Edge Town-City of Light

There's a sound of a bell from downstairs. Bruno turns, starting to go.

"That's for dinner! I'm going to go set the table—see you downstairs."

Tim waited until Bruno was safely out of earshot. "So, anyone have anything to add before we go down? Anything they wish to not possibly discuss outside of this room?"

"Also, Jarl. Whose dog did you steal?"

edited 1st Feb '17 1:21:48 AM by 3of4

Jarl

"I am shocked and appalled that you would accuse me of theft, Tim." He scratched Tjalfe behind the ears before the wolf paced over to sit in front of Tim, sizing him up.

"I helped his parents out of a bind and apparently he decided he wanted to stick with me. So I adopted him."

"As for topic discussions, I want to know what's up with his young charges. Who they are and what they are. They obviously are already clued in, but are they regular mortals? Talents too small for the Council he's keeping on the straight and narrow?"

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Anne

"Charles," he said, though in typical French fashion, he pronounced it "Sharles". He bowed his head. "Charles Chardonneau, at your service. And don't feel bad. I'm just making sure you get a positive impression of the city of Paris."

He looked around rapidly, gazing through the crowd before his eyes suddenly settled on something - or someone - in the distance. "I'm afraid we must part ways now. Enjoy your meal!"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Anne, Alex, Terrence

The Fleur Blanche lived up to its increasingly pretentious name by looking increasingly pretentious. It was set up in what had probably been some nobleman’s manor centuries earlier, with little wooden copies of Roman columns holding up the roof over the entrance. A pair of servers in pristine white shirts and black pants stood at the entrance, guiding people in with friendly smiles and sweating every so slightly when they thought nobody was looking.

Alex, at least, looked like he belonged here when he drove to the front door in the Chardonneau family’s sleek silver-white limousine. Once the servers had waved them in, recognizing Django even before he started yelling obscenities at them in French, they got a chance to have a better look at the interior.

Sticking with the theme, the walls were an utter, pristine white, almost to the point of glowing in the little rays of morning light that got through the restaurant’s stained-glass windows. There were bouquets of white orchids in a vase on every table, and all the waiters wore the same immaculately white shirts, styled vaguely like formal-wear from centuries ago, with little gold buttons and everything. Every time they passed one, it seemed like the waiters were silently judging Alex, and Terrence even more so. The patrons themselves were also immensely well-dressed, in tuxedos or other formalwear. This was the kind of restaurant where almost everyone looks a little better dressed. The menu, written proudly on almost every surface of the restaurant, had incomprehensibly Franco-Italian names, though from the smells of the open kitchen in the back, it sure seemed to be making mouths water.

“Now, find a place to sit. Order something, relax. I will send the Duchesse here as soon as I find her!” Django waved goodbye and scooted into the kitchen with uncanny speed for such a short, fat man.

At this point, Anne waved her card in the face of one of the waiters outside and was led right in through the door...

"Maybe. But I do get a slightly strange vibe off them." Tim said, slowly shaking his head and then looking at the wolf. "Well, he'll be a maturing presence in your life."

"We could presumably ask politely, or just assume Wizard Normandie knows what he's doing and leave it be. Not that I don't want to know, and if I was being paranoid, they might be Poisoner spys. ...and now I'm being paranoid."

Leon paused before looking down at his belt buckle. It probably also would be crass to show up to dinner wearing the magical equivalent of a claymore mine. Albeit a fair bit weaker then an actual mine. Good thing he brought a belt that didn't have a weapon for a buckle as well. So he dug that out quickly out of his duffle bag and switched them about.

Alexander walked in like he owned the place. The car ride had hardly helped his mood—Aiden was rightfully sullen, and Bethany was tired, cranky, and fidgety, but he wasn't going to let the cracks show.

No, White Court lived off of social games—and he was born to play them. Literally, in fact. To his credit, Aiden and Lilaine did the same. Even Bethany had quieted down when they went in, though her face was still red, and eyes slightly watery from earlier tantrums.

It was odd, though. He felt...out of place. Conversations in languages he didn't understand were buzzing nearby, and he didn't recognize half the dishes on the menu, despite having visiting a hundred-such restaurants. His business casual felt overdressed, while his siblings looked rumpled. He felt like he was being judged and found wanting.

