Domina of Obsession
ATTRIBUTE LEVEL
Aspect 0: Of mortal Form
Domain 1: Baron
Realm 0: Citizen
Spirit 5: Inferno
Gifts and Virtues:
Devoted Populace
Durant
Glorious
Immutable
Limits and Restrictions:
Cigarette Bond
Doomed
The Darkest Ring (Focus, 6 points invested: Domain 1 and Devoted Populace)
Wound Levels:
1 Deadly
1 Serious
2 Surface
Bonds
STRENGTH SUBJECT
6 Not getting obsessed with Obsession
4 Getting out of being a Noble
2 The sanctity of his Estate
2 His Familia
2 The Darkest Ring
2 His ‘cat,’ Jezzabel
1 His apartment
1 The well-being of his Anchors – this is only a general concern, as he is not overly fussed about any one of them … yet
Virtue:
Passionate – when Areth commits to a course of action or a cause, he does not do so lightly and throws his entire existence behind it. If he truly believes, there is no force in Creation that can turn Areth aside.
Affiliation
Hell
Design
The Flower of Obsession is a closed bud of alternating yellow and purple petals atop a snaking stem, at the base of which grow three sharp-looking leaves. The Design is often framed by a poison green circle, lightly spattered with translucent darkness.
The Sage – obsessed collector of everything from coins to books to swords, all of which he has crammed into his maze like house-come-shop. Jacob has corrupted his obsession with all things obscure so that he will go to extreme lengths to further his collection – currently no more extreme than burglary, but it can only be a matter of time before he hurts someone. Jacob met the Sage when searching for a book on Noble society and was treated with disdain and arrogance. Jacob returned the favour by corrupting his obsession and Anchoring him.
Dan Anderson – high flying football star and subject of a thousand and one gossip columns. A nation is enthralled, but where once they admired him for his sporting talents and pin-up image, now they clamour after every scrap of malicious gossip and untrue rumour like wolves after the kill. Jacob once met Dan at a PR gig and immediately took a great dislike to him. He has yet to find a real use for Dan, but delights in waking him up in the middle of the night or coercing him into compromising positions for the entertainment of the media.
Elissa Von Baum – model turned actress at the peak of her career. No real talent to speak of, but a wealth of other assets. Stalking her is practically a pastime, and a photo of her either with a new beau, or with very little on frequently appears in the press somewhere each week. Current gossip places her and fellow anchor Dan as an item and the paparazzi are bursting blood vessels trying to get a snap of them together. Jacob despises shallow people – perhaps because he recognises that he used to be shallow himself – and none epitomise this than the arch-celebrity, Elissa. To his credit, Jacob did have dinner with her just to make sure she was unbearable. He lasted until the starter was delivered before Anchoring her.
Snake Winters – a bounty hunter/PI with a very romanticised notion of his vocation. Snake stalks the earth, hunting down the scum one by one, all the while delivering a monologue of his actions out loud. Snake considers himself both judge and jury, and is wanted in at least 9 countries worldwide for executing criminals. His true objective is to hunt down and slay the man responsible for murdering his wife, the elusive criminal mastermind the White Fox. Jacob inherited Snake from his predecessor, and suspects that White Fox was actually her in disguise.
Eric Jones – crazed stalker of assorted celebrities. Eric’s dank flat is a shrine to a plethora of celebrities, every wall and surface covered with photos cut from magazines and newspapers. He has begun to replace these pictures with those taken by himself whilst hidden in bushes outside houses. Pride of place amongst his collection is his picture of Jacob Hart, who has begun to dominate his obsessions. It was whilst taking this that Jacob happened upon him hiding by the roadside as he visited Earth. Jacob Anchored him then and there, mainly to keep an eye on him. Being Anchored has not helped his frail sanity at all, and his obsession with the Domina grows and grows.
Edward Mannham – cult leader of the Sword’s of God. The Sword’s of God are a collection of oddballs with no real direction in life, forged into fanatical followers by Edward for his own cynical ends. Edward began as a cult leader to get rich, but swiftly became addicted to the power he gained. The cult has taken a rather more radical turn since Jacob Anchored its leader – Jacob was disgusted at Edward’s misuse of the obsession of his followers – for Edward now believes the spiel he was giving his followers. He has restyled himself as the Sword of God (believing Jacob to be the voice of God) and is busying himself with spreading the word and acquiring a large army.
Dan Anderson – high flying football star and subject of a thousand and one gossip columns. A nation is enthralled, but where once they admired him for his sporting talents and pin-up image, now they clamour after every scrap of malicious gossip and untrue rumour like wolves after the kill. Jacob once met Dan at a PR gig and immediately took a great dislike to him. He has yet to find a real use for Dan, but delights in waking him up in the middle of the night or coercing him into compromising positions for the entertainment of the media.
