lacks in facial expression, and then bobs his head. How interesting. Do you hear that, Girard? A conduit to the spirit realm.
It's more like St. John an' Alorn had a fight wit' da Hill an' finders keepers, losers weepers, but they're not doin' much cryin', the chimpanzee opines as he settles in with a heel of bread smothered with butter. Me, I don't trust 'em.
"I hear it. I'm not sure I understand any of it." Girard now looks both pale and confused. He takes a seat at the table, blinking at the mountain of food. "Mlle. St. John is dead and in control of the Hill, you say? And who the devil is Alorn?"
Then I take it they, too, were challanged by The Hill? And lost, I suspect, inquires the bird, who has taken to preening himself again. Yes, Girard has done so as well, and we find The Hill to be quite malevolent as far as spirit-beings go. I, myself, was rather offended. The contemporay would be, 'You catch more flies with honey.'
Caliban raises the bread toward the Frenchman and his bird. You're not sussin' this out right, they took over the Hill's space. If the Hill's still in there, they're sittin' on top o' that. Alorn, he's this St. John's thug, kinda. Big stag-kinda guy.
Caliban gnaws on the bread as his master explains.
"To exacerbate matters further, this is quite likely the last time the Portal will even appear. Now knowing what the consequences of Closing this time are, Miss Townes and myself are trying to work out a safe way of Opening, which would almost certainly require fighting the Overlords of the spirit world. Otherwise, we face the prospect of a world devoid of souls," Herbert explains while nibbling on his toast.
"I'd as soon not be caught by the Hill at all. Again. Wait, what, you're Openers now? Mlle. Townes is an Opener?" Girard looks thunderstruck by all this. "But you're still of the opinion that Opening is dangerous and that the spirits on the other side will not serve the Openers' bidding, I gather?"
Well, it's not quite like that, the chimpanzee demurs.
"Incredibly dangerous, yes. Serving the Openers? No, the Overlords would dominate and enslave this world as they have the spirit realm," Shaft says.
"Closing is still our option if we can't defeat them," the Englishman continues. "We haven't quite convinced our fellow Closer to hold back until necessary, however. Right now we have our weapons, but little in the way of defense."
A stag-man. A stayr, perhaps, muses the bird. It has been some time since I last met a satyr -- they are not usually fond of cities, were I typically dwell, Girard. A pause, and Horus turns his gaze on to his mage, This raises an interesting point: did we not challenge The Hill prior to our departure, Girard? I distintly recall a period of, again to use the contemporary, 'being under the weather.' The voice sounds mildly proud of this, as if its grasp of modern methods of speaking were something it had been working on.
"Am I to assume that you are also one of the greater spirits, Horus?" Herbert asks.
Caliban shakes his head, Big spirit, lives in a stag's body. Ya know? Four legs, got horns? Anyway, there's somethin' the spirits need from the other side. Light, air, water, food, we dunno what it is, but without it, they're withering away, like sailors with scurvy, Caliban explains. Without it, this'll be the last Game.
Girard takes a handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and places it in his lap as a napkin, then slathers marmalade onto a slice of bread and eats it while he listens to Mr. Shaft and Horus. He glances frequently at Caliban but doesn't appear to understand what the chimpanzee is saying. "Yes, we did, Horus. And we won, after a fashion. I gather the contention is that Mlle. St John and her horned Companion won as well, although if the prize is being mostly dead and in control of that great lump of Earth and malevolent spirits, well, I prefered our victory, howeverso great the price."
'All that glitters,' Horus agrees. His head tilts to the side in a sudden movement, and he adds, Or perhaps, 'What profit is it to a man, if he gains the world, but loses his own soul.' His head jerks the other, way, and now he's looking across the room. Yes, a 'greater spirit' has been one of the titles that have been put to me. As far as this Unicorn, I am aware of her, and have been for some time. Once great, she has waned. It reminds me of the lesson of Rome ...
The chimpanzee polishes off a chunk of cheese and sausage, then starts gnawing on an apple. So like, you two were gonna be Openers, right? But you decided to leave? What's up with that? he asks. What did you figure would happen when the Portal was opened?
"Yes, well, we have a way to energize waning spirits, although perhaps not to their full potential," Herbert notes. "Again, our concern is largely in the realm of defense at this point. I've been studying the Seal of Solomon in my Masonic texts and.. other books. I don't suppose you have any experience with it, Mr. Girard?"
Girard eats some of the scrambled eggs and bread before he speaks again. "We've employed the Seal. I think. Horus knows more about it than I do."
"Ah, excellent!" Shaft says, dabbing his lips with his napkin. "I'm trying to isolate the 'communication with beasts' and spirit-blocking aspects of it, so any assistance would be greatly appreciated."
Caliban looks up at this. This thing lets you talk to dumb critters like me? He casts Horus an imploring eye.
The animal tongue is known to me, answers Horus. The bird's gaze returns from whatever it was staring at across the room, becoming suddenly focused as it looks from person to person (and animal). In a voice that sounds as dry as a university lecture, he explains, The Seal of Solomon, so named for its use by that ancient and Biblical king, is as anthema to spirits. It can be likened to a barricade, in that spirits will often refuse to cross it, or even to approach it. Its power lies with the arcane mind -- that of the mystic. The bird lifts a wing, then lays it on Girard's head, as if giving example of an arcane mind. They are stronger en mass; stronger still if wrought by he who weilds the occult. The bird sweeps its gaze again, perhaps making sure everyone is still awake.
The chimpanzee stares back glassily. So, like... We get Mister Giraud to stamp Seals of Solomon on us an' we're safe from spirits?
"I have a way of.. hopefully.. bypassing that latter requirement," Shaft notes. "But I need to know the proper configuration of the Seal first, so that I can properly transcode it."
Hey boss, we're gonna shave you spear-bald an' tattoo a Seal of Solomon on your head, that'll work, right? suggests Caliban. It may be a good thing that Mr. Shaft doesn't normally understand his speech.
Horus's gaze fixes on the chimpanzee, and he replies, To mark the Seal upon flesh is to make of the body an anathema to the spirit. Placed upon an earthly vessel of the spiritual, it is as torment to that which resides within. Gaze jerking to Shaft, the bird goes on, projecting, The knowledge of the Seal is not passed lightly. Girard, I am your teacher, perhaps your guide: but not in this. I leave the decision to you. And with that, Horus returns to preening.
"It's not any use in talking to animals, though," Girard says to Mr. Shaft. "That is, Horus can talk to animals, the Seal can't, and it won't help you talk to animals, either." He's about to go on, but turns his head to look at Horus as the bird speaks. "Oh."