The Duchesse already had him at her mercy. She could threaten to report him to the authorities. Threaten Terry or Bethany. Lilaine would overreact, and Aiden was still angry. It was a mistake to bring them along.

Hmm. That was fear.

Alexander forced a smile, flagging over a waiter. He saw Aiden looking at him for guidance, while Liliane also sensed the unease.

"I'll have the..." He pointed to something on the menu at random, refusing to even look at what he was ordering. "Oh, and an appetizer for my sister. She's hungry. And your best wine."

He shot Terry a glance, wondering if the werewolf could also tell what was amiss.

edited 1st Feb '17 8:19:16 PM by DrTentacles

"He was weird," David mumbled into his mother's side as Charles Chardonneau strolled off into the crowd, Annette giving his back a small wave as he left. She looked back at her son, bemused, but not daring to interrupt him. His voice was very quiet compared to the crowds. "But...okay. I guess."

Annette gently ruffled his hair. "You're w-weird, too, dear," she teased very, very gently. David pursed his lips defensively. "Don't think t-too much of it. At least we f-figured out what we're doing for dinner. Unless you w-wanted to eat here?"

David shook his head.

"Th-then let's ride a couple more rides and g-go change into something nice. It'll be your f-first time in a, heh, f-fancy French restaurant. It won't be as scary as the t-Tower of Terror at least!"

Or maybe I'm completely full of shit.

Annette swallowed her nerves before she dared approach the restaurant. This...was the place, right? Fleur Blanche. Yep. It was, indeed, "exquisite" as Charles has assured her, but it seemed that she and him had different definitions of what a young mother and her child would be going to eat. This place was ritzy. Fancy fancy. Her modestly cut sea-foam green "formal" dress felt like a cheap knock-off compared to what the other customers were wearing. Not that it was particularly expensive, but—wait, since when did she ever mind that sort of thing?

Just breathe, Annie. Nobody was going to care what you're wearing. You look nice, David looks nice, and you're gonna have a nice dinner in a pretty restaurant and then fly away from here and never, ever need to think about any of these people ever again. It'll be fine!

Stop having a panic attack in the goddamn doorway.

David kept his hand on the hip of her skirt. He moved even closer, almost burrowing into her side, as they approached one of the waiters. What if David is uncomfortable in the crowd? Her voice got caught in her throat for a moment as she reached for her little silver bag, pushing aside her wallet and a couple little vials to retrieve the card.

What if I say this wrong?

"Um, excusez-m-moi," she stuttered, swearing in the back of her mind, "J'ai reçu une c-c-carte de Charles Chardonneau...? Il a—a dit que c-c'é...tu...tait un cadeau."

I'm making a fool of myself.

Jesus, Annie, calm down. What is wrong with you today?

Terry just let the general judgy vibes roll right off him. Amazing how these people could produce those so well without expressing anything overtly. Maybe they were judgy whamps who fed off shame or something. Nah, the Thornes would have noticed it. Most likely just mortal masters of their craft.

In any case, their judgement did not move him. Terry could slag off at gods in this outfit, and if they didn't like how he was dressed they could take it up with the guy who'd brought them all there right out of the airport. And given the White Court's general style, he probably didn't have to worry about direct attempts at his life for the next little while. Which was nice.

No, what was worrying him was that Alex, who swam in these sort of waters, was a lot more tense about all this than he was currently letting on. Which meant that Terry had to keep his own guard up until the current intrigue bullshit was over. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, checking for any smells more suspicious than good food and fancy clothes. "I'll take one of these, thanks," he told the waiter, pointing at a likely-looking string of foreign syllables. Hopefully he hadn't ordered a "closed on Sundays" or some such.

Rollo's dinner table could have easily seated a party twice their size. The table was a massive, old-fashioned affair, set with places for Rollo, Michele, Bruno and the wizards, and heaping with home-cooked dinner. Pasta with several sauces on offer, a green salad, and artisinal bread.

Bruno, Michele, and Rollo were already seated when the wizards arrived, talking casually among themselves in french about club plans. When the wizard's arrived, Rollo looked up, giving them a nod of welcome and motioning for them to sit down.

