Arc 15 Post 43: The Priest and the Puppeteer
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The Priest and the Puppeteer
13th of March 2007 A.D.
Those who would delve the Labyrinth are ever ready to step into the fray to find the secrets of forgotten places and thereby grow in learning, in stature and in power, but even they cannot arrive before a sliver of the day had passed, two hours as the clock tells, thirty degrees as the far sun marks the sky, as important to you today as its passage was to the Egyptians long ago. Still Lydia had not wasted the time, considering how she might address those whose bones lie in the dust. Softly at first then brighter and brighter, she begins to glow driving back the shadows into the depths of the temple casting all that was left of the ill timed expedition into sharp relief, bones and buttons and there an old crucifix. Her words ring out with clarity but not command, nor are they spoken in the English of Chicago, Sidney, New Delhi or Singapore, no tongue of present day at all, but verse borrowed from another age:
"Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise."
As if touched by some secret wind or moved by the coils of an unseen serpent the bones begin to rattle. Without conscious thought your fingers begin to creep around the familiar weight of brass not yet alight. But Lydia's not done, not by far as she continues to cajole:
"Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?"
The green translucence of old glass begins to take take form at the edge where silver meets black, though it reveals nothing further than itself, an old and weary light if ever you had seen one. And such it is recognized by one long in the company of death:
"Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre."
No sooner had she spoken the word 'fire' that the light took shape, if shape so ephemeral a thing could be called, a priest in black robes of his calling, his bloodless face under chalk-white wig twisted in confusion: "Pray tell, what doth compel thee to intrude upon my solitude? Wherefore dost thou extend false illumination?"
"No false light, not liar's hope I proffer onto thee, speak of thine sorrows and avenged thou shall be!" Lydia answers simply. "Declare now thine name, that we may discern the proper place for thy hallowed interment, no more than answers shall we need of thee."
A sigh without breath parts his lips: "Should this be the Devil's wile, it would seem he hath grown weary of his jest. What I know I shall convey onto the ruin of Him that ruined me, witch-child."
Letting go of the sword, now that it's clear Lydia had worked her magic you focus on the specter, the words, the moment-in-time: What are the reactions to this?
HE knows, He is listening... spirit strings pulled taunt. You briefly glimpse a withered hand moving over a bleached white knuckle bone and know it is the priest's. The poor wraith speaks truth, for now as the old monster observes though his eyes, but at any moment he could usurp the ghost's lips and feed you lies.
But now you know and he does not know you do.
Lydia Essence 6/7
Molly Essence 18/18 (Urge Used)
What do you do?
[] Let things play out, look for sings that the vampire has usurped control and try to read him through the lies he told his puppet
[] Try to break the necromantic connection by bringing the wraith to Sanctuary
[] Write in
OOC: Good thought on the question. The verses Lydia used are from Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Grey if anyone's wondering. They are from the time he was alive and relevant to the circumstances.
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