"I was hoping for a way to speed up communication during the banefire," Herbert mutters. Still, it's worth trying at least.
The chimpanzee eyes his master speculatively, then gets up to start putting the used dishes away.
There is one more piece of information you should know, before you decide, Horus projects, presumably to Girard, The man known as Shaft lacks an aura. I cannot be certain, but I feel I have seen him before, and upon that time did he have an aura. The bird looks up, glances at Shaft, then resumes preening. I do not think it a mask; rather, it is an absence. Where the aura is gone, so, too, is the soul. Know that there is no Devil: the answer to such soulessness lies elsewhere. I trust you will investigate.
"Ah, that is.. due to something I did without realizing the consequence at the time," Shaft explains. "I removed and then consumed my own spirit. Our weapons.. operate in a similar manner. We can destroy spirits and transfer their energy to other spirits."
Hey, Horus, calls the dishwashing chimp from the boat's galley. You get a lot of chicks talkin' all mysterious-like?
Girard appears to be still wrestling internally with whether or not he ought to show Mr. Shaft how to form the Seal of Soloman. He's about to say something again when Horus speaks, and whatever he was going to say turns into a French epithet. He stares at Shaft.
"You ... destroyed ... your own soul?" Girard says, incredulously. "You ate it? You can do that?"
"The technology, according to Da Vinci, likely originated in Atlantis," Shaft explains. "I suppose it may have also been responsible for its demise, come to think of it."
Little do I speak with chicks, for the young avians have little to say. Mine is not the world of the beasts, but the court of Man, and his understanding, Horus replies, his tone as dry as ever.
"I also suppose I could use the same method to acquire a new soul," Herbert says, looking uncertain about that. "Given how our ghost test subject has reacted to consuming other spirits, though, I can't say it would be a particularly practical solution."
Girard is still staring at Shaft. He can't help himself. "Whose soul would you be acquiring?" He looks around nervouslt for the door.
"What? Oh, I was only speculating," Herbert notes, with a wave of his hand. "But it does point out the danger of Closing as well: without the element they need to sustain themselves, more spirits will become predatory in order to stave off the inevitable. Our world will be filled with entities like the Hill in time. Our only chance for a viable future is to fight the Overlords and win."
Well, if you want a Man to be understandin', you might wanna talk so the Man can understand, shoots back the chimpanzee. He clambers out of the boat's galley nimbly and returns for the rest of the dishes. This 'mysteries of the mind' business, it might play good in Winchelsea, Sussex, but we're comin' up on showdown time, so we don't have a lot of time to go harin' after wild geese, ya know what I mean?
I speak as I have always spoken, Horus replies, sounding a little tired. Girard, know that the hourglass diminishes. I will council you as to this matter, but the choice is yours in how we proceed. Know that I am proud of my student. The path you take undermines that not the least, so long as the choice is made with wisdom, understanding, and will. Horus pauses, apparently worrying at a particularly ragged feather that vexes him, before adding, 'The path upon the road is easy, and known. It is the path through the woods that is fraught with mystery, peril, and unseen knowledge.' He then pats Girard with a wing.
The chimpanzee inquires of Mr. Giraud with an ook, More food? Or are you all done?
Girard rubs his forehead. "Thank you, Horus." He stares at the food still before him, glances at Caliban's motion to take it, and shakes his head, putting a hand down to hold onto the plat. "Er. I'm still eating?" he says, not quite sure he understand the chimp or that the chimp understands him. "One thing -- maybe I missed this, Mr. Shaft, but -- why do you want to Open at all, exactly? When Horus and I planned to Open, it was on the basis of two theories: first, that the powers on the other side of the portal would, in gratitude for our service, reward us handsomely. Second, that even if the powers would not willingly reward us, they could be bent to my will by means of certain abilities at my disposal. You don't seem to believe this -- frankly, neither do I, any more -- so what is your reason?"
"Because, the spirits have always been with us," Shaft reasons. "I don't know if we'd still be human without them. Mind you, I'm only working on Opening so long as I believe there is a chance for success. If we cannot find a workable defense against being taken over by the enemy spirits, then Closing is the only option. Slavery to demons is not something I will casually risk subjecting the world to."
The chimpanzee nods at Girard. Eat up then, he encourages. Just don't wanna leave food out, it draws flies. Annoying li'l gits, flies. He pauses, and adds after his master has spoken. I guess, I feel sorry for the spirits. The ones on our side, dat is.
The chimpanzee bids you to eat, Girard. It is sound advice, Horus offers. Satisfied now ith his preening, he takes to looking around, staring at this or that seemingly without rhyme or reason.
It takes a little more back-and-forth on the subject before Girard clearly registers the connection Shaft is drawing: that Closing the portal means a slow but inevitable slide towards oblivion for all the spirits on Earth, while Opening offers the chance to save them. Albeit by risking the enslavement of the whole Earth in service to far more powerful spirits. When he finally gets it, he says, "Oh. That's ... considerably more altruistic than my motive." Obediantly, he has some more eggs and bread.
After a moment, Girard says, "Madamoiselle Townes is agreed with you on this? To save the spirits through Opening? Horus, is this possible? Aren't you a spirit? Are you and your kind really ... degrading?"
"Bernice convinced me after she spoke to the Unicorn," Shaft says, hoping Miss Townes' participation will help get the wizard to help them out.
You are aware of my cyclilic existence, and so upon each point of incarnation did I witness the degradation of spirit kind. Once was Unicorn mighty and terrible, now she is weak. Yes, spirit-kind fades. However, the bird shifts its gaze to Girard, looing at hime squarely, I do not. Horus cocks his head to the side, as if either pondering, or suddenly having been distracted by something across the room. This, in itself, creates more questions. Indeed, I have long thought the power of magic and mysticism has faded in this world. Pure speculation, I attributed it to the rise of man's science, but perhaps science is merely a face of the fading spirit. The answer remains shadowed. Know that I do not perceive myself to have diminished -- others have met their end.
"But not you." Girard looks briefly heartened by this, then puzzled. "Why not you?" He forces himself to eat some more -- he really is hungry, but the conversation is difficult to sustain an appetite through -- then stands. "I'll be back for the rest," he promises the chimpanzee, then retrieves his bag. He takes a volume bound in white from it and flips through the pages to find the one he wants. "There. Stand back a little, Horus." He puts the book before Shaft, open to an intricate design. "That's the correct design for the Seal of Soloman."
"Ah, perfect!" Herbert says, and quickly brings a fresh sheet of paper and various measuring tools over that have been scattered about the table. "May I borrow that?" he asks.
