Title: (Pre)BD: Never Fall In Love
Date: Aug 30, 2009 at 6:01 AM
Divinatas – Aug 30, 2009 at 6:01 AM
[b]Never Fall In Love[/b]
Samael’s Fall From Grace
It was a cold night as shadowed clouds blocked the illuminant shine of the moon overhead. Small
frosted white flakes of snow had just begun to drift down from the sky, lightly dusting the streets and
buildings with a soft blanket of the winter’s first storm. Muttering a few curt words, Samael jumped
over a frozen puddle that blocked his way on the narrow sidewalk, roughly pulling his worn brown
cloak tighter around his shoulders. A man couldn’t have wished for worse weather on this night.
Samael had made a promise to a very special lady that nothing would mar the arrangements he had
planned. Of course, Camilla would never speak an ill word about snow. Camilla loved the seasons,
from every bird that sang in the spring to every flake of crystallized water that fell in the winter.
There was not a single woman in all of London that could make Samael Norse turn his head from
his work, or a flower as sweet as his Camilla.
“Ho! Doc! Slow up, a bit!”
Samael resisted the guttural growl that threatened to escape and deemed it inappropriate to take off
in a sprint at the sound of the young man. Johnathon Morris, a good fourteen years his junior was
much like a fly constantly buzzing in his ear. If it weren’t brawls at the local slums it was ridiculous
stories of vampires or giant hell beasts with long sharp teeth and rancid breath. The Morris whelp
dressed himself in the most dandy of fashions, in Samael’s old-fashioned mindset, and yet could
drink any man under a table. More than once Samael had patched the boy up after one of his scrapes
and listened to his farfetched stories of demons walking the night. Perhaps if her were not such a
lush, Morris could have made a career of writing novels instead of constantly plaguing the doctor
with his nonsense.
Reluctantly Samael slowed his steps and stopped, turning around to face the young man whom
looked as if he had just had a nasty fight with a stray dog in the streets. An eyebrow of curiosity rose,
but he quickly brushed away all wonderment at the Morris and assumed his typical scowl. “What
perilous plight have you gotten yourself in to now, Morris? I am quite bus-”
“Have a little Faith, Doc!” Johnathon Morris beamed a wide self-satisfied grin as she shoved his
hands in to his designer stitched coat and rocked back and forth on his heels. He had the look of a
cat that had just caught the neighbor’s canary.
The corner of Samael’s eye gave a slight twitch at the sound of ‘Doc’. He detested that nickname
with a passion. “Well, spit it out. I am to meet… someone.” Though it was likely Morris knew of
Camilla either by acquaintance or by rumor, Samael did not wish to spend any longer than necessary
Morris only sufficed in grinning wider. “I have an amazing opportunity for you, Doc. The partner
to the greatest occultist in London- heck! The world!”
“Have you gone daft!?” Samael howled. He shook an angry finger at the young man as tendrils of
pitch black hair fell in to his eyes. “First off, the occult is a myth chattered about by bored
schoolboys and highly imaginative children. Second, I refuse to baby sit and coddle a man who has
refused to grow up and realize demons and such are mere fairy tales and spends his time boozing in
the local pub instead of working an honest profession!”
Johnathon wrinkled up his nose in mild disappointed as he removed his hands from his coat and
crossed them over his chest. “Is that a ‘no’?”
Samael motioned forward as if to strangle the younger man and Johnathon took several steps back
as he threw up his hands in defense. “Have a heart, Doc- okay alright!” When Samael didn’t stop his
advancements Johnathon scampered off down the sidewalk giving a flippant wave of his hand.
“Have it your way, Doc! When I’m an amazing occultist and you’re just some stuffy old man, don’t
come crying to me when no one remembers your name!”
Scoffing at the threat, Samael brushed errant snowflakes from his shoulder as he turned and
continued down the sidewalk. The whelp was an arrogant fool. Perhaps even if his demons and
creatures of darkness were real and true, Samael highly doubted he’d he would waste his time
partnering with a complete buffoon. A slight curve of a smile graced his lips as he imagined the boy
drunkenly fighting off a hoard of vampires. He’d likely escape with sheer luck and blindingly light
the beasts to flame and take credit as if that were his plan all along. Refusing to waste another
thought on Morris, Samael trudged on to the small manor home of his beloved Camilla.
