Introduction
Mage Storyteller:
Heat lightning flashed across the D.C. sky, the weather matching a city silent today. Mr. Hill gazed over the city, appreciating a silence hard fought for and well earned. “As you were” he murmured to the city, turning back to his passion, his daily business.
Hyejin Keun breathed in, relaxing in the calm of the arboretum. 4 days before her story broke. In this moment she indulged her doubt.
It made her shudder and receded, lurking out of sight in the back of her brain. At least one thing that she knew for sure where it was.
Far away & impossibly high, Clara sat in the cradle of the storm, each stroke of lightning slithering around her. Already she had been up for too long, a pressure building behind her eyes. A magnificent distance ahead of her & at its end, a terrible undertaking.
Crouching out back of the liquor store, Omer poked at the pile of clothing. They certainly belonged to the victim, though as the why they were halfway again across town from the scene of the crime made no sense. He got back in his car—time to talk to the chief.
Ayoze stopped up short, staring at the autoshop in consternation. He could have sworn that there was a great divey tapas place but now… no sign of it? He sighed, can’t seem to keep anything straight recently. Turning, he started to look elsewhere for lunch.
The stirring in the black waters mirrored the shiver in the trees. Far from the lights of the city, the lighthouse watched the night move, invisible currents wheeling about and raising hairs on the necks of sleepers in gas stations, rest stops and train stations.
Clay Hellstrom
Mage Storyteller:
You’ve managed to sit the man up and distract him from the broken arm—a nasty open fracture, his ulna by the look of it. Your one real day off this week and this guy falls down the stairs on your walk to Des’s bar.
He’s blabbering now and you can smell the booze on his breath. “My wallet” He mutters. “I can’t go anywhere without my wallet.” What does Clay do?
Clay Hellstrom:
“Ok, where is your wallet? Where do you keep it?”
Set him down gently, look around the area, look up the stairs “Ok, Stay put, I’ll take a look around. Do you live upstairs? Do want me to call you an ambulance or a cab?”
Mage Storyteller:
“Right here” he mutters, flailing his hand at his empty pants pocket. “Now its gone—Fuck this hurts, man!” You found him at the bottom of the stairs next to you, illuminated with security lights. You haven’t moved him at this point, & you don’t see any sign of the wallet.
Through the pain and the drink he does his best to support his arm. He looks up at you, frowning. “I can’t afford an ambulance…” as you go through the routine. Assured that he was only drunk and hurt you stand up, looking up the stairs.
You find his wallet sitting next to the culprit—a damaged stair, the metal step bent and sloped down. His wallet is intact except oddly there’s no I.D. of any sort inside.
“It happened real fast. Suddenly I was just tumbling down. I tried to catch myself…” He trails off, and while you’re fairly sure he doesn’t have a concussion, he seems confused thinking about his fall.
Extending your sense, while the man is hurt, you don’t detect anything that you hadn’t already guessed. The arm is broken and he is intoxicated. However as your sense expand an acrid taste fills your mouth—malice. Not from the man but lingering in the air.
The cabbie pulls up. As you help the injured man over, the cabbie sees his condition. “No no no, oh hell no. Do I look like a damn ambulance? You know an ambulance doesn’t lose business when someone bleeds in their car, but I sure as hell do!”
You lean into your charm & he gives in. “Goddamnit, goddamnit.” Reaching into the glove compartment he throws a golf towel into the back seat. “I’m holding you all that.” As you get into the car you can’t quite shake that malicious taste at the back of your mouth.
You note 1433 Belmont St. The cabby grimaces, looking in the rear view. “Alright Clay just don’t let nobody pass out in my cab.”
The man next to you stirs, groans. “My names Tim… thanks Clay.” And he gives you address.
As you probe his mind, his thoughts are conflicted. Scrambled even, he can’t seem to hold onto any one emotion or thought. He’s even struggling to focus on the pain. Every cohesive thread of thought is disrupted and so more than anything is an undercurrent of fear.
You’re able to keep him talking and alert, which also helps to calm down the Cabbie. Tim’s eye openings respond fine, though his verbal & motor responses are slowed some, 4’s both.
You sense nothing following you, but a lingering taint sticks to Tim, a caustic sap.
Clay Hellstrom:
Proceed as my training would dictate on the way to the hospital, checking in with the cabbie how he’s doing.
Mage Storyteller:
One of the nurses is a man you know well, Holten Meyer. A jocular if crass man a little older than yourself. After Tim is taken into a room to have his arm set, Holten says “Ah, Clay, didn’t know you moonlighted as a mugger. Didn’t know you had it in you” and winks at you.