I hear admitting you have a problem is the first step to getting over it, gibes Caliban as he tidies the table up. So you were one of these Greater Spirits, huh, Horus? And still as powerful as you were back when? Think you could take one of these Masters?
Horus hops off Girard's shoulder to perch well away from the Seal of Soloman. As the bird said, spirits seem disinclined to get near it -- which seems to include Horus as well.
Girard nods to Shaft, and sits again. He eats a little more, eyeing his avian companion with a thoughtful and concerned look.
Herbert takes the book and notes down the various Cabbalistic symbols, then begins plotting out their geometric relationships. "It will take me some time to transcode this into the Atlantean symbol-circuitry. In the meantime, it might be a good idea to find Miss Townes and Marseilles, Caliban."
Got it, boss, the chimpanzee says. He throws a jaunty salute, which needs no translation, and shrugs on a serviceable woolen jacket with patched elbows before going out the door.
"Er. Symbol circuitry?" Girard asks. He gives a clueless look to Horus.
"You might find this interesting, Mssr. Girard," Herbert says, bringing the Secret Codex over and opening it to appropriate pages describing the semi-mystical technology.
Girard stares at it, flipping back and forth through the pages. He turns the book so that Horus can look at it, too.
Girard, I have thought on the matter of difference. I will speculate. From his perch upon a chair, Horus begins to relate his ideas. Know that in terms of spiritual strength, I am not the equal of the original Unicorn. Know that as others persist, I do not: once summoned unto the material plane and granted an avatar, I remain until death, whereupon I enter a dormant state devoid of memory. The cycle begins again when I am resummoned, as my previous student did. Know that I recall all my avatars. Horus hops along his perch to peer down at the book, projecting all the while. And, know that I percieve a differnce, but its answer remains shrouded to me. A pause, and he adds, Atlantis is myth.
"It is a Myth of a lost, advanced civilization though, and so is as appropriate a name to put to these sciences as any," Shaft notes.
Horus studies the book for a while, then projects, A Renaissance-period work, derived from Grecian mysticism. While clever in its attempt -- something you should note for your own mystic growth, Girard -- it contains multiple flaws. Here, the bird points a wing at a diagram, you see an attempt to incorporate mystic symbolism with a conflicting use of sacred geometry, undoubtedly derived from improper understanding of meaning of the original use of these devices.
"I've actually corrected for that in my own refining of the technique," Herbert says, while he works on his formulae.
Girard nods to Horus, frowning at the book. He shakes his head after a moment and goes back to eating. "I need more food if I'm going to work out this sort of thing. More sleep wouldn't go amiss, either," he mumbles. "How much time do we have left to the Banefire? 60 hours? Mon Dieu."
With a flap of his wings, Horus takes to the air, only to land on Herbert's shoulder! There, the bird peers down, studying the man's work. While he may be a bird, something about the way Horus eyes Herbert's paper is very reminiscent of a school matron staring over a student's shoulder, examining their work with a eternally disapproving face and a bun tight enough to squeeze the oil from hair.
The Frenchman confides to Mr. Shaft, "Horus is very good with this sort of thing."
The Englishman glances at the falcon before going back to his calculations. Of course, he'll still have to run them through Analytical Engine to solve the derived equations, otherwise he'd never get them finished in time.
"I am not schooled in magic," Herbert notes. "So, forgive me if I do not refer to my devices as being magical, even if they do respond as if they were."
"I admit, they don't look magical. To me," Girard says, eyeing the Analystical Engine.
"Hopefully they will appear innocuous to the Master Spirits as well," Shaft says. Noting Girard's glance, he explains, "That device is the Analytical Engine. It combines mechanical calculation with spirit-based divination and.. a certain amount of human intuition, although that element is not functioning at the moment. The glowing fluids are necroplasm, a product rendered from flesh that can store spiritual energy and patterns."
"When connected to that helmet there, Caliban can communicate directly via the Ouija board," he adds.
None the less, you are a worker of magic. An unrefined talent, a wilder, a hedge-mage. In this time of steam, ships, guns, and other artifices of the worker of the mechanical, such manifestations of occult talent through machine-work is not unlike those that employ more mudane devices, such as the Tarot or the throwing of bones. Know their is power in the nature of the tool, and in naming, but it is sufficent to say you, Herbert, are of the same cloth. Looking up, Horus regards the so-called 'Analytical Engine' with a curious eye. Yes, yes, it has an aura. Very complex, similiar in appearance to that of The Hill itself. It is an artifice of singular magic. The bird continues to study it, evidentally it's piqued his interest.
"Actually, something similar to the Hill is powering it now," Shaft notes. "The old Shelley Manor had a similar predatory spirit bound within it. We.. chopped it up a bit, and transferred a good portion of if its energy to our batteries. The rest went to the surviving ghost of the Shelley daughter, Marseilles."
Herbert points Girard to the slightly melted Spirit Trap still attached to the Engine, since the power leads fused during the transfer.
Girard finishes off his plate, and then goes to take a look at the fused lines. "Oh yes. Now that you mention it, this does remind me of the Hill." That doesn't sound like a good thing. He backpedals away from it again.
"It's harmless now.. for the most part," Shaft says. "Marseilles absorbed what you could call its mind. But if you look in that drawer there.. no, that one next to it.. we've got a photo of what it looked like before we broke it up."
Horus's eyes dart about as he inspects the Analytical Engine, studying its various parts as he listens. When Shaft finishes, Horus projects, I see now the answer to the mystery of your magic. Like the puppeteer, you have harnessed the spiritual to do your bidding. Your magic comes not from the strength of your soul, Herbert -- which I will say is lacking -- but in the spirits you have harnessed. What you have wrought, is a prison of harnessed spiritual power. It is not unlike the grand seals of old. Horus cocks his head to the side. Like unto like: if this artifice is the composite of the flesh of shattered spirits, then so too may be The Hill, explaining how it might have absorbed the spirits of your fellows unto itself, as you have caught the spirit to your advantage.
"Any spirit is capable of consuming another, we've found," Herbert explains. "Relative power is all that matters. The Manor spirit was severely weakened and damaged by our trap, and so Marseilles was able to absorb it. It would have eaten her, if she hadn't resisted for so long and had a little help from another spirit."
"Of course, we can also feed a spirit to another, via the necroplasm," Shaft adds, and looks both solemn and sad. "A pity we can't really study it further. After the banefire, whatever the outcome, this technology will all need to be destroyed."
It is singular, Horus repeats, a hint of surprise in his voice. The algamation of spirit is of the contemporary world. Know that such a chimera finds its home not in the past. The Hill, this artifice they are of modern origin. I have not seen their like, before.