* * * * * * * * * *
Samael stepped in to the parlor of the miniature London manor, admiring the warm old-fashioned
style of the furniture and the sweet scent of cinnamon mixed with the smell of burning embers. The
Rosewood home was a particular delight to him. Soft and feminine like it’s Lady, with small details
of her handwork spread around the house. It was so much more comfortable than the cramped rooms
of his own home, where there was little room left to walk amongst the books and trinkets that littered
the place. The elusive scent of Camilla’s perfume drifted to his nose along with the sound of coming
footsteps. He turned with a brilliant smile to greet his beloved but it quickly vanished as he saw the
look of pain in her rich brown eyes. Immediately he crossed the expanse of the room, clasping her
hands in his with a look of concern.
“Camilla, darling, what ever could be wrong?” He asked softly bringing her cold pale hands to his
lips. For a moment he thought she might’ve taken ill, and was ready to order her to bed for rest, but
she looked up in to his eyes smiling apologetically.
“Oh, my love… I am so, so sorry.” She shook her head as her voice broke, finding it difficult to say
the words. Samael was patient as he held her hands, giving a reassuring smile. Taking in a deep
breath she spoke again. “Your sister, Lucille. She has… passed on.”
A long excruciating silence followed as the seconds ticked by. So stunned by the news Samael stared
down at Camilla with a blank unreadable expression, until finally he slowly returned to the present.
“How… when?” He managed to croak out only a barely of a fraction above a whisper.
Camilla brushed a cool hand gently across his cheek. “The messenger had stopped by your home
first, and the valet instructed him you would be here.” Carefully, Camilla guided Samael towards the
soft plush sofa near the fire and bade him to sit. Soothingly she stroked his cheek and patted his
hand, watching as the dozens of emotions flittered across his face like a battered ship in a storm. “If
was some few days ago, the letter said. Cold complications…”
“Complications?!” Samael bawled loudly as he suddenly jumped from his seat with a start. “Cold
complications?! What preposterous and ill-founded assessment is that! What healthy full grown
woman dies from a cold!” With a leashed curbed anger, Samael paced back and forth in front of the
orange flames in the hearth. His eyes were glittering a bright green as he wrung his hands, a fierce
confused scowl across his face.
“Please, Samael. I could not possibly know, it is just what the letter said.” Camilla quietly replied,
worried over her beloved’s reaction to the news. Samael was not a violent man, or even a
temperamental one. He had always been like a solid reliable mountain, shielding her danger and
protecting her from pain. She wanted desperately to do the same for him in such a difficult time.
Samael’s face suddenly softened as he quit his pacing and sank back down in to the cushions of the
sofa. He brushed the golden blonde curls from Camilla’s beautiful porcelain face. Never did he want
to hurt her or have her worry. “I am sorry, dear Camilla. I did not mean to…” He sighed deeply as
he gathered her in to his arms and held her close, allowing her nearness to calm his nerves and bring
him back to reality. His sister was dead. His sweet darling Lucille, the only one left of their family
since their parents had passed away some years ago. Being a doctor, cold complications sounded like
a ridiculous unbelievable reason for one’s death. He somehow felt there was more to it than just that.
The only way he would know for sure was to go to the country and see for himself.
Placing a gentle kiss on Camilla’s forehead, he slowly loosened his embraced and looked down in
her eyes. Tonight he had planned to ask for her hand in marriage, but now… Now there were things
he needed to be sure of before he could allow himself to bring Camilla in to his troubles. He wanted
to share his life with her, but he did not want to give her his pain.
“Camilla, I must go to see my sister and attend to her funeral.” Samael lamented.
“Let me go with you, Samael. I could be ready in only a few moments.” Camilla replied with earnest,
not wanting him to be alone in his grief.
Samael slowly shook his head. “I must go alone. There is something I need to do.”
Camilla opened her rose tinted mouth to reply, but thought better of it and sighed. It was never a
simple task to change the man’s mind when he had made it up, and perhaps he did need time alone
to deal with the death of his dear sister. “Alright. But, please come back to me soon?”
He smiled sadly brushing a soft kiss across her lips. “I will. I promise.” With a last goodbye, Samael
left the peaceful Rosewood home and quickly made for the country.