Clay Hellstrom:
“Ha-ha. (Points finger) Not funny, Holton. I have to get going. Give the cops the info I wrote down, and please tell themto call me on my cell. I have to be somewhere. Don’t forget to try and get him CT. His fuzziness is more than just booze.”
Mage Storyteller:
“Ah, you’re alright Clay. Sounds good, I’ll keep an eye on him. It’s a fucked up world out there, be safe. Hey, like,” he leans in conspiratorially, “You remember old Dr. Lowell, the asshole that got you kicked out of your residency? He’s back in town from his sabbatical.”
“He’s in Baltimore but he’s been doing some specialist work over at George Washington U. Rumor is they’re trying to bring him over full time.”
Holten grimaces. “So I hear. Well, from you. Vaguely. In any case, wanted to give you a heads up in case you ran into him. You know him. Goddamn social butterfly.”
Clay Hellstrom:
“Thanks, Holton, appreciate it. Gotta run, thanks for the wipes.” Head out to the cab, put on the gloves, wipe up the back seat all over, hold the wipes in one gloved hand, pull the glove over them, take off the other, and tell the Cabbie to head to Des’s.
Mage Storyteller:
The cabbie says wryly “Well, you ain’t the first and I’m sure you won’t be the last. Whole thing is fucked. Any case, glad you came back.” Car cleaned & on your way, you relax your senses. There’s an energy in the air, a potency in the night air…
You touched the cabbie with your actions tonight. He feels affirmed in his own path and the world around him, as fleeting as that might be. But all around you is the tension of power in the air…
The Cabbie pulls up in front of Des’s place. It’s a busy night, a mix of political staffers and hipsters smoking cigarettes in front of the bar. The cab is… more than you wished it was. That meter was on for some time.
Clay Hellstrom:
Pay the man, with gulp tip, get his card for future reference, tell not to be a stranger. Close the door. Look around out front see if I know anyone. If not, head inside and talk to Des.
Mage Storyteller:
No one you know outside. Recently Des’s bar got listed on a “top 20 D.C. bars listicle” and the number of randos has really picked up since then. You head inside where you see Des behind the bar. What’s his bar tending style like?
As you walk in Des notices you almost immediately and he waves you over to the bar. One stool remains putting you next to a woman in a business suit drinking a whiskey sour. Des grins and says “Thought you’d be by earlier, Clay. Starting the night kind of late, eh?”
His grin falters with immediate concern. Waving one of the other bartenders over he leads you into the backroom, boxes of liquor lining the wall. “What’s up Clay?”
Clay Hellstrom:
Give him the details of the guy’s accident, the acrid taste, sense of malice. Also the news about Dr. Lowell. “Just something about the situation doesn’t feel right.”
Mage Storyteller:
His frown deepens. “That is very concerning. Do you know who this Tim was. Any reason why he might have been targeted?”
“A hex or a curse could certainly do it. It may also be something lingering from a magickal backlash. Perhaps he witnessed something he wasn’t able to comprehend. In any case, this man was either targeted or unlucky to the extreme. There’s gotta be something more here.”
Clay Hellstrom:
“Maybe I ought to follow up, I have his home address. Any suggestions how to approach this? Not like I can actually do much. And hey, just homw many magical magick types are there in this city?”
Mage Storyteller:
“Cautiously. You have no idea if he is watched or part of something bigger. But he owes you a debt of compassion. Continue with that good will and he may open up to you or inadvertently lead you to the source of this malice…”
“It’s hard to say these days. The more magical types you know, the greater potential for them to know you. I would say though D.C. seems to have more interlopers than I initially would’ve thought. Few residents, many transients.”
He laughs at that. “I think you’ll find, my friend, that they are not so different. Come, relax tonight. The world will be just as dangerous tomorrow. You have done what you can. Approach this problem as a human, not a mage. You’re just following up on a patient.
Clay Hellstom:
“Yeah you’re right, Des. Hit me with your best drink.”
Mage Storyteller:
You spend the rest of the night in Des’s company, for the most part managing to relax, each drink chipping away at the malicious aftertaste. At least Tim isn’t still sitting undiscovered at the bottom of a stairwell and for tonight that will have to be enough.
Jonas Carter
Mage Storyteller:
Sitting at your desk overlooking the city, your mind begins to wander. It’s a nice day, shame you got called in on a Saturday. A notification pop on your screen. An email from an unknown account, its subject line reading 3rdQ Availability.