"I admit I find it unsettling," Girard says. "After my experience with the Hill it's hard to be blase about controlling such potent spirits. But -- why do you plan to destroy it?"
"It destroys the spirits it uses," Herbert says, plainly. "There is no benefit it can produce that is worth the cost of a soul, Mr. Girard. If there is any ember of my own left, I can only hope that exposure to the Portal will revive it."
Girard pales a bit. "Oh. But -- it's not a human soul, is it? Didn't you say it was some kind of monster's?"
"The Manor was made up of human souls, for the most part," Herbert notes. "And the Engine itself used the soul of a local deceased woman, until Marseilles... set her free."
Herbert goes to one of the cabinets, and takes out a rack of punch cards, some blank cards, and a punching tool. He carries these back to the table, and begins to encode his formulas onto the blank cards.
"Oh," Girard says, rather lamely.
"Why, with an ounce of your blood, I could steal your soul as well," Herbert comments. "So, I'm sure you can see why this spirit-based technology is too dangerous to keep."
Girard jerks back as if personally menanced, then laughs uneasily. "You couldn't. Could you?" He looks at Horus.
"That's how I managed to kill my own," Shaft says, as he works on the cards.
Girard watches Herbert work with the punch tool. "Don't cut yourself again, then. Who knows what might happen?"
That actually brings a smile to the Englishman's face. "I shall endeavor to be cautious, yes!" he says, and starts to slot the new cards into their proper places within the rack.
The spirit within this device is surely mangled, Horus agrees. It occurs to me that this artifice grants insight in to the nature of The Hill. Following the trends of my kind, it is accurate to suppose it, too, has weakened. Thus, like this machine, it has sought to control and consume other spirits -- other 'souls,' as you have put it -- to empower itself. Horus looks up from his studying of the machine, glancing betweem Girard and Shaft before resuming his inspection. Know that the man known as Shaft could not draw out your soul as such, Girard. As has been said, relative strength plays a part if import. To wield the occult, one needs a soul of strength. You have a soul of strength, Girard -- it is not easily displaced.
"That is reassuring. Thank you." Girard looks calmer. He goes to flip through the Secret Codex, sipping at a freshly-poured cup of tea.
After switching out the programming racks, Shaft begins to start up the Analytical Engine. "Hopefully your transport spell hasn't knocked anything out of calibration," he comments, and then throws the 'Process' switch on the machine. "You may feel some odd sensations while the Engine runs," he warns, figuring those sensitive to such things would react to the Engine.
Once the machine gets going, Shaft also offers to his human guest, "If you'd like to freshen up before Miss Townes arrives, there's a hot shower aboard my yacht."
Horus hops away from the machine as it starts up, head tilting. I sense its unease. His head tilts the other way, curious. Diluted, it seeks escape, but lacks what it once was. The prisoner recoils, it hates, even shattered as it is. The bird hops away again, then flaps a little.
Girard pets Horus's ruffled feathers, and doesn't look like he wants to go anywhere near Shaft's soul-eating machine, himself. "Sixty hours. I suppose that's not too much longer for it to keep control over ... whatever it's got."
Logfile from Aaron. (OOC) Log start: d:\logs\goo-1076-Caliban-Horus-Shaft-1868-10-29a.txtPhillips Harbour.
Thursday, October 29. Morning.
After a last discussion of plans, the Players and their weary Companions retired to their respective beds for the night. Except for Mr. Shaft, who spent the night working on an anti-possession device incorporating the Seal of Solomon.
In the morning, Caliban prepares breakfast and brings it to his master, whom he finds awake beside a now-cold pot of tea, still at work in the boathouse. As the chimpanzee carries a food-laden platter to Shaft's side, the dishes on it start to rattle. The Englishman's teacup clinks against its saucer. The Analytical Engine suddenly powers itself on, the needle on its Ouiji board spinning crazily.
The section of floor where Bernice had worked the spell to contact the Frenchman yesterday is still clear, the pentacle in place. The candles at each point flare to life, and a grey shape coalesces at the center. Great shadowy wings flap at the back of a humanoid form, feet touching down inside the star, dropping to a crouch. The amorphous figure becomes more distinct: dark hair and stylish clothes, one arm hugging a bag to his chest. The wings flutter: for an instant, they're an angel's wings in brown and beige, sweeping across the room. Then they shrink into themselves; the illusion of an angel is dispelled, transformed to a falcon perched on the shoulder of a now-solid man.
The man sags down, catching himself on his free hand as he crouches. He coughs and gasps for breath.
Looking up from his research books and diagrams, Herbert nearly falls off of his stool. "Good Lord! Shouldn't there be some sort of warning before things like this happen?" he complains while trying to regain his composure.
"Ook!" The ape sets the tray down hurriedly and then holds up a small fork, which he brandishes pointedly at the arrival. The intent is clear, Hey, who are you and what're you doing in here?
The falcon on the man's shoulder seems content to take a moment to preen itself, working its beak under this wing or that tail feather, until it seems satisfied. Then, it begins to preen the man it rides on, pulling his hair out of his face and tucking it away behind his ear!
The Ouiji board needle slows its gyrations, then stops. With a murmur, the Analytical Engine ceases its humming and goes quiscient. The recently-arrived man drops his bag on the floor with a thump, still wheezing and trying to catch his breath. "Ahhhh. Gah. Guh." He gets out a few unintelligible words of French.
The chimpanzee holds the fork at the ready and looks at his master for instructions. Boss, want me to put some holes in or just crinkle the edges a bit?
"Ahh... Messieurs Girard, I presume?" Shaft asks carefully, holding out a hand to keep Caliban from attacking.
Caliban puts the fork aside reluctantly. He makes quiet ooks and eeps at his master. Y'know, boss, when the Doc said to expect Giraud to come, I kinda thought she meant he was gonna be on the next carriage in town. This pentacle business... Innit demons dat show up in pentacles?
Caliban approaches a little closer, sniffing for, well, brimstone.
That is merely speculation of a mind uninitiated in the occult, a scholarly voice insists, ringing out in the assembled group's collective head. The pentacle has symbolism and power from times older than the era of witch hunts and so-called demon worshippers. It sounds rather old, as if it might belong to a wizened, bearded man with a cane, hobbling about and lecturing students.
Whozat? The chimpanzee looks up and around for the speaker.
The man smells faintly of cologne. He rocks back on his haunches and takes a deep breath, then shudders. "Ugh. That was appalling. I'd rather a carriage any week." He turns to look around at the chimp and the man. "Ahh. Ah, yes. I am M. Girard. This ... is not Mlle. Townes's residence," he observes astutely.