* * * * * * * * * *
Rain. Cold hard gloomy smatterings of rain fell from the heavens like a torrent of tears, as if the
angels themselves were mourning the passing of one of their own. Lucille was surely like an angel
amongst mortals with such a classic beauty of the heart and soul. Samael rode in silence on his pale
chestnut mount, the rain making the roads too slick and dangerous with mud and icy slush to take
a quicker gait. All the former serenity of the snowfall had left, leaving the dismal grimy slush as the
rain came pouring down. He was soaked to the bone, but Samael could not let himself stop and rest
until he reached the home of Alfred Grottingsby. There was a detestable taste left in his mouth every
time he thought about the weasel-like man, enough to make Samael want to spit at the mere thought
of him. Slight feelings of regret tugged at the back of his mind. He had warned Lucille not to marry
the bastard, he had even had gone so far to say he’d disown her. Had he known what would have
become of his dear sister…
His horse stumbled in the muddy slush and quickly righted itself; jarring Samael from the road his
thoughts had taken him. He had warned her at least. If the silly girl chose not to listen to him, he
could not be faulted for that. Still, he loved his Lucille dearly and her death weighed heavily on him.
Lucille was a lovely young girl with hair the color of deep ebony and the same sparkling teal eyes
they inherited from their mother. There were many high society men that had asked for her hand, but
she had chosen the very one Samael forbade her against. A slight ironic smile graced his lips. Lucille
had a stubborn rebellious streak. Playing against that might’ve just been his biggest mistake.
Ahead a stone and limber cottage came in to view, Samael guided his steed on to the cobblestone
path that led up to the house. Someone inside must have noticed his arrival as he could see light and
fluttering at the windows. Reaching the front steps, Samael quickly dismounted as the front door of
the cottage swung open and slammed before his feet could hit the ground. Standing at the top of the
steps, his brother-in-law stared down at him with a deep-set scowl of disapproval. He was wearing
a ridiculously fancy lounging coat and his hair was tussled as if he had just roused himself from bed.
“What in hell are you doing here at this hour, Norse.” Alfred looked down his nose at the older man
with obvious contempt. He made no move to leave the steps or even welcome his brother by
marriage sanctuary from the weather.
Samael glared back at the man with an equally loathsome look. Had he not feared Alfred would
lower himself to coward’s standards and cry for the law, Samael would have happily leapt up the
steps and wrung his neck. “I have come to see Lucille and arrange for her funeral.”
Alfred snorted in reply. “I have taken care of everything, not that I imagined you would dare come
here after disbarring your dear sister from your life! Be gone, Norse!”
“No!” Samael called as Alfred turned his back to him and started for the door. “Don’t you dare walk
away from me, Grottingsby! I demand to see my sister! I refuse to believe such ludicrous reasons as
cold complications for her death!”
The stout man on the steps visibly paled, though it seemed he quickly regained his wits and
composure before discounting Samael’s accusations. “How dare you come here and accuse me of
such! The woman is dead let her body lay to rest!”
Samael narrowed his eyes in suspicion as he angrily ran his hands through his sodden hair. He had
not missed the pale pallor of Grottingsby skin, or the way his body suddenly tensed. “I want to see
With hands placed on his hips, Alfred sneered down at the older man. “You have not my permission,
Norse. And we both know that is my right as husband. Shall we bring in the constable and make a
big to-do over the dead body of dear Lucille?”
Gritting his teeth it was all Samael could do to keep from killing the man on the spot. He did not
doubt Alfred would make good on his threats, not only harming Samael, but making a mockery of
Lucille’s name. Samael could not let any harm come to his sister, even in death. With a loud
venomous growl that didn’t even come close to expressing his true anger, Samael remounted his
horse and charged his way back to London.
* * * * * * * * * *
It had been a week since Samael left London to see his deceased sister and he now returned with a
dim expression. He knew deep down, there was more to Lucille’s death than a simple cold. Alfred
had acted much too strange when questioned. Samael had hoped even Grottingsby wasn’t so cold-hearted as to not let a man see his own flesh and blood. Shouts on the street up ahead drew Samael
from his dreary thoughts. He drew his horse closer and near immediately he recognized the frantic
voice of the Morris whelp.