The email reads:
bhmorgan@hhc.net
Dear Jonas,
Got your contact info from a mutual friend. Heard you’re top of the line—I have some freelance consulting I need done. Need you to look over some numbers. Do you do outside work? It would pay well.
-BHMorgan
Jonas Carter:
The reply reads:
Mr. Morgan,
I may be willing to do that work, though I would need some details to make sure that there will be no conflicts of interest with the PFA. Can you confirm who gave you my name and the nature of the work?
Jonas Carter, CPA
Mage Storyteller:
The reply is not fast, but after half an hour comes:
Mr. Carter,
A mutual friend, Robert Aston recommended you. We’re looking to start up a private tech-promotion firm here in D.C., we need someone familiar with the financial layout of the area.
Yours,
BHMorgan
You recognize the name—an old boss, you worked for them before you graduated. Before you met Alexander Sawyer.
Jonas Carter:
I reply within a half hour:
Thank you for your timely reply. This sounds like something I can help with. Please let me know when would be a good time for a meeting to work out specifics. I look forward to doing business with you.
Jonas Carter, CPA
Mage Storyteller:
Your workday is close to being over before you get the reply.
Jonas,
We don’t have a physical presence in D.C. yet. Perhaps we could meet over audio video conference?
-BMorgan
Jonas Carter:
I’ll shoot out a quick reply as I head out the door.
Morgan,
That’s fine. You can reach me at insert a Skype ID this evening after 7 pm if it’s pressing, otherwise Monday evening.
Jonas Carter, CPA
Mage Storyteller:
You immediately get an out of office automated message tha t reads: “BHMorgan is out of office until 8AM UTC. Thank you for your patience.”
What is Jonas’ after work routine?
Jonas Carter:
On a weekday he usually heads home, does some magickal work and reading, when he has to work on the weekend it’s out to a show at the Kennedy or National Shakespeare, or some other form of public arts. Wolf trap maybe every other month.
If none of those are available he’ll take a trip to the national gallery of art, or some other art gallery to peruse and shop.
Mage Storyteller:
You’re taking in a summer performance of Love’s Labor Lost at a smaller theater, one less established than the National. You know one of the actors personally, though not well. The performance is… underwhelming when you get an incoming video call to your phone.
As you walk out of the theater you attract a glare from the usher. On the screen of your phone pops up a low resolution image of a man sitting at a desk. With the poor quality of the image, it’s hard to make out more than his outline. “Jonas Carter? It’s BHMorgan.”
Through the split screen on your phone you let the numbers fall into the patterns you can identify. They indicate Morgan is not actively malicious though there’s something unpleasant about it that you’re having trouble pinning down.
BHMorgan’s voice comes through a little static with a reedy quality.
“Thank you for agreeing to this meeting. I’m very interested in your work and would love to offer you a little project to see if you would be compatible to our work.”
“I’m sending over a packet now. It’s a low risk tech instillation, a pop up event so to speak to help with our branding. Knowing D.C. as you do, I was hoping you’d see if our costs seem reasonable and your analysis on how the financial and social landscape might respond.”
Jonas Carter:
“I’ll take a look at this and give you my input by Monday morning. You can make out the payment you mentioned in your email to The PFA.”
Mage Storyteller:
His voice comes back halting and the static worsens. “We were hoping t— for a proj–t of this size w- might be a-le to hire yo–rivately, direc–y. For mark-t purposes.”
Jonas Carter:
“Mr Morgan, while I am willing to consult, possibly long term, I have no interest in leaving the PFA. If that is unacceptable perhaps I can direct you to someone who is open to such an opportunity.”
Mage Storyteller:
The connection continues to degrade. “I’- so-r- Jo-as, -y c-nne-cti– s–ms to -e fa-l-ng. R-vi-ew t-e pa—t I s-nt, I wi– b- in tou– –on.” And the call ends.
Jonas Carter:
Disquieted I head to the metro to catch a train to Georgetown then walk the rest of the way home. Once there I make myself a cup of strong tea and begin looking through the packet, trying to pin down what unpleasantness this is tied to.
Mage Storyteller:
You sit down after a long strange day and open the attachment. Rather than any sort of compression the files are all individual .txt documents. Each file contains spreadsheets, meticulous but bizarrely formatted.
They crunch the numbers for a pop up event that would roll out a specialty piece of hardware, an external processor for your phone that when plugged in, upgrades the device’s intelligence capabilities.
This allows the user greater handsfree convenience & advice bordering on artificial intelligence. The popup event itself is a semistaged series of problem solving examples with real people, all free and filmed.