Elissa Von Baum – model turned actress at the peak of her career. No real talent to speak of, but a wealth of other assets. Stalking her is practically a pastime, and a photo of her either with a new beau, or with very little on frequently appears in the press somewhere each week. Current gossip places her and fellow anchor Dan as an item and the paparazzi are bursting blood vessels trying to get a snap of them together. Jacob despises shallow people – perhaps because he recognises that he used to be shallow himself – and none epitomise this than the arch-celebrity, Elissa. To his credit, Jacob did have dinner with her just to make sure she was unbearable. He lasted until the starter was delivered before Anchoring her.
Snake Winters – a bounty hunter/PI with a very romanticised notion of his vocation. Snake stalks the earth, hunting down the scum one by one, all the while delivering a monologue of his actions out loud. Snake considers himself both judge and jury, and is wanted in at least 9 countries worldwide for executing criminals. His true objective is to hunt down and slay the man responsible for murdering his wife, the elusive criminal mastermind the White Fox. Jacob inherited Snake from his predecessor, and suspects that White Fox was actually her in disguise.
Eric Jones – crazed stalker of assorted celebrities. Eric’s dank flat is a shrine to a plethora of celebrities, every wall and surface covered with photos cut from magazines and newspapers. He has begun to replace these pictures with those taken by himself whilst hidden in bushes outside houses. Pride of place amongst his collection is his picture of Jacob Hart, who has begun to dominate his obsessions. It was whilst taking this that Jacob happened upon him hiding by the roadside as he visited Earth. Jacob Anchored him then and there, mainly to keep an eye on him. Being Anchored has not helped his frail sanity at all, and his obsession with the Domina grows and grows.
Edward Mannham – cult leader of the Sword’s of God. The Sword’s of God are a collection of oddballs with no real direction in life, forged into fanatical followers by Edward for his own cynical ends. Edward began as a cult leader to get rich, but swiftly became addicted to the power he gained. The cult has taken a rather more radical turn since Jacob Anchored its leader – Jacob was disgusted at Edward’s misuse of the obsession of his followers – for Edward now believes the spiel he was giving his followers. He has restyled himself as the Sword of God (believing Jacob to be the voice of God) and is busying himself with spreading the word and acquiring a large army.
Background
It began innocently enough, if you can call an affair with a Noble innocent. I met the Lady Jasmine – my predecessor – at a public relations event in London, where my company was launching the autobiography of some pop sensation or another a little over a year ago. It transpired that he was an Anchor of hers – something I never truly understood until just recently – and the soiree was really being put on for the benefit of her Estate.
I was drawn to her, which is odd given that she was not at all my type (shorter than me and blonde) – an imposing amazon of a woman only an inch or so shorter than me - although, naturally, she always seemed much taller - with short, dark hair and eyes that seemed to always catch the light, even in the dark (mine do that now too). So, a torrid affair ensued. I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that it started off normally, and then got weird. I’m not normally the obsessive type, but with Jasmine I just had to know where she was, why she hadn’t called me and so on. As it turned out, she was way more obsessed than I ever was.
We were going along swimmingly, and suddenly she vanished. I saw nothing of her for almost a month. I was beating myself up over it. Calling round to her house and leaving endless messages on her phone. I decided after the third week that I was being too clingy and had probably scared her off. Of course the truth was very different – she was trying desparately to set me aside, painfully aware that her doom was nigh. Over that final, fateful fourth week I started to get over her at last.
Then she showed up at my flat, looking bedraggled – her mascara had run from all the tears she had been crying, and her wrists looked bruised as though she had been restrained by someone – or something. My heart sunk and soared at the same time – part of me was getting over her, putting her behind me, but part of me still loved her. We talked for what seemed like an age, although she seemed a little distant the whole time, a little distracted.
Then she offered to cook dinner for us, and I obliged – Jasmine was a mean chef, that was for sure, and from the smells that issued from the kitchen it seemed that that had not changed. When she served dinner, I noticed that it was only me that was eating. I cannot remember exactly what she served me, for the plate was dominated by what looked like a whole, cooked heart. As much as I like meat, I’m not one for organs, and my stomach churned. When I gazed up at Jasmine and saw the gaping hole in her chest I vomited and almost passed out. I scrambled to my feet to run, and then I made my mistake. I looked her in the eyes.
Never look a Noble in the eyes.
I was overcome with love and devotion towards her. I wanted nought else but to eat this dinner that she had lovingly prepared for me. I wanted nought else but to eat her heart, mouthful by mouthful. All the while she held my gaze, her eyes brimming with tears and a great sorrow. She loved me, or at least thought she did, and this was the climax to our relationship and to her existence. It was only afterwards, as she lay dead on my dining room floor, that I came to my senses and sobbed great tears of mourning and loss. My stomach churned again, but not with bile but with something greater – the power of a soul shard. I tried desperately to make myself vomit up my dead lover’s heart, but it was too late.