“What in God’s name is going on here, Morris!” Samael announced his presence rather loudly. There
were two or three unrecognizable persons milling around besides Johnathon Morris whom was
standing over a fallen form. As he dismounted and to get a better look at the injured party he sucked
in a sudden shocked breath. “Good God…”
Johnathon looked up startled at Samael, and quickly tried to explain. “A demon attacked the carriage.
I had no idea it was Camilla. God, Samael if only I had known!”
“Silence!” the older man hissed as he knelt down next to the fallen body of his Camilla. He didn’t
want to hear the excuses or reasoning of the stupid Morris boy! There was blood, so much blood…
but she was breathing! Perhaps there was hope! Samael pulled her in to his arms, gently cradling her
head. Slowly Camilla opened her eyes and gave such a soft weak smile, Samael could feel his insides
churn with pain.
“My love…” she breathed no louder than a whisper, giving a wince as a sharp stab ached in her
chest. “It was such… a horrible beast. The footman is gone, and I…”
Samael shook his head. “Shush, beloved. I will make you well.” Lifting Camilla up in to his arms,
he was careful not to jostle her too badly, still unsure of the extent of her injuries. Nearby, Johnathon
Morris still lurked, silent as Samael spoke to Camilla. The Doctor paid him no mind, even leaving
his own horse behind and his walked steadfastly back towards the Rosewood manor.
Whether it was a few mere moments or near eternity to reach Camilla’s home, Samael did not know,
nor did he care as long as his love continued to breathe. He rushed up the stairs, barking orders to
the servants to bring everything he needed from hot water to bandages, to his medical equipment.
In Camilla’s chambers he laid her to rest gently on the bed. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted
Johnathon Morris still trailing close behind. “Be gone!” he ordered with controlled anger.
“But, Samael I can-”
Johnathon hesitated for a few moments before finally bowing out of the room, leaving Samael to
tend to Camilla in a stone cold silence.
Hours passed by as Johnathon paced downstairs in the drawing room. The sky outside was turning
shades of pale rose and orange as the sun began to rise on the horizon. Chirping birds near the
window grating on his frayed nerves. How could they be so chipper while a woman lay dying just
up the stairs? A sudden slam at the drawing room door startled him from his musing, and he turned
to see the cause. Samael Norse stood in the doorway, his jacket gone and his shirt rolled up to his
elbows stained in an obscene amount of blood. His hands were not washed, and his eyes glittered
a deep shade of green as they stared devoid of any known emotion at the young occultist.
“How is she…?” he asked solemnly.
Johnathon blinked in surprise, unsure if it were the shock of Camilla’s death or Samael’s immovable
form that stunned him so. “Samael, I-”
“Save it.” The Doctor cut him off quickly, though he made to move to leave the doorway. Samael
continued to stare at the younger man, a muscle in his jaw now starting to twitch. “Tell me how this
The young Morris blinked, still stunned and unsure how to reply to the older man. Samael stood still
as a rock with a look that could surely even shake the devil if he stood before them. “Eh, I’m not
quite sure really I don’t know if I can-”
“Tell it all.”
Johnathon blinked again, taking in a deep breath of courage to steel himself. Surely the doctor
wouldn’t harm him; after all, he did his best to save Camilla. “I had been hunting the beast for a good
week now. I was following its trail when I came across it attacking a carriage. I had not known it was
Camilla’s. I had arrived late… The footman and carriage driver were already swallowed whole. I
killed the beast, but Camilla…” the boy paused. “Samael, I’m sorry. If I could have done
“‘Could’ is your favorite excuse, isn’t it, Morris?” Samael’s eyes narrowed as he stepped a few
paces closer to Morris. Johnathon in turned took a few steps back and to the side, having that sudden
look as if he were about to flee. The doctor continued to advance until the young Morris had escaped
from the drawing room and was cornered near the front door. “All of your ranting and raving,
Morris, and it didn’t do a damned thing, did it! Were you drunk? Chasing women? Did you boast
of your skills and waste precious moments while my Camilla lay bleeding on the streets?!”
Johnathon fumbled for the doorknob and flung it open as he near catapulted himself out the front
door. Samael was following, obviously seething as his eyes flashed with anger and a small vein
bulged at his temple. “Look here, Norse, I did what I could!”
“You did not do enough!” Samael roared after Johnathon as he stood in the doorframe, his hands
clenched tightly as his sides. “You did not do enough. And for that, Morris, you will pay dearly.”