"Sit down, dig in. Bruno told me you've accepted my offer of hospitality. I'm happy to have you. You'll have free reign all but the top floor, except Bruno and Michele's room. The top floor is mine—knock on one of the doors if you need me, the sound carries well."

As pasta, bread, and salad is passed around, Rollo leans back, and grins, an air of the theatrical in his speech.

"Of course, you're not just here for my cooking. You want to find Les Poisoners, correct?"

edited 2nd Feb '17 10:16:37 PM by DrTentacles

Anne, Alex, Terry

The waiters at the door took a couple of looks at Anne before immediately looking at the card. The minute they did, both turned a shade of white, and they quickly opened the door for Anne and David, seating them at a table not far from where Alex and his family had found a seat. Immediately, they set up a table for the two of them and scooted out of the way as a third waiter emerged.

"Bonjour. The others thought you might appreciate a waiter who speaks English." The waiter’s thick accent made it perfectly clear that he was not English, but hey, at least he was trying. "I can translate the menu for you as well."

Meanwhile, as the Thorne family (and Terrence) were enjoying a lunch that smelled and tasted extravagant (and had utterly unpronounceable names), they suddenly heard a voice calling in the background. The Duchesse de Chardonneau had apparently found a waiter’s service wanting, judging by the angry tirade she was throwing in crisp Italian. Much like Django, she didn't look like most White Court vampires. While most vampires, particularly those of the Raith persuasion, looked like they were made by a sculptor's expert hand, then had life breathed into them, the Duchesse was short, plump, and matronly, to put it charitably. While her clothing spoke to very expensive tastes, she wore no jewelry, and her hands looked wrinkly and old. Her black hair, done up into a bun, had little streaks of gray running through it. Even from this distance, however, she radiated fear and authority, her harsh gaze and the force of her Hunger currently directed at the poor, innocent waiter. That is, until she practically turned 90 degrees and started skipping down to the Thorne table.

"Aaaah, you must be the barone, yes?" She inclined her head to Alex in a mostly-deferential manner, then turned to the rest of the family and smiled. "And family. And I presume he-" she gestured to Terrence, "is some manner of present?" She skipped over to have a look at Terry, moving to muss his hair like a fussy old grandmother. "He looks rather-"

She was interrupted when her hand suddenly began to smoke. She looked at Terrence, then her own hand, in disbelief. Then she turned to Alexander, eyes narrowed, her social graces all at once disappearing and becoming a very neutral mask.

"Perhaps not. Why have you brought this…man, into my home? Seems like a particularly unwise decision for someone whose stay in Paris is as dependent on my continued goodwill as yours, non?" Again, that aura of fear became palpable, and Anne was right in the proverbial line of fire.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jarl

"Seems like everywhere we go, people know more about what's going on than we do," Jarl opined after eating a mouthful of bread. Tjalfe, being the well-behaved apex predator that he was, was lying in a corner looking at the table in case he could liberate any scraps falling off the table. "Why should this be any different?"

"Ordered, want, same difference."

Leon went to town on the food. He was fully expecting shit to hit the fan sooner rather then later given their track record and well its not like he had to worry about the calories. He had a very active life style to say the least. He wasn't by nature the biggest eater, but better to have those stores of calories and not need them, then to need them but not have them.

"Whoa whoa whoa," said Terry, holding his hands up in placating gesture. "It was not, strictly speaking, Mr. Thorne's decision to bring me here. Your man Django found me together with them at the airport and included me in the invitation, which I thought would be ungracious to refuse. And I am sure neither of us had any intention of causing you, uh, distress."

Just please don't let her ask him why his hair was apparently magic. That was new. As in, "since around when he left the airport" new at the latest, since Lilaine had gotten close enough that some of his hair should have made contact. He didn't remember anything particularly momentous happening on the car ride, so what the jumping jack fuck was going on?

Alexander

The wave of residual fear that accompanied the Duchesse's approach forced Alexander's Hunger up again, silver flecks rising to his eyes and a silent test of power pushing out. With the steady discipline he'd practiced for years, he tamped it back down, taking a sip of wine, and giving the woman of a nod of greeting.