I passed out and remained unconscious for many days, all the while dreaming strange, lucid dreams of a faraway land of tombs and mausolea and terrible wailing ghosts. My dreams were dominated by the terrible beauty of the Fallen Angel Balthiel, and he painfully explained everything to me.
When I finally awoke from my quiescence I found myself guarded by police in a hospital room. Naturally, they had some questions to ask. I told them the truth, and somehow they believed me. Even then my Noble powers were manifesting. I staggered from the hospital but could not return home. Instead I clambered into my car. It came as something of a shock when it – no, he – spoke to me. I screamed and passed out, and when I awoke I was parked outside the great temple in the Chancel.
I never asked for this. I don’t want this. I would give anything to give it up. Well, perhaps not quite anything. I try to resist, but I know deep down it is fruitless. I also know, deep down, that I have already seen my fate, my doom. But I will not walk down the same road as my predecessors. I will not succumb to the siren calls of my Estate. Obsession will not claim this heart!
Personality
Jacob could never claim to be a nice man. In mortal life he was obsessed with money and fame and the cult of celebrity, and to an extent he remains fascinated with them now he is a Noble, yet he is no longer obsessed. He was – and still is – care free with the emotions of others, loving and leaving the countless women in his life. His tryst with Jasmine has left him deeply scarred, and if anything he is more likely to play easily with the emotions of another because he is scared of getting hurt himself again. Commitment scares Jacob, but not as much as death and doom and the life of a Noble. Outwardly he projects an image of self-assuredness and control, but inside he is awash with self-doubt and panic. He knows that he cannot command his Estate as others do – nor would he want to – and that his enoblement has barely touched his physical self, but is fearful of showing weakness in front of the others in his Familia.
Jacob is desperate to avoid the doom that befalls his Estate, but in trying to avoid becoming obsessed with anything, the act of avoidance is becoming something of an obsession. Little have begun to creep into Jacob’s life, one by one over the 6 months since his enoblement, and it scares Jacob to his very core.
Appearance
Jacob was a few months shy of his thirtieth birthday when Jasmine … he was enobled … and retains his youthful appearance. His dark hair is cut short and he is usually clean shaven. He dresses as he did in life – smartly dressed in a suit when on Noble business, or casually clad in jogging bottoms and T-shirts when lounging about his pad. Jacob used to be concerned with his appearance - obsessed almost - and since his enoblement he has kept a certain sense of vanity. Keeping fit and healthy seems to require less work nowadays.
It began innocently enough, if you can call an affair with a Noble innocent. I met the Lady Jasmine – my predecessor – at a public relations event in London, where my company was launching the autobiography of some pop sensation or another a little over a year ago. It transpired that he was an Anchor of hers – something I never truly understood until just recently – and the soiree was really being put on for the benefit of her Estate.
I was drawn to her, which is odd given that she was not at all my type (shorter than me and blonde) – an imposing amazon of a woman only an inch or so shorter than me - although, naturally, she always seemed much taller - with short, dark hair and eyes that seemed to always catch the light, even in the dark (mine do that now too). So, a torrid affair ensued. I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that it started off normally, and then got weird. I’m not normally the obsessive type, but with Jasmine I just had to know where she was, why she hadn’t called me and so on. As it turned out, she was way more obsessed than I ever was.
We were going along swimmingly, and suddenly she vanished. I saw nothing of her for almost a month. I was beating myself up over it. Calling round to her house and leaving endless messages on her phone. I decided after the third week that I was being too clingy and had probably scared her off. Of course the truth was very different – she was trying desparately to set me aside, painfully aware that her doom was nigh. Over that final, fateful fourth week I started to get over her at last.
Then she showed up at my flat, looking bedraggled – her mascara had run from all the tears she had been crying, and her wrists looked bruised as though she had been restrained by someone – or something. My heart sunk and soared at the same time – part of me was getting over her, putting her behind me, but part of me still loved her. We talked for what seemed like an age, although she seemed a little distant the whole time, a little distracted.
Then she offered to cook dinner for us, and I obliged – Jasmine was a mean chef, that was for sure, and from the smells that issued from the kitchen it seemed that that had not changed. When she served dinner, I noticed that it was only me that was eating. I cannot remember exactly what she served me, for the plate was dominated by what looked like a whole, cooked heart. As much as I like meat, I’m not one for organs, and my stomach churned. When I gazed up at Jasmine and saw the gaping hole in her chest I vomited and almost passed out. I scrambled to my feet to run, and then I made my mistake. I looked her in the eyes.