"Ahh!" Herbert yelps, and looks around for.. a ghost? "Oh.. that was one of you then? And.. ah, yes. Miss Townes is working with us, and Islington is living here now so..."
One reed breaks easily, a thousand reeds is strength, the oddly origin-less and scholarly voice observes. Meanwhile, the falcon on Girard's shoulder takes a moment to flap, puffing itself up a bit, before looking around with that darting, jerky motion of birds.
Herbert eyes the falcon. "Ah, quite true.. especially when building a boat."
"That's Horus," Girard confirms. He pats the bird's back affectionately. "He always talks like that. Mademoiselle Townes told me ... er. Very little, in fact. But there's something badly wrong in the Game, I gather?"
The chimpanzee scratches behind an ear, then decides to take care of the mundane business first. Another for tea, breakfast, then? What'll you have, bird-- er, Horus? He bustles off to the kitchen.
"Well, seeing as how several Openers and Closers have joined forces, you might say that," Herbert notes, shuffling some of his papers around. "Firstly.. well, Mrs. Everchild is dead at the.. hands.. of St. John. And St. John herself is mostly dead now herself. The location of the event has been located: the Hill, which I'm sure you're familiar with."
Astute of you, the voice of Horus agrees with Herbert. Horus appears to be your average peregrin falcon, male by the size and coloration. When patted, he takes a moment to worry Girard's finger affectionately with his beak. I do not require food at this time. It is Girard who has expended a great deal of mystic energy -- the road through the material sphere is not lightly treaded.
The chimpanzee tilts his head, listening to the voice. Extra bacon 'n eggs it is, he calls back. Savory grilling smells quickly arise from the direction of the boat's galley.
"I'd most appreciate a meal," Girard says, listening to Horus and glancing at the tray. His stomach rumbles. "If you would be so kind. Er. Mrs. Everchild? The old woman? Then she was a Closer, I imagine." He looks ashen -- but then again, he looked that way when he got here. "And the portal's to be on the Hill. Splendid."
A few minutes later, another platter is brought out by the chimpanzee, heaped with several thick slices of bread, a small saucer of butter and pot of orange marmalade, a tiny mountain of scrambled eggs, thick slices of bacon, and slices of a light orange cheese and apples. The chimpanzee juggles (not literally) this with a fresh teapot and another teacup hanging from a pinkie.
"Well, St. John's spirit is now in control of the Hill, along with Alorn's," Shaft notes. "We've been in contact with one of the originators of the Game - the Unicorn, Kari. She's told us about the origins of it all, and that the items we know as Game Artifacts are actually bound spirits that also originated it. The other side of the portal is the natural realm of spirits, and some opened the first portal ages ago in order to escape the control of other powerful spirits. All of the spirits of this world came through then, and the originators were the first Closers, keeping it sealed up so the Overlords they fled could not come through. All fine and good, except that the spirits on this side are starting to die."
This is functionally similiar to the first platter which he has already brought his master, except the quantities of food have been doubled. Caliban sets out forks and knives and motions for people to dig in.
A bit winded, Herbert takes a moment to eat while the Frenchman absorbs what he's said.
The Hill, Horus repeats, adding an ominous weight to his telepathic words. Yes, we are familiar with The Hill. Would it be, then, that The Hill itself has taken an interest in matters, or are we to be bringing it forth from its earthen dwelling? He listens, or at least appears to listen since he lacks in facial expression, and then bobs his head. How interesting. Do you hear that, Girard? A conduit to the spirit realm.
It's more like St. John an' Alorn had a fight wit' da Hill an' finders keepers, losers weepers, but they're not doin' much cryin', the chimpanzee opines as he settles in with a heel of bread smothered with butter. Me, I don't trust 'em.
"I hear it. I'm not sure I understand any of it." Girard now looks both pale and confused. He takes a seat at the table, blinking at the mountain of food. "Mlle. St. John is dead and in control of the Hill, you say? And who the devil is Alorn?"
Then I take it they, too, were challanged by The Hill? And lost, I suspect, inquires the bird, who has taken to preening himself again. Yes, Girard has done so as well, and we find The Hill to be quite malevolent as far as spirit-beings go. I, myself, was rather offended. The contemporay would be, 'You catch more flies with honey.'
Caliban raises the bread toward the Frenchman and his bird. You're not sussin' this out right, they took over the Hill's space. If the Hill's still in there, they're sittin' on top o' that. Alorn, he's this St. John's thug, kinda. Big stag-kinda guy.
Caliban gnaws on the bread as his master explains.
"To exacerbate matters further, this is quite likely the last time the Portal will even appear. Now knowing what the consequences of Closing this time are, Miss Townes and myself are trying to work out a safe way of Opening, which would almost certainly require fighting the Overlords of the spirit world. Otherwise, we face the prospect of a world devoid of souls," Herbert explains while nibbling on his toast.
"I'd as soon not be caught by the Hill at all. Again. Wait, what, you're Openers now? Mlle. Townes is an Opener?" Girard looks thunderstruck by all this. "But you're still of the opinion that Opening is dangerous and that the spirits on the other side will not serve the Openers' bidding, I gather?"
Well, it's not quite like that, the chimpanzee demurs.
"Incredibly dangerous, yes. Serving the Openers? No, the Overlords would dominate and enslave this world as they have the spirit realm," Shaft says.
"Closing is still our option if we can't defeat them," the Englishman continues. "We haven't quite convinced our fellow Closer to hold back until necessary, however. Right now we have our weapons, but little in the way of defense."
A stag-man. A stayr, perhaps, muses the bird. It has been some time since I last met a satyr -- they are not usually fond of cities, were I typically dwell, Girard. A pause, and Horus turns his gaze on to his mage, This raises an interesting point: did we not challenge The Hill prior to our departure, Girard? I distintly recall a period of, again to use the contemporary, 'being under the weather.' The voice sounds mildly proud of this, as if its grasp of modern methods of speaking were something it had been working on.
"Am I to assume that you are also one of the greater spirits, Horus?" Herbert asks.
Caliban shakes his head, Big spirit, lives in a stag's body. Ya know? Four legs, got horns? Anyway, there's somethin' the spirits need from the other side. Light, air, water, food, we dunno what it is, but without it, they're withering away, like sailors with scurvy, Caliban explains. Without it, this'll be the last Game.