The Malvora were certainly a very odd breed. The woman looked nothing like the grace and beauty his family represented—and yet, she was kin. Thus, worthy of respect.

He opened his mouth, flashing his most arrogantly charming grin of greeting, then froze as he heard the sizzle of burning flesh.

What?

That was unexpected.

Alexander blinked, his mind taking a moment to catch up to what was going on.

He burns he-

How does Terry have true love, he's not even on the radar.

Oh.

The pieces clicked.

The fucking maniac. He isn't just foolhardy, he actually has true courage.

Well. The Duchesse was going to be furious. He doubled she'd believe if he tried to explain he was unaware of this little detail. Nope. Now was the time to roll with it.

Bethany reached over, tugging on his sleeve and opening her mouth to ask a question, while Aiden looked up for the first time, speaking.

"Wait. You have—"

Alexander's voice cut in, trying to mix resolve with honest apology. It wasn't an easy concoction.

"My apologies, Duchesse. I was about to warn you. Your child insisted we come immediately, thus, I had no time to secure our hotel room and leave Mr Talbot behind."

_____________________________________________________________________________

The Wizards Three

Rollo snorted at Jarl response, taking a sip of wine dismissively.

"You'd think that. The thing is, the White Council hasn't explained why you want to find them. Not that I expected anything less."

Turning to Bruno and Michele, he leaned back, taking the air of a rambling professor.

"Alright, after-class lesson time. Let's start with the mundane part—then I'll explain the magic. Don't bother including this in an essay, it's too interesting to get a good grade."

He thumped his hand on the table, the plates rattling to get undivided attention. There was a faint smile dancing around his scarred lips, and single eye as he held the glass up.

"The year is 1677. Louis 14, the "Sun King" is in power. He's moved the capital to Versailles, and half the nobility with it, and he's forcing the nation to dance to his tune while spending massive amounts of money on art, and keeping the boobs out of politics."

He grins, pausing a moment theatrically. Michele looks over at the three wizards, rolling her eyes and taking bite of pasta, while Bruno watches attentively. Michele leans over to Jarl, seated beside her, whispering under her breath.

"This is restrained compared to what he's like in class."

A piece of salad goes flying by her head, Rollo's voice booming.

"Hush! Wiser heads are rambling. Anyway. Nobles are losing power, the twats are in a twist. Women are, for the most part, out of power, and people still think Mercury goes well in hats. Enter Madame de Brinvilles, a fortune teller and noblewoman who conspires with her lover, and army captain, to kill her father and three brothers to inherit. She fails, and is tortured and burnt at the stake. She's also accused of poisoning the poor, which is almost certainly royal rubish."

Rollo takes a sip of wine, then mimes gagging and convulsing in death, before glaring at the table again, as though challenging them to laugh.

"Of course, people will confess to fucking anything under torture. So she implicates a wise woman who taught her the arts of poison, and for the next decade or so, the french are rounding up an underground network of village wise women, witches, and fortune tellers who supposedly sold poison to nobles to "secure inheritance." Many of those who died were nobles. Eventually, with the death of the famous midwife La Voisin, the King stopped the bumfuckery after a grand total thirty-six people died. The whole affair is called the "Affair of the Poisons" when it's done."

Rollo grinned, starting to wrap up.

"Amusingly, one of the children of nobles Louis banished would come back with a massive grudge a decade or so later, and help the Hapsburgs ruin Louis's imperial ambitions. Such is life. That's the historical synopsis. I want an essay on my desk on Monday about the factors that lead to this, and parallels in history."

edited 4th Feb '17 1:25:07 PM by DrTentacles

"If my own history reading does not err me, it was one of the 'usual' witch hunts." Tim answered in his own classroom-tone. "Mostly mortals who were a bit too intellectual for their social standing, a bit too savvy with herbs and medicine with maybe a smattering of lower level practitioners thrown in."

He sighed. "The fact that France always was very catholic did probably not help with those attitudes too."

Huh. They looked...nervous. Is this what food critics feel like?

Annette and David took their seats across from one another at the very nice table. She took her time to look around at their own until the waiter approached. David picked up his menu and stared blankly at it, pretending to read it to avoid needing to look at anyone in particular. Annette frowned.