Never look a Noble in the eyes.
I was overcome with love and devotion towards her. I wanted nought else but to eat this dinner that she had lovingly prepared for me. I wanted nought else but to eat her heart, mouthful by mouthful. All the while she held my gaze, her eyes brimming with tears and a great sorrow. She loved me, or at least thought she did, and this was the climax to our relationship and to her existence. It was only afterwards, as she lay dead on my dining room floor, that I came to my senses and sobbed great tears of mourning and loss. My stomach churned again, but not with bile but with something greater – the power of a soul shard. I tried desperately to make myself vomit up my dead lover’s heart, but it was too late.
I passed out and remained unconscious for many days, all the while dreaming strange, lucid dreams of a faraway land of tombs and mausolea and terrible wailing ghosts. My dreams were dominated by the terrible beauty of the Fallen Angel Balthiel, and he painfully explained everything to me.
When I finally awoke from my quiescence I found myself guarded by police in a hospital room. Naturally, they had some questions to ask. I told them the truth, and somehow they believed me. Even then my Noble powers were manifesting. I staggered from the hospital but could not return home. Instead I clambered into my car. It came as something of a shock when it – no, he – spoke to me. I screamed and passed out, and when I awoke I was parked outside the great temple in the Chancel.
I never asked for this. I don’t want this. I would give anything to give it up. Well, perhaps not quite anything. I try to resist, but I know deep down it is fruitless. I also know, deep down, that I have already seen my fate, my doom. But I will not walk down the same road as my predecessors. I will not succumb to the siren calls of my Estate. Obsession will not claim this heart!
Personality
Jacob could never claim to be a nice man. In mortal life he was obsessed with money and fame and the cult of celebrity, and to an extent he remains fascinated with them now he is a Noble, yet he is no longer obsessed. He was – and still is – care free with the emotions of others, loving and leaving the countless women in his life. His tryst with Jasmine has left him deeply scarred, and if anything he is more likely to play easily with the emotions of another because he is scared of getting hurt himself again. Commitment scares Jacob, but not as much as death and doom and the life of a Noble. Outwardly he projects an image of self-assuredness and control, but inside he is awash with self-doubt and panic. He knows that he cannot command his Estate as others do – nor would he want to – and that his enoblement has barely touched his physical self, but is fearful of showing weakness in front of the others in his Familia.
Jacob is desperate to avoid the doom that befalls his Estate, but in trying to avoid becoming obsessed with anything, the act of avoidance is becoming something of an obsession. Little have begun to creep into Jacob’s life, one by one over the 6 months since his enoblement, and it scares Jacob to his very core.
Appearance
Jacob was a few months shy of his thirtieth birthday when Jasmine … he was enobled … and retains his youthful appearance. His dark hair is cut short and he is usually clean shaven. He dresses as he did in life – smartly dressed in a suit when on Noble business, or casually clad in jogging bottoms and T-shirts when lounging about his pad. Jacob used to be concerned with his appearance - obsessed almost - and since his enoblement he has kept a certain sense of vanity. Keeping fit and healthy seems to require less work nowadays.
Jacob gently squeezed the accelerator and Melanchamp – Jacob’s black lamborghini sports car - purred in appreciation, his speedometer edging towards the 200 mph mark as the pair raced along one of the Chancel roads towards the gate to London. A pair of horsemen – no doubt Brutus’ outriders – scattered out of the way and waved and shouted after Jacob – no doubt freakishly adoring praise. If he had been on Earth the cops would have pulled him over, but here the watch had no chance. Sometimes being a Noble was fun, Jacob thought to himself with a smile.
Cut to a graveyard at night, somewhere in London.
Jacob tapped the brakes and Melanchamp happily obliged, slowing to almost a halt as the sportscar squeezed rather mind bogglingly out of the man sized doorway of a mausoleum. A drunken tramp half passed out on a nearby bench sat up in disbelief and, staring at his can of strongbow in disgust vowed to go tee-total from tomorrow.
The pair slipped out of the graveyard and onto the main road. Jacob had no idea where he was – his sense of direction was never that great, and this ability to see both prosaic and mythic, with all that entailed, had dealt it a death blow. Not that he needed to know his way about – Melanchamp seemed to be at home everywhere there was a road.
Cut to a swish looking appartment overlooking central London
Jacob groaned as he rolled over and looked at the time. Time to get up, even though it was barely dawn. He slid out of bed and scrabbled about to find his clothes, carefully retrieving them from the floor. He looked down at the naked figure lying on the other side of the bed. She didn’t stir. Now what was her name? Erica, Jacob decided, was a fine name for her. It hardly mattered if it was the right one, he wouldn’t see her again. Unless she turned up outside his window one night, like some of the other girls. He considered killing her, but then her spirit might show up, all vengeful and hatred-y. And that’s when it’d get messy. Not to mention the fact that murder wasn’t really his bag. No, he’d have to take the risk that she’d be contented with the best night of her life and live with the memories.