With those fatal words, he slammed the door in the young man’s face.
* * * * * * * * * *
A haunted gaze peered down in to the amber liquid that swirled in slow circles in a glass. Candidly
he wondered how much pressure he could put to the crystal before it shattered in his very hands.
Samael took another long drink, emptying the contents and slamming the bottom down on the
counter with more force than necessary as her summoned the barkeep for another. One month had
passed since he lost Camilla. One agonizing month, rolling the images in his mind, second guessing,
reenacting. He cold have stayed. He could have taken her. If he had arrived sooner… Anything but
the hollow emptiness that had taken residence in the very pit of his soul.
Two men took a seat near him, though Samael paid them no mind. As the barkeep set a refilled glass
before him, he picked it up taking deep swallow half listening to their hushed conversation. He could
smell the metallic scent of blood, something he recognized being a doctor but more memorably
resurfacing the pain of the very night he wanted to forget.
“He returned to town, got one special just for him. Pays mighty good for ‘em too. Ain‘t nothing‘
killin‘ a whore or two. They ain‘t but gutter trash anyway and no one misses ‘um.” One of the men
boasted to his companion, in hushed tones. The corner of Samael’s eyebrow twitched as if some sort
of internal battle was crying out for justice, but he remained still drinking from his glass.
The second man clicked his teeth. “I still think yer mad. What you wan’ go dealing with demons I’ll
never keen. He might up and eat your guts or something’. No amount o’ of power or money is gonna
make me deal with demons, I tell you what.”
Snorting, the first replied. “One of those higher ups, arch demons. He ain’t gonna lay his teeth in no
vampire. Thinks we’re trash.” he took a long drought of beer, then wiped his face with his sleeve
before continuing. “Dun matter much, I woulda killed ‘em anyway, least this way I get me a bonus
out of it. Those prissy purebloods are gonna get a nasty surprise when I get blessed by an arch
Samael caught himself listening more intently than he realized. Vampires? Arch demons? Had all
the ramblings of the Morris been true? Camilla had said herself with her dying breath it was a beast
that attacked her. Creatures of the underworld roaming the streets of London feeding on the innocent.
Samael had the urge kill them both, talking so idly of murder. But if they were truly vampires, he
was only a mere human. They would snap his neck with little effort. The one they mentioned caused
him some curiosity, an arch demon that granted power? What would he want in return? A soul? It
seemed like the standard request a beast of hell would ask for. Samael glared down at his glass as
his mind took an odd turn of thought. He could not save Camilla, nor could he protect his sister
Lucille. Morris spoke of being an occultist, though he had not protected Camilla either. Would that
demon grant him the power to save others and seek revenge?
Before he thought twice, being pulled by some invisible force, Samael left his chair and approached
the two men. “Who is this.. Arch demon?” he asked.
The pair had not realized someone was listening in, and neither looked willing to give away secrets
to some stranger. However, a cold glittering look in the man’s eyes had the first thinking twice. The
way he clenched his fists look too suspiciously like he would pull out a stake and stab them in the
heart if they refused. “Eh… Silvanus Nieyemer. You can uh… find him at the White Club.” He
didn’t expect the arch demon wouldn’t be too pleased at being interrupted, but the vampire guessed
with sadistic glee that the human would end up gutted for daring to approach him.
Without giving thanks or another word, Samael turned away and left the bar. He would seek out
Silvanus Nieyemer. Perhaps if he could not fill that void in his soul, he would be better off without
one at all.
* * * * * * * * * *
The White Club was one of the most prestigious men’s clubs in London. There was dining , a few
games of cards in the back, and the social elite any ladder-climber would be dying to converse with.
Samael Norse had spent very few hours in the White Club himself; The shallow topics of ones
monetary gain or the affairs of politics interested him little. Now even more so than ever. His only
objective was to seek out that demon and be rid of the shadows that were slowly eating at his heart.