I should say something to lighten the mood. Right? But I might make it worse.

She jumped a little when the waiter approached, forcing herself to smile, though it was clearly nervous. Was it more than usual? "Oh, th-thank you. I guess my attempt at French was th-that bad, huh?" Shut up, you're talking too much. He's going to find you annoying. "Well...t-to stat, my son is, um, allergic to nuts, so...sorry...th-that's going to be an inconvenience."

David sunk a little deeper into his seat. "Mami, mein Magen fühlt sich komisch an."

Shit. He is anxious. Is it the crowd? The noise? We should have just eaten at the hotel.

Annette swallowed. "...j-just some water to start with, please."

Taking a moment to look past her son she spotted an elderly, matronly woman fawning over a family of blondes and a friend (she assumed). The owner, maybe? She was dressed well and carrying herself in such a way Annette might have assumed so. But something felt off.

And why was her hand smoking?

Uh...what the hell? That—that looks like—

Annette's spine straightened, staring at the scene from over David's chair. He noticed her gaze and blinked, distracted himself, and turned around to look. His hazel eyes widened. "...Magie?"

"Bleib ruhig, Schätzchen."

What the absolute hell is going on?

edited 4th Feb '17 2:01:14 PM by KeiranGold

Alex, Terry and Anne

The Duchesse gave Alex a level look, staring at her hand. "Merde. I'll have to eat later, I suppose." She waved a dismissive hand. "Think nothing of it. I suppose I am at least partially to blame, given I sent Django to get you here at all due haste."

"So." The Duchesse took a chair from a neighboring table at sat herself at the end of the one Alex and his siblings occupied, like an overbearing matriarch. She folded her hands together and laid them on the table, smiling at Alex, her eyes still flecked with silver, the aura of fear she inspired in her staff palpable. "You've come to Paris, an act that flies in the face of the orders you were given by the proxy of the White King. Let's not mince words for the sake of niceties - after all, you're among potential allies." The edges of her mouth twisted from a smile into something like a sneer. The transformation from doting matriarch to savvy businesswoman seemed almost instantaneous, and wholly natural.

"It also begs the question...why are you here, so far from home? What are you looking for here, in the greatest city on Earth? And what can you offer me if I help you find it?"

The waiter smiled at Anne and David, obviously trying to reassure the nervous-looking little boy. "It's no trouble at all, mademoiselle. We would not be the establishment we are if we did not serve people with allergies. I'll go and fetch your water." He turned his head towards the table Anne was staring at. "Don't worry. It's the owner. She can be a bit of an intimidating woman, but she won't be here long. Please don't be too bothered."

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jarl

Jarl leaned in and whispered back to Michele. "Gods, it's like if Tim studied the humanities instead of physics."

A little louder, he decided to contribute to the discussion. "So this secret society, whether or not it was unfairly charged by the Sun King, maintained its presence in European courts? I'm guessing the Age of Discovery was good business for them. Lots of Europeans going abroad, killing natives and nicking all their stuff. There was probably a non-insignificant amount of artifacts 'liberated' along with all the gold and precious cultural items."

Oh, yeah, I won't be bothered at all by a woman whose hand started to smoke from apparently nothing. Happens all the time in French restaurants.

Annette nodded weakly, trying to at least look less scared stiff than she felt. It didn't work very well with her mind suddenly spiraling into blind panic. What the hell was the owner if she was literally smoking at a touch? Had it been somebody in that little family of blonds? Something magical? Maybe she was a fairy and had touched one of the spoons. They had a thing about cold iron, right? She'd never seen a Fae before. Maybe she was something else nonsensical and magic that she didn't know about.

What if she's a vampire?

The little light in her brain that usually alerted her when she was being unreasonable paranoid, for some reason, didn't go off. Her heart started pounding in her ears and her hands were trembling, holding tight enough to her little purse that the faux leather creaked.

What if she's a vampire? What if there is a vampire right there? She could have touched some garlic, or a cross, or something. What if that's why she's smoking? What if your luck has finally run out and you're in a nest full of vampires? With David. With only a few potions on your person. What if this was a trap?