Jacob pulled on his clothes and exited as quickly as possible. He had a removal to undertake.
Cut to a less swish shopfront hidden down an alley, somewhere in London.
Jacob paused to peer through the window at the piles of junk dotted about. Geez, he thought, he’d hate to be here if the place ever got burgled – how would anyone know? A silly question, of course. The Sage would know. He always knew. Jacob stepped up to the door and pushed it open, ignoring the closed sign, and the fact it was locked (Aspect Miracle Level 0 – peak performance to burst the lock). A crossbow, mounted above the door, triggered as the door opened but the bolt shattered into a hundred shards of metal as it struck Jacob’s holy shield.
“Sage! I need to speak with you!”
“Go away, thieving, burgling evil doer!” Came the grumbling reply. Aah, good, he knew it was me.
“I have something for you, something that will blow your mind – and make all your petty collection pale into insignifcance.”
“…”
“I mean it, really I do. You just have to do one thing.”
“What?” He looked suspicious, but I could see – could feel – the spark of obsession growing within him.
“Come with me.” I turned to leave and he followed, and I took him to the greatest collection of all. Locus Balthiel.
Cut to a graveyard at night, somewhere in London.
Jacob tapped the brakes and Melanchamp happily obliged, slowing to almost a halt as the sportscar squeezed rather mind bogglingly out of the man sized doorway of a mausoleum. A drunken tramp half passed out on a nearby bench sat up in disbelief and, staring at his can of strongbow in disgust vowed to go tee-total from tomorrow.
The pair slipped out of the graveyard and onto the main road. Jacob had no idea where he was – his sense of direction was never that great, and this ability to see both prosaic and mythic, with all that entailed, had dealt it a death blow. Not that he needed to know his way about – Melanchamp seemed to be at home everywhere there was a road.
Cut to a swish looking appartment overlooking central London
Jacob groaned as he rolled over and looked at the time. Time to get up, even though it was barely dawn. He slid out of bed and scrabbled about to find his clothes, carefully retrieving them from the floor. He looked down at the naked figure lying on the other side of the bed. She didn’t stir. Now what was her name? Erica, Jacob decided, was a fine name for her. It hardly mattered if it was the right one, he wouldn’t see her again. Unless she turned up outside his window one night, like some of the other girls. He considered killing her, but then her spirit might show up, all vengeful and hatred-y. And that’s when it’d get messy. Not to mention the fact that murder wasn’t really his bag. No, he’d have to take the risk that she’d be contented with the best night of her life and live with the memories.
Jacob pulled on his clothes and exited as quickly as possible. He had a removal to undertake.
Cut to a less swish shopfront hidden down an alley, somewhere in London.
Jacob paused to peer through the window at the piles of junk dotted about. Geez, he thought, he’d hate to be here if the place ever got burgled – how would anyone know? A silly question, of course. The Sage would know. He always knew. Jacob stepped up to the door and pushed it open, ignoring the closed sign, and the fact it was locked (Aspect Miracle Level 0 – peak performance to burst the lock). A crossbow, mounted above the door, triggered as the door opened but the bolt shattered into a hundred shards of metal as it struck Jacob’s holy shield.
“Sage! I need to speak with you!”
“Go away, thieving, burgling evil doer!” Came the grumbling reply. Aah, good, he knew it was me.
“I have something for you, something that will blow your mind – and make all your petty collection pale into insignifcance.”
“…”
“I mean it, really I do. You just have to do one thing.”
“What?” He looked suspicious, but I could see – could feel – the spark of obsession growing within him.
“Come with me.” I turned to leave and he followed, and I took him to the greatest collection of all. Locus Balthiel.
Jacob returned to his flat, fully expecting chaos - he was not to be disappointed.
The Sage - who he had left in the flat guarded by his cat - had carefully piled all of his possessions in the centre of his living room, and was currently visible through the french windows on the patio, struggling with the barbeque. Jezzabel - the pseudo-cat - slept soundly atop the pile. Damned feline, Jacob thought, before raising his voice.
"Sage! We have got to find you your own place. Follow me."
The Sage, well aware of what disobeying his master meant, scurried to his side. The two strode back out the front door and down the hillside. Jacob glanced about the whole time, as if searching for something.
"There will be perfect." He proclaimed, stepping off the road and winding his way between two funerary statues. A crumbling mausoleum sat beyond, and the Sage looked at him quizzically.