Girard takes a handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and places it in his lap as a napkin, then slathers marmalade onto a slice of bread and eats it while he listens to Mr. Shaft and Horus. He glances frequently at Caliban but doesn't appear to understand what the chimpanzee is saying. "Yes, we did, Horus. And we won, after a fashion. I gather the contention is that Mlle. St John and her horned Companion won as well, although if the prize is being mostly dead and in control of that great lump of Earth and malevolent spirits, well, I prefered our victory, howeverso great the price."
'All that glitters,' Horus agrees. His head tilts to the side in a sudden movement, and he adds, Or perhaps, 'What profit is it to a man, if he gains the world, but loses his own soul.' His head jerks the other, way, and now he's looking across the room. Yes, a 'greater spirit' has been one of the titles that have been put to me. As far as this Unicorn, I am aware of her, and have been for some time. Once great, she has waned. It reminds me of the lesson of Rome ...
The chimpanzee polishes off a chunk of cheese and sausage, then starts gnawing on an apple. So like, you two were gonna be Openers, right? But you decided to leave? What's up with that? he asks. What did you figure would happen when the Portal was opened?
"Yes, well, we have a way to energize waning spirits, although perhaps not to their full potential," Herbert notes. "Again, our concern is largely in the realm of defense at this point. I've been studying the Seal of Solomon in my Masonic texts and.. other books. I don't suppose you have any experience with it, Mr. Girard?"
Girard eats some of the scrambled eggs and bread before he speaks again. "We've employed the Seal. I think. Horus knows more about it than I do."
"Ah, excellent!" Shaft says, dabbing his lips with his napkin. "I'm trying to isolate the 'communication with beasts' and spirit-blocking aspects of it, so any assistance would be greatly appreciated."
Caliban looks up at this. This thing lets you talk to dumb critters like me? He casts Horus an imploring eye.
The animal tongue is known to me, answers Horus. The bird's gaze returns from whatever it was staring at across the room, becoming suddenly focused as it looks from person to person (and animal). In a voice that sounds as dry as a university lecture, he explains, The Seal of Solomon, so named for its use by that ancient and Biblical king, is as anthema to spirits. It can be likened to a barricade, in that spirits will often refuse to cross it, or even to approach it. Its power lies with the arcane mind -- that of the mystic. The bird lifts a wing, then lays it on Girard's head, as if giving example of an arcane mind. They are stronger en mass; stronger still if wrought by he who weilds the occult. The bird sweeps its gaze again, perhaps making sure everyone is still awake.
The chimpanzee stares back glassily. So, like... We get Mister Giraud to stamp Seals of Solomon on us an' we're safe from spirits?
"I have a way of.. hopefully.. bypassing that latter requirement," Shaft notes. "But I need to know the proper configuration of the Seal first, so that I can properly transcode it."
Hey boss, we're gonna shave you spear-bald an' tattoo a Seal of Solomon on your head, that'll work, right? suggests Caliban. It may be a good thing that Mr. Shaft doesn't normally understand his speech.
Horus's gaze fixes on the chimpanzee, and he replies, To mark the Seal upon flesh is to make of the body an anathema to the spirit. Placed upon an earthly vessel of the spiritual, it is as torment to that which resides within. Gaze jerking to Shaft, the bird goes on, projecting, The knowledge of the Seal is not passed lightly. Girard, I am your teacher, perhaps your guide: but not in this. I leave the decision to you. And with that, Horus returns to preening.
"It's not any use in talking to animals, though," Girard says to Mr. Shaft. "That is, Horus can talk to animals, the Seal can't, and it won't help you talk to animals, either." He's about to go on, but turns his head to look at Horus as the bird speaks. "Oh."
"I was hoping for a way to speed up communication during the banefire," Herbert mutters. Still, it's worth trying at least.
The chimpanzee eyes his master speculatively, then gets up to start putting the used dishes away.
There is one more piece of information you should know, before you decide, Horus projects, presumably to Girard, The man known as Shaft lacks an aura. I cannot be certain, but I feel I have seen him before, and upon that time did he have an aura. The bird looks up, glances at Shaft, then resumes preening. I do not think it a mask; rather, it is an absence. Where the aura is gone, so, too, is the soul. Know that there is no Devil: the answer to such soulessness lies elsewhere. I trust you will investigate.
"Ah, that is.. due to something I did without realizing the consequence at the time," Shaft explains. "I removed and then consumed my own spirit. Our weapons.. operate in a similar manner. We can destroy spirits and transfer their energy to other spirits."
Hey, Horus, calls the dishwashing chimp from the boat's galley. You get a lot of chicks talkin' all mysterious-like?
Girard appears to be still wrestling internally with whether or not he ought to show Mr. Shaft how to form the Seal of Soloman. He's about to say something again when Horus speaks, and whatever he was going to say turns into a French epithet. He stares at Shaft.
"You ... destroyed ... your own soul?" Girard says, incredulously. "You ate it? You can do that?"
"The technology, according to Da Vinci, likely originated in Atlantis," Shaft explains. "I suppose it may have also been responsible for its demise, come to think of it."
Little do I speak with chicks, for the young avians have little to say. Mine is not the world of the beasts, but the court of Man, and his understanding, Horus replies, his tone as dry as ever.
"I also suppose I could use the same method to acquire a new soul," Herbert says, looking uncertain about that. "Given how our ghost test subject has reacted to consuming other spirits, though, I can't say it would be a particularly practical solution."
Girard is still staring at Shaft. He can't help himself. "Whose soul would you be acquiring?" He looks around nervouslt for the door.
"What? Oh, I was only speculating," Herbert notes, with a wave of his hand. "But it does point out the danger of Closing as well: without the element they need to sustain themselves, more spirits will become predatory in order to stave off the inevitable. Our world will be filled with entities like the Hill in time. Our only chance for a viable future is to fight the Overlords and win."
Well, if you want a Man to be understandin', you might wanna talk so the Man can understand, shoots back the chimpanzee. He clambers out of the boat's galley nimbly and returns for the rest of the dishes. This 'mysteries of the mind' business, it might play good in Winchelsea, Sussex, but we're comin' up on showdown time, so we don't have a lot of time to go harin' after wild geese, ya know what I mean?
I speak as I have always spoken, Horus replies, sounding a little tired. Girard, know that the hourglass diminishes. I will council you as to this matter, but the choice is yours in how we proceed. Know that I am proud of my student. The path you take undermines that not the least, so long as the choice is made with wisdom, understanding, and will. Horus pauses, apparently worrying at a particularly ragged feather that vexes him, before adding, 'The path upon the road is easy, and known. It is the path through the woods that is fraught with mystery, peril, and unseen knowledge.' He then pats Girard with a wing.
The chimpanzee inquires of Mr. Giraud with an ook, More food? Or are you all done?