What if?

Without breaking her gaze on the owner, and after waiting for the waiter to leave, Annette opened her purse and removed one of the sealed vials from inside. It was filled with a transparent, slightly foggy liquid. She rubbed it between her palms. David turned back so he was facing his mother, his expression blank and eyes focusing on the tablecloth.

edited 5th Feb '17 8:37:30 PM by KeiranGold

Wizards Three

Rollo gave Tim a knowing grin.

"You'd think that. Paranoia, suspicion, all the good elements of a witch hunt. And most of those who died were truly innocent. The thing is, La Vousin *was* a wizard. One of our quiet shames and unsolved mysteries. She was Council. Worked among both mortals and Wizards, a staunch advocate for the small talents."

He glanced at Michele as he mentions small talents, before continuing.

"She almost made it to the Senior Council, arguing for cooperation for mortals. Her detractors, of course, tried to dig up dirty laundry. Found evidence of Lawbreaking—First, Second, Third, Forth and Seventh. The Wardens were moving in to arrest her when her inner circle were arrested by the Sun King."

Rollo let out a side, mingled annoyance and admiration.

"All the evidence—and La Vousin went up in smoke. The Paris Magical community went back underground, and the Council dissolved back into fear of mortals. And this is where everything gets fun."

He turns to Jarl, giving an approving nod.

"We're getting there. Records of La Vousin and the Poisoners get muddled in the Council Archives are muddled. Mostly, our records of small talent bloodlines in Paris. But if you read between the lines, you start getting a pretty nice picture. There's no record of *many* magical artifacts she gathered coming into Council or Mortal hands. Magical Artifacts vanishing during French expansion. Hard-to-follow small talent genealogies. French Warlocks like Ayna Collette going unpunished, and French Wardens having an *unusually* high rate of death."

He paused, grinning widely, having build this grand conspiracy. Across the room, there's a sudden pressure in Tim's skull, reminiscent of an impending migraine. White lights trail across his vision.

"Every city has secrets. Les Poisoners was hardly even bloodiest magic phenomenon in Paris History. But let's talk about a man—if you can call him that—named Heinrich Kemmler. The last piece of this puzzle."

___________________________________________________________________________

Alexander

Alexander let out a barely concealed breath of relief, his hackles still on edge. Now they were bargaining. He could work with this. His mind started to whirl, trying to find an angle—trying to connect the pieces.

She had wealth. Power. A niche, carved into the heart of Paris society. Ample food, and respect. What *could* he offer? Vices? Drugs? Guns?

Hardly.

There had to be an angle.

He flashed a smile.

"That is a *wonderful* question. Color me surprised, though, that Sofia hasn't told you already." unless she has "I suppose it's possible she didn't think you'd be *able* to help. After all, the White Council has been looking for them for centuries, or so I was told."

He gave a helpless shrug, hoping at the very least, he could offer amusement.

"Still, you are my host. Honesty is the least I can give. I'm looking for the Poisoners. Have you heard of them?"

edited 6th Feb '17 2:08:40 PM by DrTentacles

The Non-Wizards Three

The Duchesse chuckled. "There are few of the Right People here in Paris - indeed, in France - who do not know about the Poisoners." She brought her folded hands up, resting her chin on them. "And what, pray tell, possessed you to go from your holdings in Las Vegas - your very own barony - all the way to the Old World, looking for treasure hunters who don't want to be found?"

The waiter did eventually return, putting a goblet of ice water and two glasses on the table in front of Annette and David. "There we go, mademoiselle. Are you ready to take an order now?" _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jarl

"...Kemmler. Of course Kemmler is involved. If you so much as sneeze in the general direction of a European Warlock there's a non-zero chance that guy was related to Heinrich Kemmler. It's like Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, but with one of the most infamous mass-murderers in magical history."

Tim gave Rollo a casual wizard stare. "While I emphasize with the desire to make the smaller talents a greater concern for the Council...if she broke those laws, I cannot condemn the Wardens reaction. A youngster who breaks the laws out of ignorance or foolishness is one thing, but a Wizard of her seniority? Imagine someone like that having Senior Council authority." He paused.