"Here" Jacob gestured "will be your new home. And shop." The Sage raised his eyebrows. "You'll like it. It comes from 3rd Century Gaul. And those statues - Jerusalem, 12th Century." The Sage's frown was replaced with a grin. "See, told you. Plus, it gives me the chance to try something out."
Jacob closed his eyes and extended his mind, his Noble conciousness brushing against that of his Anchor. He pushed, using his Anchor as a lens for his miraculous power, and a two storey building was suddenly there, incorporating the Mausolea as its ground floor and the statues as a porch. The structure resembled a shop front, albeit one built by someone with gothic and morbid tastes in architecture. (Lesser Creation of Realm, Deep Miracle, spending 2 RMPs and 2 SMPs by using the Sage to work the miracle through).
"I'll be back later on - I've made you some basic furniture, but I expect you will have acquired much more by the time I return. Think of it as a blank slate, something of a challenge with which you can busy yourself."
The Sage's eyes glazed over in excitement. From somewhere he had already procured a broken vase - Ming dynasty by the looks of it. He would get along just fine, Jacob thought as he wound his way back to his house. Just so long as he kept out of Jacob's house.
The Sage - who he had left in the flat guarded by his cat - had carefully piled all of his possessions in the centre of his living room, and was currently visible through the french windows on the patio, struggling with the barbeque. Jezzabel - the pseudo-cat - slept soundly atop the pile. Damned feline, Jacob thought, before raising his voice.
"Sage! We have got to find you your own place. Follow me."
The Sage, well aware of what disobeying his master meant, scurried to his side. The two strode back out the front door and down the hillside. Jacob glanced about the whole time, as if searching for something.
"There will be perfect." He proclaimed, stepping off the road and winding his way between two funerary statues. A crumbling mausoleum sat beyond, and the Sage looked at him quizzically.
"Here" Jacob gestured "will be your new home. And shop." The Sage raised his eyebrows. "You'll like it. It comes from 3rd Century Gaul. And those statues - Jerusalem, 12th Century." The Sage's frown was replaced with a grin. "See, told you. Plus, it gives me the chance to try something out."
Jacob closed his eyes and extended his mind, his Noble conciousness brushing against that of his Anchor. He pushed, using his Anchor as a lens for his miraculous power, and a two storey building was suddenly there, incorporating the Mausolea as its ground floor and the statues as a porch. The structure resembled a shop front, albeit one built by someone with gothic and morbid tastes in architecture. (Lesser Creation of Realm, Deep Miracle, spending 2 RMPs and 2 SMPs by using the Sage to work the miracle through).
"I'll be back later on - I've made you some basic furniture, but I expect you will have acquired much more by the time I return. Think of it as a blank slate, something of a challenge with which you can busy yourself."
The Sage's eyes glazed over in excitement. From somewhere he had already procured a broken vase - Ming dynasty by the looks of it. He would get along just fine, Jacob thought as he wound his way back to his house. Just so long as he kept out of Jacob's house.
The mind is like an orchestra, each of its thoughts the individual instruments. Together they work in harmony, to create a pleasing sound. Many parts of the orchestra are the same instrument, and these represent thoughts that echo the strongest within the mind - interests, loves and passions.
A mind obsessed is like an orchestra made up of one instrument - all the thoughts are turned to one thing. Whilst in theory, this may seem appealing (if you like the sound of that instrument), in practice it sounds like a cacophony. And that is how Obsession works, and how loves and passions and hobbies are corrupted. The harmonious sound of the mind is twisted into a screeching, mewling, monotone noise.
A mind obsessed is like an orchestra made up of one instrument - all the thoughts are turned to one thing. Whilst in theory, this may seem appealing (if you like the sound of that instrument), in practice it sounds like a cacophony. And that is how Obsession works, and how loves and passions and hobbies are corrupted. The harmonious sound of the mind is twisted into a screeching, mewling, monotone noise.
Jacob's Witch Hunt rite
There are traces of miracles everywhere, especially on the anchor, who's filling with some strange energy. The magazine of the gun has an aura suggesting a powerful miracle akin to one of Realm surrounding it. The road and the air above the walls and in the gate has the taint of some potent gift of destruction.
The originator of the miracles is more heavily clouded. An image swims into your mind - a series of wave forms, overlapping each other, white on a black background. A mask, quartered black and white. And, lastly, three phrases - 'Be strong in adversity, wise in decision. In action, be elegance itself.'
The Memories of Justin Wallace
The memories are garbled, partial at best. Entire swathes of this man's life have been wiped from his mind by the pain of renunciation. Vignettes from his early childhood spring up.
Abandoned as a child barely three years old, mistreated and ignored by the adults at the care home. Fell into bad company as a young teenager ...
Then more static, until recent times.
Leader of a criminal gang, thugs for hire. Tried to forget many things, but can't. A man's face, beaten until the fragments of bone floated freely in his flesh. The sound of an animal screaming, trapped in warehouse burning down to fulfil some businessman's plans of fraud. And then...