Girard rubs his forehead. "Thank you, Horus." He stares at the food still before him, glances at Caliban's motion to take it, and shakes his head, putting a hand down to hold onto the plat. "Er. I'm still eating?" he says, not quite sure he understand the chimp or that the chimp understands him. "One thing -- maybe I missed this, Mr. Shaft, but -- why do you want to Open at all, exactly? When Horus and I planned to Open, it was on the basis of two theories: first, that the powers on the other side of the portal would, in gratitude for our service, reward us handsomely. Second, that even if the powers would not willingly reward us, they could be bent to my will by means of certain abilities at my disposal. You don't seem to believe this -- frankly, neither do I, any more -- so what is your reason?"
"Because, the spirits have always been with us," Shaft reasons. "I don't know if we'd still be human without them. Mind you, I'm only working on Opening so long as I believe there is a chance for success. If we cannot find a workable defense against being taken over by the enemy spirits, then Closing is the only option. Slavery to demons is not something I will casually risk subjecting the world to."
The chimpanzee nods at Girard. Eat up then, he encourages. Just don't wanna leave food out, it draws flies. Annoying li'l gits, flies. He pauses, and adds after his master has spoken. I guess, I feel sorry for the spirits. The ones on our side, dat is.
The chimpanzee bids you to eat, Girard. It is sound advice, Horus offers. Satisfied now ith his preening, he takes to looking around, staring at this or that seemingly without rhyme or reason.
It takes a little more back-and-forth on the subject before Girard clearly registers the connection Shaft is drawing: that Closing the portal means a slow but inevitable slide towards oblivion for all the spirits on Earth, while Opening offers the chance to save them. Albeit by risking the enslavement of the whole Earth in service to far more powerful spirits. When he finally gets it, he says, "Oh. That's ... considerably more altruistic than my motive." Obediantly, he has some more eggs and bread.
After a moment, Girard says, "Madamoiselle Townes is agreed with you on this? To save the spirits through Opening? Horus, is this possible? Aren't you a spirit? Are you and your kind really ... degrading?"
"Bernice convinced me after she spoke to the Unicorn," Shaft says, hoping Miss Townes' participation will help get the wizard to help them out.
You are aware of my cyclilic existence, and so upon each point of incarnation did I witness the degradation of spirit kind. Once was Unicorn mighty and terrible, now she is weak. Yes, spirit-kind fades. However, the bird shifts its gaze to Girard, looing at hime squarely, I do not. Horus cocks his head to the side, as if either pondering, or suddenly having been distracted by something across the room. This, in itself, creates more questions. Indeed, I have long thought the power of magic and mysticism has faded in this world. Pure speculation, I attributed it to the rise of man's science, but perhaps science is merely a face of the fading spirit. The answer remains shadowed. Know that I do not perceive myself to have diminished -- others have met their end.
"But not you." Girard looks briefly heartened by this, then puzzled. "Why not you?" He forces himself to eat some more -- he really is hungry, but the conversation is difficult to sustain an appetite through -- then stands. "I'll be back for the rest," he promises the chimpanzee, then retrieves his bag. He takes a volume bound in white from it and flips through the pages to find the one he wants. "There. Stand back a little, Horus." He puts the book before Shaft, open to an intricate design. "That's the correct design for the Seal of Soloman."
"Ah, perfect!" Herbert says, and quickly brings a fresh sheet of paper and various measuring tools over that have been scattered about the table. "May I borrow that?" he asks.
I hear admitting you have a problem is the first step to getting over it, gibes Caliban as he tidies the table up. So you were one of these Greater Spirits, huh, Horus? And still as powerful as you were back when? Think you could take one of these Masters?
Horus hops off Girard's shoulder to perch well away from the Seal of Soloman. As the bird said, spirits seem disinclined to get near it -- which seems to include Horus as well.
Girard nods to Shaft, and sits again. He eats a little more, eyeing his avian companion with a thoughtful and concerned look.
Herbert takes the book and notes down the various Cabbalistic symbols, then begins plotting out their geometric relationships. "It will take me some time to transcode this into the Atlantean symbol-circuitry. In the meantime, it might be a good idea to find Miss Townes and Marseilles, Caliban."
Got it, boss, the chimpanzee says. He throws a jaunty salute, which needs no translation, and shrugs on a serviceable woolen jacket with patched elbows before going out the door.
"Er. Symbol circuitry?" Girard asks. He gives a clueless look to Horus.
"You might find this interesting, Mssr. Girard," Herbert says, bringing the Secret Codex over and opening it to appropriate pages describing the semi-mystical technology.
Girard stares at it, flipping back and forth through the pages. He turns the book so that Horus can look at it, too.
Girard, I have thought on the matter of difference. I will speculate. From his perch upon a chair, Horus begins to relate his ideas. Know that in terms of spiritual strength, I am not the equal of the original Unicorn. Know that as others persist, I do not: once summoned unto the material plane and granted an avatar, I remain until death, whereupon I enter a dormant state devoid of memory. The cycle begins again when I am resummoned, as my previous student did. Know that I recall all my avatars. Horus hops along his perch to peer down at the book, projecting all the while. And, know that I percieve a differnce, but its answer remains shrouded to me. A pause, and he adds, Atlantis is myth.
"It is a Myth of a lost, advanced civilization though, and so is as appropriate a name to put to these sciences as any," Shaft notes.
Horus studies the book for a while, then projects, A Renaissance-period work, derived from Grecian mysticism. While clever in its attempt -- something you should note for your own mystic growth, Girard -- it contains multiple flaws. Here, the bird points a wing at a diagram, you see an attempt to incorporate mystic symbolism with a conflicting use of sacred geometry, undoubtedly derived from improper understanding of meaning of the original use of these devices.
"I've actually corrected for that in my own refining of the technique," Herbert says, while he works on his formulae.
Girard nods to Horus, frowning at the book. He shakes his head after a moment and goes back to eating. "I need more food if I'm going to work out this sort of thing. More sleep wouldn't go amiss, either," he mumbles. "How much time do we have left to the Banefire? 60 hours? Mon Dieu."
With a flap of his wings, Horus takes to the air, only to land on Herbert's shoulder! There, the bird peers down, studying the man's work. While he may be a bird, something about the way Horus eyes Herbert's paper is very reminiscent of a school matron staring over a student's shoulder, examining their work with a eternally disapproving face and a bun tight enough to squeeze the oil from hair.
The Frenchman confides to Mr. Shaft, "Horus is very good with this sort of thing."