"Facilis decensus Averno;
Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis;
Sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras;
Hoc opus, hic labor est."

Peabody was bad enough Tim groaned internally as he finished, followed by a shudder as he once again considered what might have happened to him if he hadn't insisted on using cheap disposable plastic pens out of passive aggressive dislike to the bureaucrat.

"And I wondered just how Anya Colette had managed to get the clout she had. That explains it somewhat." Turning to Jarl he gave a lopsided smile. "It helps that Kemmler was very intent on stamping out any potential rivals. I guess a two front war between another powerful Warlock and the Council was not something he considered acceptable."

edited 7th Feb '17 12:52:19 AM by 3of4

Annette flinched, her hands clasping in her lap over the vial, keeping it from view as best she could. She didn't try to hide the look of anxiety on her face—she wasn't sure she actually could. What if the waiter was a vampire, too? Her fingers twitched. She didn't want to start something.

What if the food is laced?

"I, um, I...yes, please. David, wh-what would you like?"

David shrugged, still not raising his gaze from the tablecloth. Annette pursed her lips slightly.

"...w-well. Would you p-please tell me which of these come with s-some kind of seafood?"

Stall as best you can. Maybe a small appetizer to buy time? If I can have a moment I can pour the acid into that glass...would make it easier to splash on somebody's face...

Wizards Three:

Rollo met Tim's stare with an amused single eye, scars particularly menacing as he barked a short laugh.

"Virgil. Un classique. Yes, yes, every babe in the Council learns that intent doesn't mean goose-shit when you're playing with magic. I'd quote it for a different reason, though. The real "lesson" of old La Vousin is revisionism."

Distracted from Kemmler, he picked up a table knife putting down the wine-glass, and using it to point.

"The evidence isn't there. Then or now. She dies, along with her inner circle, and fear replaces conversation. Maybe she did snack on little babies. But she was tried by mortals—the very people she trusted and championed, not wizards. Paranoid, power-hungry, superstitious mortals, the same that the Council desperately fear. Any evidence of lawbreaking burned with her. To her supporters, she died a heroic martyr, unwilling to break the law even to save herself. Maybe the witch-hunt was even engineered to frame her? To her detractors, her death was faked, an excuse to go underground, or she was a fool who tried to claim the fox in the hen-house was a friendly little dog. And here we sit today, with her a cautionary tale that history can be painted to fit nearly any fucking point of view if you don't have all the answers."

Somewhere along the rant, something had hit a personal note, his movements taking a magnetic life, single eye blazing. You could almost see the echo of a firebrand Warden in there.

He dropped the knife, shrugging.

"Anyway, put that in your next essay. Learn from the past, but don't assume you have perfect hindsight. Luckily, Kemmler's far from complicated. Egocentric power-hungry Nazi with a god complex, and a penchant for genocide. I should know. I helped fight him. He rallied a good few Sorcerers with promises of power—which he delivered, and rallied a terrifying number of Council Wizards by scaring them with the thought of the European White Council losing power to foreigners. Tale as old as time."

This was delivered with a dismissive air, and a soft grunt, as though it was hardly worthy of dialogue. The next bit, however, was with renewed energy.

"Anyway, his followers marched into Paris with the Nazis, and immediately started to try to loot the place for magical artifacts. They tortured, bribed, and black-magicked their way to through the magical underworld until they discovered a certain Parisian secret society, and once again, the Poisoners faced a witch hunt. According to what I've found, many of their artifacts—including Kemmler's primary goal, a sample of the Well of Udr, were sealed in a hidden Nevernever vault, the map and means of entry distributed among surviving loyal members."

Rollo kicks back, raising his missing hand, about to conclude.

"They never found the vault. And as far as I know, the Poisoners never did again either. And you can mark this as a first-hand source. After all—I heard it from the necromancer in Paris's lips."

_____________________________________________________________________________ Alexander

Alexander casually shrugged, trying to get a further read on the Duchesse's goal here—or how much of the truth she was telling. Everyone knew about the secret cult? Really?