Jonas Carter:
“Huh, now that is odd…” I will print out the papers and then begin laying them out in my work room to try and truly grasp what is in these papers Using Mind and Entropy to try and sort through all of this & try and find the truth behind them.
Intriguing…I will send a synopsis of this to my old friend Alexander Sawyer, see if he finds it as intriguing/troubling as I do and then head to bed.
Sitri Lovelace
Mage Storyteller:
The indistinct chatter of the world all around you is suddenly brought into sharp focus, pain sprouting in the side of your ribs. You’d zoned out sitting on a park bench, now you see the baseball rolling away that had smashed into you.
Catching your breath you turn to see a young boy as he runs up, flustered. “Sorry sir, we were just playing, sorry, Uh, are you ok? Can I have it back?” he says, words coming a mile a minute. Finally your breath returns to you, the pain subsiding slightly.
Sitri Lovelace:
It takes me a minute to refocus on the world around me. I grab the ball and toss it to the kid. “Don’t call me sir I’m not that old. Just watch where you throw it next time.” I pull out my phone and check if I’ve had any missed messages.
Mage Storyteller:
“You’re older than me sir!” The kid barks as he runs off. No messages, but a notification from an online message bored where you halfheartedly posted some pieces you had for sale. A hit. User: nhpk14 says “Love this piece, would love to see it in person.”
Sitri Lovelace:
“Shity kid” I mumble while I stare at my phone. I send nhpk14 a quick message.
“Hi.
Saw you were interested in my work. If your wanting to view the piece where and when is a good time for you.”
Mage Storyteller:
The reply comes back fast. “I’m free the afternoon if you want to bring it by my coffee shop—we’re on Hawking’s road off Constitution Ave. Or I could come to you after I close the place, usually around 1 A.M.”
The reply comes back “Sure! Bring them along!”
As you enter your house it’s empty, Kai must be out and about somewhere. A note on the fridge reads “Raspberry Chocolate stout in the fridge is a must-try, it’s gonna blow your mind. -K” Which pieces do you grab?
Sitri Lovelace:
I have three that are part of a series the first is of a tall figure silhouetted by a long flowing cloak made of stars he stands peaking over the edge of a cliff.
The second is of a city with spires that reach towards the heavens which are dark with the promise of a storm.
Third is of a young man who hangs by his feet from a great golden tree. He stares at the viewer unblinking and unafraid Sitri stares at the three of them side by side lost in his thoughts for a moment before pulling himself out of it and wrapping them up for travel.
Mage Storyteller:
These are good, you know they are. And finally someone is interested in them. Safe for travel you head off. It’s a nice walk, and uneventful. The place is off a side street you don’t recognize. Approaching it, you realize calling it a coffee shop is a little charitable.
It’s clearly a dive bar with a coffee menu, probably one put up to extend its hours. Inside there’s a few customers but it being midday it’s fairly empty. Behind the counter a man stands cleaning an espresso machine.
He looks up and smiles. “I am! You can call me Ned. Thanks for coming by I really love your work that you posted. Really neat!”
It’s clean… enough and you lay the piece out. “Wow,” he says loudly, “You clearly have a lot of talent. The line work and the coloring, just fantastic.” He looks up too quickly for your taste, however. “I’d love to see those other ones!”
He performatively coos over the other pieces as well, though your gut reaction is telling you this guy lacks a certain sincerity you’d like in customers. He looks up at you. “Man if I had the wall space, I’d buy all three.”
“But you know, I just don’t right now. However, I’d really like to put some of your work on display here! You know, it could be for sale, we’d take a little gallery cut and you’d get the rest—not to mention the exposure here I think would be great for someone like you.”
Sitri Lovelace:
I give him my best smile. “That’s a shame I really like this venue too but i get it not enough space.” I start gathering up my stuff. “I’ll keep this place in mind I have another person who was interested in some of my work, but I’ll try and get back to you sometime”
Mage Storyteller:
His smile falters somewhat and he leans forward. “Oh come on, don’t be like that. I’m trying to help you out, young artist like you, a good space with an open wall here. I’m doing you a favor—I didn’t see any other comments on your site you know.”
Sitri Lovelace:
My smile drops completely, I finish grabbing my things “Thanks but no thanks.”
I turn around and head for the door.
“But I’ll be sure to tell everyone I know about this place. It’ll be great getting some attention to such an” I look around }up n coming bar sorry coffee shop.”
After walking out of the bar I send a quick message to Kai.