The Englishman glances at the falcon before going back to his calculations. Of course, he'll still have to run them through Analytical Engine to solve the derived equations, otherwise he'd never get them finished in time.
"I am not schooled in magic," Herbert notes. "So, forgive me if I do not refer to my devices as being magical, even if they do respond as if they were."
"I admit, they don't look magical. To me," Girard says, eyeing the Analystical Engine.
"Hopefully they will appear innocuous to the Master Spirits as well," Shaft says. Noting Girard's glance, he explains, "That device is the Analytical Engine. It combines mechanical calculation with spirit-based divination and.. a certain amount of human intuition, although that element is not functioning at the moment. The glowing fluids are necroplasm, a product rendered from flesh that can store spiritual energy and patterns."
"When connected to that helmet there, Caliban can communicate directly via the Ouija board," he adds.
None the less, you are a worker of magic. An unrefined talent, a wilder, a hedge-mage. In this time of steam, ships, guns, and other artifices of the worker of the mechanical, such manifestations of occult talent through machine-work is not unlike those that employ more mudane devices, such as the Tarot or the throwing of bones. Know their is power in the nature of the tool, and in naming, but it is sufficent to say you, Herbert, are of the same cloth. Looking up, Horus regards the so-called 'Analytical Engine' with a curious eye. Yes, yes, it has an aura. Very complex, similiar in appearance to that of The Hill itself. It is an artifice of singular magic. The bird continues to study it, evidentally it's piqued his interest.
"Actually, something similar to the Hill is powering it now," Shaft notes. "The old Shelley Manor had a similar predatory spirit bound within it. We.. chopped it up a bit, and transferred a good portion of if its energy to our batteries. The rest went to the surviving ghost of the Shelley daughter, Marseilles."
Herbert points Girard to the slightly melted Spirit Trap still attached to the Engine, since the power leads fused during the transfer.
Girard finishes off his plate, and then goes to take a look at the fused lines. "Oh yes. Now that you mention it, this does remind me of the Hill." That doesn't sound like a good thing. He backpedals away from it again.
"It's harmless now.. for the most part," Shaft says. "Marseilles absorbed what you could call its mind. But if you look in that drawer there.. no, that one next to it.. we've got a photo of what it looked like before we broke it up."
Horus's eyes dart about as he inspects the Analytical Engine, studying its various parts as he listens. When Shaft finishes, Horus projects, I see now the answer to the mystery of your magic. Like the puppeteer, you have harnessed the spiritual to do your bidding. Your magic comes not from the strength of your soul, Herbert -- which I will say is lacking -- but in the spirits you have harnessed. What you have wrought, is a prison of harnessed spiritual power. It is not unlike the grand seals of old. Horus cocks his head to the side. Like unto like: if this artifice is the composite of the flesh of shattered spirits, then so too may be The Hill, explaining how it might have absorbed the spirits of your fellows unto itself, as you have caught the spirit to your advantage.
"Any spirit is capable of consuming another, we've found," Herbert explains. "Relative power is all that matters. The Manor spirit was severely weakened and damaged by our trap, and so Marseilles was able to absorb it. It would have eaten her, if she hadn't resisted for so long and had a little help from another spirit."
"Of course, we can also feed a spirit to another, via the necroplasm," Shaft adds, and looks both solemn and sad. "A pity we can't really study it further. After the banefire, whatever the outcome, this technology will all need to be destroyed."
It is singular, Horus repeats, a hint of surprise in his voice. The algamation of spirit is of the contemporary world. Know that such a chimera finds its home not in the past. The Hill, this artifice they are of modern origin. I have not seen their like, before.
"I admit I find it unsettling," Girard says. "After my experience with the Hill it's hard to be blase about controlling such potent spirits. But -- why do you plan to destroy it?"
"It destroys the spirits it uses," Herbert says, plainly. "There is no benefit it can produce that is worth the cost of a soul, Mr. Girard. If there is any ember of my own left, I can only hope that exposure to the Portal will revive it."
Girard pales a bit. "Oh. But -- it's not a human soul, is it? Didn't you say it was some kind of monster's?"
"The Manor was made up of human souls, for the most part," Herbert notes. "And the Engine itself used the soul of a local deceased woman, until Marseilles... set her free."
Herbert goes to one of the cabinets, and takes out a rack of punch cards, some blank cards, and a punching tool. He carries these back to the table, and begins to encode his formulas onto the blank cards.
"Oh," Girard says, rather lamely.
"Why, with an ounce of your blood, I could steal your soul as well," Herbert comments. "So, I'm sure you can see why this spirit-based technology is too dangerous to keep."
Girard jerks back as if personally menanced, then laughs uneasily. "You couldn't. Could you?" He looks at Horus.
"That's how I managed to kill my own," Shaft says, as he works on the cards.
Girard watches Herbert work with the punch tool. "Don't cut yourself again, then. Who knows what might happen?"
That actually brings a smile to the Englishman's face. "I shall endeavor to be cautious, yes!" he says, and starts to slot the new cards into their proper places within the rack.
The spirit within this device is surely mangled, Horus agrees. It occurs to me that this artifice grants insight in to the nature of The Hill. Following the trends of my kind, it is accurate to suppose it, too, has weakened. Thus, like this machine, it has sought to control and consume other spirits -- other 'souls,' as you have put it -- to empower itself. Horus looks up from his studying of the machine, glancing betweem Girard and Shaft before resuming his inspection. Know that the man known as Shaft could not draw out your soul as such, Girard. As has been said, relative strength plays a part if import. To wield the occult, one needs a soul of strength. You have a soul of strength, Girard -- it is not easily displaced.
"That is reassuring. Thank you." Girard looks calmer. He goes to flip through the Secret Codex, sipping at a freshly-poured cup of tea.
After switching out the programming racks, Shaft begins to start up the Analytical Engine. "Hopefully your transport spell hasn't knocked anything out of calibration," he comments, and then throws the 'Process' switch on the machine. "You may feel some odd sensations while the Engine runs," he warns, figuring those sensitive to such things would react to the Engine.
Once the machine gets going, Shaft also offers to his human guest, "If you'd like to freshen up before Miss Townes arrives, there's a hot shower aboard my yacht."
Horus hops away from the machine as it starts up, head tilting. I sense its unease. His head tilts the other way, curious. Diluted, it seeks escape, but lacks what it once was. The prisoner recoils, it hates, even shattered as it is. The bird hops away again, then flaps a little.
Girard pets Horus's ruffled feathers, and doesn't look like he wants to go anywhere near Shaft's soul-eating machine, himself. "Sixty hours. I suppose that's not too much longer for it to keep control over ... whatever it's got."