"Vegas was boring. I heard about an "unfindable" cache of artifacts of interest to the Queen, and I wasn't feeling charitably inclined to let Sofia Raith take sole credit. Or, for that matter, any credit."

edited 7th Feb '17 2:15:55 PM by DrTentacles

"Kemmler wasn't actually a Nazi." Tim pointed out. "He was aligned with them, but there is no evidence he ever believed in Hitlers 'vision'."

He gave a slight shrug before he continued. "Its more likely he simply joined up with them because after his first death at the end of World War 1 ended with the Council dismantling most of the infrastructure he spend decade's building."

Tim gave Rollo a apologetic smile.

"People, thanks to pop culture and the abundance of World War 2 media forget that it was not the first time Kemmler was fought. And personally, the fact that he engineered World War 1 is far more worrying to me than 'teamed up with Hitler'. But in modern pop culture, many simply imagine the Kemmler Wars as what Wizards did during World War 2...which is incredibly reductive."

Another shrug.

"And the number of Council turncoats...is a perceived overstatement most times. Its simply easier to remember a rough dozen names who turned coat than to remember that the entire Council went to war against Kemmler multiple times, because people always say it was 'the Council' and think of the Organization instead of the entire membership going to arms. That and in our modern time, with a certain tendency to organizational mistrust, the narrative of the 'Council divided' is far more acceptable to public opinion than '99.9% of the Council fought against them'. Though I agree with you that even a rough dozen Wizards turning Warlock on this scale is a terrifying number in itself."

edited 7th Feb '17 2:23:25 PM by 3of4

Rollo paused, tossing Tim a thunderstorm scowl, and slamming his stump of a hand on the table hard enough to make the plates rattle. The theatrical tone is gone, replaced by sharp disappointment—a professor lecturing a promising student who made a stupid comment.

"First, don't lecture a Warden who fought that monster for half a fucking century on what it was actually like. Especially when you hide behind your books, and pop out to vaporize a Fae army when it's convenient. You planning on putting a damn cloak yet? They need you, von Hochberg. We're eating pasta with you while Paris's Warden is Brittany, fighting goddamn fishmen."

There's a moment of silence. Both Bruno and Michele trade looks. They don't look surprised or worried by the outburst. Tim's headache, meanwhile, intensifies.

Rollo shakes his head, frowning—a note of apology in his voice.

"I'll give you point on both Kemmler not being a Nazi, and him being a multi-generational menace. But he certainly didn't object to using their rhetoric for followers, or their manpower. On the Council though..."

His expression sours, probably the most upset he's been through the conversation.

"Even one man going to Kemmler's side was too many. The Council waited too damn long to react they way they needed to. And everyone who fought him emerged...scarred. One way or another. But we did take a stand. There. For the younger men at the table. Your little history lesson. Now, back to the Poisoners."

edited 7th Feb '17 3:03:17 PM by DrTentacles

Tim paused for a moment before answering, using a napkin to wipe his lips and then spoke with a matching tone of apology in his voice.

"Forgive me, I was not out to lecture you. I simply believe in using proper terminology when dealing with these...individuals. I fear that using terms too casual is...softening them. Robbing them of the warning and seriousness they ought to convey. Calling Kemmler a Nazi robs the term 'Kemmlerite' of its individual reasons for why their actions and ideology is bad by lopping them in with a more broadly known evil. At the same time, it gives Hitler's ilk a veneer of mysticism which they neither deserve nor ought to be given for their contemporary followers to abuse."

He paused again, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head.

"To simply use a term as the end-all is convenient...but it is also dangerous because it is in the end a shallow thing. See how my home country has issues with Hitler's followers to this day in its eastern state's because their former government condemned the 'Fascists' and yet never bothered to discourse over why they deserve to be condemned. We cannot simply use a term and designate it evil without dissecting it and showing why we do so. It is better to show someone that the flame is hot, rather than point at a fire and tell them not to touch it."

Was that headache getting worse?

"And I most strongly agree that every Wizard who turned their coat was a contemptible individual. We as Wizards have the least excuse to turn to black magic since we ought to to know best of its dangers. Each and every of their names shall live in infamy, deservedly and as warning to future generations. And a reminder to ourselves in the danger of...complacency."

A bow of his head, as if conceding the issue.

"But you are right, we have more pressing issues at hand. I apologize for sidetracking us."