It was Halloween, rich pickings available from the richer drunks making their way home from sundry parties, the gang spread out among the shortcut alleyways. One was striding along the street as if he owned it, his face concealed by a quartered mask of black and white, wearing a black robe decorated on the front with a series of waveforms. Stepping out in front of him, blocking his path. Striking at him, feeling the blow pass straight through his robe, meeting only the resistance of hanging cloth. The masked man paused momentarily, then the design on his robe seemed to shift, and his dark eyes blazed with light...
Static.
More static.
Gradually resolving itself into pitch blackness, speckled with gently falling stars.
Only saw him in person once after that, when he took off his mask and revealed a face of porcelain beauty. Felt an all-too-momentary, elegant touch from his white fingers, solid and real this time, far more real than anything else. He told of many things, but of the Ride after Creation most of all - of an apotheosis. Didn't know what that word meant, but it was beautiful anyway, too beautiful. He left behind ten guns of unusual design, their ammo hoppers seemingly empty.
The gang whispered dissent, losing it, going mental. Three of them attacked with knives, wanting a new leader. A silent prayer, not even whispered, only thought ... but suddenly he was there, taking over the reins of will and mind.
Static.
And then, it was minutes later, and the three men were pinioned to the wall by their own knives, through their throats, like three artistically posed statues. Not a single drop of their blood had been spilt. No-one questioned him after that.
He talked in his mind. He said he'd take control again, take two of the gang's best men, deal with some ... minor inconveniences. They got to a cemetery, and then he took over.
Static.
And then, the pure, blinding, agonising white light of being turned away by beauty. And then nothing.
There are traces of miracles everywhere, especially on the anchor, who's filling with some strange energy. The magazine of the gun has an aura suggesting a powerful miracle akin to one of Realm surrounding it. The road and the air above the walls and in the gate has the taint of some potent gift of destruction.
The originator of the miracles is more heavily clouded. An image swims into your mind - a series of wave forms, overlapping each other, white on a black background. A mask, quartered black and white. And, lastly, three phrases - 'Be strong in adversity, wise in decision. In action, be elegance itself.'
The Memories of Justin Wallace
The memories are garbled, partial at best. Entire swathes of this man's life have been wiped from his mind by the pain of renunciation. Vignettes from his early childhood spring up.
Abandoned as a child barely three years old, mistreated and ignored by the adults at the care home. Fell into bad company as a young teenager ...
Then more static, until recent times.
Leader of a criminal gang, thugs for hire. Tried to forget many things, but can't. A man's face, beaten until the fragments of bone floated freely in his flesh. The sound of an animal screaming, trapped in warehouse burning down to fulfil some businessman's plans of fraud. And then...
It was Halloween, rich pickings available from the richer drunks making their way home from sundry parties, the gang spread out among the shortcut alleyways. One was striding along the street as if he owned it, his face concealed by a quartered mask of black and white, wearing a black robe decorated on the front with a series of waveforms. Stepping out in front of him, blocking his path. Striking at him, feeling the blow pass straight through his robe, meeting only the resistance of hanging cloth. The masked man paused momentarily, then the design on his robe seemed to shift, and his dark eyes blazed with light...
Static.
More static.
Gradually resolving itself into pitch blackness, speckled with gently falling stars.
Only saw him in person once after that, when he took off his mask and revealed a face of porcelain beauty. Felt an all-too-momentary, elegant touch from his white fingers, solid and real this time, far more real than anything else. He told of many things, but of the Ride after Creation most of all - of an apotheosis. Didn't know what that word meant, but it was beautiful anyway, too beautiful. He left behind ten guns of unusual design, their ammo hoppers seemingly empty.
The gang whispered dissent, losing it, going mental. Three of them attacked with knives, wanting a new leader. A silent prayer, not even whispered, only thought ... but suddenly he was there, taking over the reins of will and mind.
Static.
And then, it was minutes later, and the three men were pinioned to the wall by their own knives, through their throats, like three artistically posed statues. Not a single drop of their blood had been spilt. No-one questioned him after that.
He talked in his mind. He said he'd take control again, take two of the gang's best men, deal with some ... minor inconveniences. They got to a cemetery, and then he took over.
Static.
And then, the pure, blinding, agonising white light of being turned away by beauty. And then nothing.
The Nettle Rite
The gestures are so simple. Some Nobles have used this rite so often that their hands flex instinctively at the mere sight of a patch of weeds. All it takes to enact is a crushing and scattering of nettles, and a few words. But the effects of channelling such devastating forces are never straightforward, especially when this is your first nettling.