“Another bust at some shit dive bar. Kill me now.”
Mage Storyteller:
As you walk out he jeers after you “No one gives a shit what some punk artist thinks!”
Kai messages back quickly. “Those places are mostly designed to prey on young women and alcoholics anyway.”
What does Sitri do and how is he feeling?
Sitri Lovelace:
Sitri is upset its been hard recently no one has been showing any interest in his new stuff. He makes sure he has everything and starts his walk home. I text Kai back “Dude was a creep anyway. I’m just gonna work tonight so sorry if I don’t see you. Thanks for the drink.”
Mage Storyteller:
Kai messages back “I’ll be home late tonight but I can’t wait to hear all about this douchebag.”
As you’re walking your vision blurs. The buildings around you shoot up to the sky, disappearing into their own enormity. You blink, staggering, & your vision clears.
Sitri Lovelace:
As I walk back I try to reorient myself after that weird moment. But at the same time im trying to remember what it felt like and what the world looked like in that moment. When I get home I put my paintings away get the stout out and go find my bong.
Mage Storyteller:
You dream tonight. In your dream chunks of rotting stars fall into an inky ocean all around you. You’re drifting through the maelstrom towards a spire, impossibly tall, piercing both the sky & the sea. The spire is wrapped in miles of overlapping cloth.
Sitri Lovelace:
I give in to the maelstrom and try to memorize what I see for my paintings when I wake.
Mage Storyteller:
As you drift aimlessly, you see interrupting the cloth are dozens of apertures, burnt scars on the undyed cloth. As you watch another slab of fading star slams into it, ripping another hole into the spire’s facade.
Sitri Lovelace:
Can I try and move closer to the spire?
Mage Storyteller:
As you will yourself forward you are propelled through the air. This act of will attracts the attention of the putrid rocks falling. Two come careening towards you. Roll wits + awareness diff. 7.
Sitri Lovelace:
5D10.
Mage Storyteller:
As you rush forward you’re much faster than you expected. While dodging out of the way of the 1st slab you slam into the 2nd, sending you in a tailspin. Your will falters & you find yourself dropping into the murky drink at the base of the tower. Take one temp. will dmg.
Sitri Lovelace:
I’m panicking as I fall my stomach feels like it’s in my throat. I’m scared of falling and the pain that I know will come with it and when I do land I just lie there for a moment.
Mage Storyteller:
Your breathing slows. Your intent that propelled you through the air has left you, the glowing stones losing their interest in you. You float on the sea watching the lights flash over you. The cloth on the spire smells musky, reminding you of something. What is that?
Sitri Lovelace:
I think it smells like old paintings. Something old and mildewed. Like canvas that hasn’t been protected and taken care of. Old and forgotten.
Mage Storyteller:
As you lie there a fold of fabric is dislodged by one of the falling chunks and drifts down next to you. It’s folds are worn down by the ages. As it hits the water the saltwater begins to corrode the flap. On its surface you see memories of paintings long forgotten.
Sitri Lovelace:
I try reaching for it but as it corrodes away I look up towards the spire and begin to reach for it. “The whole thing must be covered in paintings.”
Mage Storyteller:
It crumbles in your hand, the unrealized painting dissolving into the water. As you look up you see the faint lines, echoes of painted texture. But they fade from your mind as your eyes move over the cloth.
Sitri Lovelace:
I try and stand up and move closer to the tower. I want to try and pull some of the cloth off.
Mage Storyteller:
As you approach the cloth a great sense of calm washes over you. The cloth is rough in your hands as your grasp it and pull. It begins to come down in massive coils falling all around you revealing the glossy back surface of the spire itself.
Sitri Lovelace:
I’m calm as I pull on the cloths but as they fall away to reveal the spire I think I’m filled with a sense of awe. Like seeing something so breathtaking that your feel drawn to it. I let go of the cloth and reach out to the tower.
Mage Storyteller:
As you touch the surface your fingers sink into the tower facade. It is smooth and warm, parting with ease. You’ve felt this before, a long time ago. An oil pigment you’ve felt once before. A project you’d abandoned. What was that project?
Sitri Lovelace:
It was my first real painting. It was of a tall man who’s features I couldn’t get right. He stood at the banks of a Black Sea.
No matter how many times I tried to paint him it never looked right it never felt right.
Mage Storyteller:
The tower transforms into the man, impossibly tall, his neck extending into the clouds. You fall back into the cloth & plunge into the Sea. You wake up, short of breath. Sitting up in bed you look down to see the slick black pigment still staining your fingers.
