Magic & Secrecy [Inactive]

[Fowlishness]

Fowlishness submitted a new role play:


Magic & Secrecy - Victorian fantasy of magic and discovery

Victorian London is full of vastly differing people, and you, or your character, to be specific, had no real mean to stand out from the crowd until that foggy day. As you were going through your routine you found a very peculiar book, ancient looking with faded and illegible golden lettering and a strange scent of incense surrounding it. That you bought that book, stole it or even just found it abandoned matter not, for, if you which it, the arcane knowledge within it could be yours.
You...

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1882, London


This was a foggy day on this Monday morning, the smog of London adding to the low clouds rising from the Thames in a nearly opaque barrier to those who walked the narrow paved streets. Tall oil lamps faintly illuminated their surrounding at nearly steady interval but could not quite pierce the fog, making the knowledge of London itself and it's street a must for any pedestrians and cab owners out and about in this early dawn.


A young woman's life could very well change that morning, as, laying upon her path, a rather ancient looking leather-bound book was gathering water near the gutters. The tome was solidly closed by a strong and newer-looking buckle, and upon it;s surface faded golden lettering in an unknown language glinted faintly under the oily light of the nearby streetlight. Today was the first day of autumn, and nobody but the girl by the name of Ella Nightheart would notice such a strange book laying around... the ancient grimoire of a long gone sorcerer...

 

[Lillybelle]

She stared at the book, her green eyes straining against the fog. Someone must have dropped this. She thought to herself before looking around the mist-coated streets. No one was near. Her emerald eyes returned to the books faded cover. Her knees bent beneath her and as she took a second glance around she grasped the book from the cool ground. One last look to make sure no one was near, or coming back to reclaim their dropped token, and she began the path back to her home and better light.


The fog was thick and unsettling. Dark, too dark for Ella's personal preferences. Her heels collided with the soft ground as she turned and ran up a grassy knoll, hoping to cut the time it took to return to her adobe by at least half. The weather-worn book was held tightly against her chest when she felt a hard sensation on the tip of her foot. She found herself tumbling down the knoll, book clenched ever so tighter until she came to rest at the base. "Must have been a rock."She mumbled to herself as she stood up and brushed herself off. "At least I got home faster."


She stumbled up the path to her house and pulled open the heavy doors. After the death of her father she was left a fortune and left in the hands of her some-what senile grandmother. A woman who had sense passed. Her grandmothers portrait hung over a roaring fire place which provided enough light For Ella to finally get a good glimse of the book. She pulled on the buckle and let the book lay open over her lap.

 

[Fowlishness]

The fire roared warmly in the stone hearth as the small girl looked over her uncovered prize, the yellow light produced by the fireplace changing the strangely still dry but yellowed by age parchment now under her fingertips into a semblance of white when compared by the orange flames. The tome was a strangely comforting weight on her thighs as she peered down upon it's content, an elegant penmanship in what seemed to be a very dark blue forming a quite peculiar message, one that she was apparently the recipient to.


To whom it may concern,


If this grimoire falls into hands other than myself, the evidence must thus be drawn that I am deceased and thus must give my and my predecessors' lifework to the next generation in death. That you read this makes you my successor, an with this, should you decide to become one of us, will come all the honors and responsibility I enjoyed while alive. Know this above all, it may be an hardship, but this gift of mine is well worth the pain and suffering it brings and should thus be used with reverence.


I am... I was a Sorcerer, and a quite skilled one if I do say so myself. I destroyed my enemies, bested my rivals and healed my allies with nary a thought or strain on my body and, though I am powerful in my own right, I am getting old, and thus the evidence that a successor will soon arrive to take my place must be made. In this grimoire lay all that is needed to achieve greatness, and I can assure you that none of what lay within these pages would be an affront to God, despite what some may say. I am,after all, primarily from a healer's line, and so shall you.


Now, the first step after acceptance of this gift would be to unlock your potential via the Ritual of Rebirth, an arcane method used since time immemorial to bring forth magical talent. The following is the Healer Path's version, and shall be done on the night of the full moon. I shall outline the ingredients and steps to take, as well as teach the proper way to trace the runes, so learn well, young one...


The rest of the page were diagrams, instruction and a quite extensive list of ingredients, from flowers to fluids, passing through crystals and even, on one occasion, a drop of blood from Ella herself, as the ritualist. The whole preparation would take days, but the rewards seemed to be great indeed.


Outside, the sun finally peeked through the heavy fog, chasing away darkness and the unsettling atmosphere of night in one fell swoop. It was time to start the day, and, should the young woman wish it, prepare to gather some essences from the ritual, starting with fresh dew only found in the early morning such as this one. 
15th September 1882, London


Rooftops


The heavy fog bellow was like a greyish blanket from this highest point of the familiar townhouses surrounding the marketplace. The sun was steadily ascending the heavens, and the slight chill of approaching winter made goosebumps appear on any foolish or desperate enough to be out at this hour. Such was the first peril of a chimney sweep, the small children and lanky lads the only ones daring clean the narrow and treacherous tunnels of ashes and bricks to earn a few pennies. This was a rough life, and thus a certain young man was not surprised to find a corpse on a rooftop that day.