Reality bends, and you can see beyond the veil of prosaic and mythic. You are forming a spiritual channel beyond Earth, beyond the World Ash, beyond even the blue fire of the Weirding Wall and the aegis of the Bright and Shadowed Realms, out into the Lands Beyond Creation.
The place is dark, though your divine essence tells you that this is not an absolute emptiness. Rather, it is the presence of beings so utterly alien to your reality that they do not truly exist at all from your viewpoint. A shoal of creatures slightly closer to your comprehension swims past - to your confused senses, they look sibilant, sound salty, and smell green.
A distant, pulsing light appears in the distance, like that of a certain kind of star. Suddenly, without any kind of warning, it engulfs you, and you are surrounded by a starscape, each star pulsing with the same rhythm. In each star's heart, an image forms - in one, a tetrahedral crystal, in another, a multifacted, glittering gem. In a third, you can see an image of a series of waves, stacked upon each other like mountains, white lines against blackness. At last, you find your target - a image of a porcelain doll, leading a tide of white horses against a tree. You dive into this star's heart.
Frightening power engulfs you, threatening to overwhelm you altogether. You are buffeted this way and that by the pulsing heartbeat of the star. But gradually, painfully slowly, the roaring, hellishly sun-hot inferno of spirit and soul in your heart begins to win out against the tide. Silver starlight transmutes to golden yellow fire, and is passed back along the conduit, to your brethren.
Suddenly, the silver light turns to grey, and its pulsing grows erratic. A few moments later, and it explodes, sending a final, harder fillip of energy down the conduit, to the spirit of Revenge. The starscape seems to roar around you, as if wounded, and retreats from you.
As it moves away, you see the stars form themselves into an image ... a humanoid creature in black robes, with dark eyes, and a quartered mask, far more ornate than that worn by the Shard. One hand is gauntleted, but you can see the other is pale, beautiful flesh, with strange, white fingernails of a glossy porcelain-like material. At the back of its head, where the mask doesn't cover, a strangely beautiful mass of hair, apparently made of silk and weeds plaited together, hangs to its waist.
Suddenly, it vanishes into the distance, becoming a single point of light again, which pulses briefly, and then winks out. The connection is severed, and you are again alone in your chambers - exhausted, and yet feeling more full of power than ever before.
The gestures are so simple. Some Nobles have used this rite so often that their hands flex instinctively at the mere sight of a patch of weeds. All it takes to enact is a crushing and scattering of nettles, and a few words. But the effects of channelling such devastating forces are never straightforward, especially when this is your first nettling.
Reality bends, and you can see beyond the veil of prosaic and mythic. You are forming a spiritual channel beyond Earth, beyond the World Ash, beyond even the blue fire of the Weirding Wall and the aegis of the Bright and Shadowed Realms, out into the Lands Beyond Creation.
The place is dark, though your divine essence tells you that this is not an absolute emptiness. Rather, it is the presence of beings so utterly alien to your reality that they do not truly exist at all from your viewpoint. A shoal of creatures slightly closer to your comprehension swims past - to your confused senses, they look sibilant, sound salty, and smell green.
A distant, pulsing light appears in the distance, like that of a certain kind of star. Suddenly, without any kind of warning, it engulfs you, and you are surrounded by a starscape, each star pulsing with the same rhythm. In each star's heart, an image forms - in one, a tetrahedral crystal, in another, a multifacted, glittering gem. In a third, you can see an image of a series of waves, stacked upon each other like mountains, white lines against blackness. At last, you find your target - a image of a porcelain doll, leading a tide of white horses against a tree. You dive into this star's heart.
Frightening power engulfs you, threatening to overwhelm you altogether. You are buffeted this way and that by the pulsing heartbeat of the star. But gradually, painfully slowly, the roaring, hellishly sun-hot inferno of spirit and soul in your heart begins to win out against the tide. Silver starlight transmutes to golden yellow fire, and is passed back along the conduit, to your brethren.
Suddenly, the silver light turns to grey, and its pulsing grows erratic. A few moments later, and it explodes, sending a final, harder fillip of energy down the conduit, to the spirit of Revenge. The starscape seems to roar around you, as if wounded, and retreats from you.
As it moves away, you see the stars form themselves into an image ... a humanoid creature in black robes, with dark eyes, and a quartered mask, far more ornate than that worn by the Shard. One hand is gauntleted, but you can see the other is pale, beautiful flesh, with strange, white fingernails of a glossy porcelain-like material. At the back of its head, where the mask doesn't cover, a strangely beautiful mass of hair, apparently made of silk and weeds plaited together, hangs to its waist.
Suddenly, it vanishes into the distance, becoming a single point of light again, which pulses briefly, and then winks out. The connection is severed, and you are again alone in your chambers - exhausted, and yet feeling more full of power than ever before.
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