The frozen and gaunt poor fellow had in his grasp a strange book bound in dark leather, the title on the front made in silver and in a strange language, his last grip on it becoming frail from rigor mortis and frost. No one was around at this hour, and the book was strangely mesmerizing, as if calling for a new owner... as if calling for Connor O'Doul...

 

[Stickdom]

Connor picked his way over the ceramic roof tiles with light-footed ease. He had practically grown up on the ceiling of London, and could make his way from Trafalgar Square to King's Cross without stepping a foot to the earth below. Some, however, we're not so lucky, like the poor sap that he had just found.


"What's this then, dead, up here? Unlucky blighter, idn't he? I reckon I'd better tell the blue bobbies so they can 'vestigate where he came from. What's that he's got?"


Connor eyed the book cautiously, it was unlike anything he had ever seen. "Perhaps I could sell it," he thought to himself. Still, an almost invisible whisper seemed to draw him to it, to bring his hands up on their own and pry it from the dead man's grip. It was into his jacket lapel and he was halfway across the town before he had thought twice about it. But now, he did not own it. It owned him, and he knew that it was more than just mere coincidence.

 

[Fowlishness]

Once far enough from the corpse, a strange curiosity took hold of the young chimney sweep, and soon enough he found himself sitting against a distant ledge on a dilapidated roof and untying the clasps keeping the heavy tome closed. Inside were slightly bloodstained pages made of yellowed and ancient-looking parchment, the thick and sturdy sheets all blank safe for the first page, where an ashy gray ink formed alluring and strangely familiar words, as if the young man had awaited this moment all his life. The upped half seemed like a letter to a child, and the lower half a lesson of strange glyphs a and elaborate instructions. The first and simpler half read as such:


Dear Successor,


I know I am now dead, for you have found my Grimoire and will soon become much more than you are presently. It does not matter if you are the Queen herself or a mere urchin, for from this moment forth unmatched greatness is at your fingertips. You will learn power and wit, develop knowledge and cunning and construct your own path in this world, for the modest price of a simple ritual and countless hours of research and labor. I am feeling my strand of fate, and it is thinning worriedly,and so I have prepared for my eventual defeat or, worse, simple and quiet disappearance.


I am a sorcerer of the Warrior Path, the most aggressive and rewarding of the Three Paths, and I left therein all that I knew from both my own experiences and the pieces of wisdom and strength from my predecessors. Do not fear the arcane, and do not fear darkness, for if you do, they will swallow you whole. The following is a basic ritual used to open your mind and soul to the Warrior Path, go carefully and without fear and power shall be withing your grasp.


I put my faith in you, young one, do not disappoint my spirit, for it will stay with you forevermore.


Ezekiel Marsh, Sorcerer of the Warrior Path.


The ritual would take quite a bit of effort and time, it seemed, and needed to be done at night. Blood of the hopeful new sorcerer, dirt from a grave, petals from a rose and even a live rat were amongst the ingredients. The ritual circle seemed basic but extremely precise, and would take also hours to make, should Connor start now, however, he may make it before dark, and thus be ready for that night.

 

[Lillybelle]

Ella closed the book and stared at the fire. What kind of book was this? She opened it again a reread the message. Could it be a hoax? She stood up, the book tight against her chest, there was only one way to find out. She bounded up to her room and grabbed a leather bag just big enough to store the book and a few jars she took to store the ingredients. She let out a sigh and glanced around her house before stepping out the door.


She must have been crazy to actually follow this weird ritual in a book she has fished out of the gutter, but the words of the message kind of spoke to her. It was only a short paragraph, but Ella felt as though she somehow knew this healer. She slipped out into the cool morning and crouched down near a path of grass and pulled out one of her jars. Carefully she collected a few drops of dew. "One down." She whispered to herself.

 

[Stickdom]

Connor had always been a little superstitious, it kind of went with the whole "shake hands with a sweep" deal. The book could have just been a joke in poor taste, or maybe it was... It couldn't be real, was the thought that shook through his head the most. Magic? Here in London, least of all. He tried to stop thinking about it, but there was a nagging thought at the back of his mind, What if...? As he walked along the street past the train station, the chapel... the graveyard... he couldn't help but pull a rose from the soil of the nearest headstone, roots and all. The thorns bit into his hand, pricking his entire palm with needles of vengeance at it's disturbance, but Connor just tucked it into his jacket, collecting a sample of the blood, along with some dirt from the roots, in his sooty handkerchief. Now, I just need to find a rat. 
Two hours and several failed rat traps later, Connor gave up in disgust, leaving the filthy underground sewers for the pristine air of the rooftops. He had one very large, but alas, very dead rat for his efforts, but he was not sure it was the same. "Let's just hope the book prefers quantity over quality. One dead rat is better than no live ones, right?" he reasoned to himself. He set about reading the diagrams for the circles, tracing the meticulous patterns on the stones of the rooftops with a small, sharp rock. After an hour of this, he sat back, compared it the picture in the book and then made an minor adjustment to a star where one of the points was too small. "That should about do the trick, I think. What's next?" He examined the book for the next step as the moonlight slowly came over the rooftops and played about on the chimney stacks of London.

 

[Fowlishness]

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