At the front desk he met with some opposition. Silvanus Nieyemer was indeed at the White Club,
however he was uninterested in meeting any strangers without appointment. Even bribery did little
to sway the stout man’s mind which left Samael casually browsing the club and trying to look
Azul Morag – Aug 30, 2009 at 6:59 AM
The White Club was a male refuge in times of change or at least most of its patrons thought so. There was a resurge in the spheres of politics about women suffrage but most men of standing considered it an idle topic; something to chatter and discuss but rarely take seriously. The White Club was off-limits for women after all, except perhaps some special entertainment shows the public eye never saw but there were rumors. The staff was all comprised of men, from the higher administratives to the lowest dishwasher. The White Club occupied more than half of the city block where it sat, with many private rooms upstairs for its most exclusive guests; some were complete apartments, others studio rooms and meeting rooms. In lower floors there were salons, a large bar, a smaller bar with a cigar room, a restaurant and several exhibit rooms where gentlements of enterprise may display their trophies as gifts for the club. The latest of such additions, a mummy brought directly from Egypt with all its artifacts and strange jars with guts reduced to dust, art and statues, even an exquisite reproduction of a mural found in the tomb was a center of attention; the explanations in small print bronze plaques were concise and knowledgable. Count Blanco also known as lord Silvanus Niemeyer was one of the best egyptologists to date. Also, a member of the club on family tradition for several generations. Lord Niemeyer was not presently at the exhibit hall where his work was being eagerly admired; he was said to be upstairs in his private apartment. He had been there all day and perhaps had left before the afternoon staff shift, but in any case he had not been seen since yesterday.
Divinatas – Aug 31, 2009 at 6:12 AM
Samael stopped near one of the displays, casting a faint frown at all the frippery. It had probably been a year or more since he had stepped foot in to the White Club. Places like this were more the style of that fool Johnathon Morris. Still, he couldn’t help but appreciate the skill of ancient cultures in preserving remains. The fact it had been donated by Silvanus Niemeyer was a marvel in itself. Clearly the man had his hands in to many fields.
“Silvanus Niemeyer. Does he often flaunt his treasures?” Samael asked to a gentlemen nearby who had also stopped to take a look at the sarcophagus and surrounding items.
“Often? Certainly not. The man is quite private a majority of the time. This is a rare treat! I hear he will be giving a demonstration on the mummification rituals this evening.” replied the man.
Samael snorted. “Indeed. That I will want to see.”
Azul Morag – Sep 14, 2009 at 1:02 PM
A tall man standing nearby slowly turned with a mild smile to look at Samael and his interlocutor. He was a strange man of pale skin, a chiseled face and hair so fair it was most definitely white; but the most peculiar point was his mismatching eyes, one blue and the other orange.
“I am sorry to point out, that demonstration will be private, only for the eyes of a few,” the man softly said. “Perhaps for the best; some of these things are quite unsavory. It’s easier to look at things dry and aged beyond recognition than some actual, tangible things. Do you sir,” he asked Samael, “have some sort of interest on mummification and the occult, or is it a passing fancy?”
The white-haired man of mismatched eyes was wearing a fine black suit with a vest in brown and muted gold brocade; he looked Austrian, or perhaps Swedish.
“May I introduce myself; my name is Amadeus Ritter. Who may you be, sir?”
Divinatas – Sep 16, 2009 at 9:34 AM
If Samael noted anything unusual about the man’s appearance or his comments, it didn’t display across his face. He merely nodded in a slow thoughtful manner as his hands clasped behind his back.
“An acquaintance mentioned Silvanus Niemeyer’s unusual hobbies, and I found myself involved with similar interests.” he replied to the first question. “I am Doctor Samael Norse.” he offered his name, but not his hand to shake.
“I am no stranger to to cadavers, old or otherwise. Tell me, how might I catch a glimpse of this demonstration?”
Azul Morag – Sep 16, 2009 at 11:43 AM
Amadeus smiled. It was a curious smile, half self-conceited and half gentle, almost fatherly, despite he could have been younger than Samael.
“I have freedom of pass,” Amadeus said. “If you agree, you may be my guest for the night. If after the demonstration you are still curious, I could introduce you to Niemeyer, myself. You do have an interesting… face, doctor Norse. You look like a man seeking answers to problems of a personal nature. Quite definitive problems, perhaps. Niemeyer is rather exclusive nowadays, but above all he loves to teach. If you are my guest I am positive he won’t mind your presence at the demonstration… yet I must say, he could still disagree. Please keep this in mind.”
Divinatas – Sep 28, 2009 at 2:18 PM
Samael raised an eyebrow at the man’s judgment of his character and intentions. Amadeus was not far off base. He had the feeling this man had insights beyond his own understands, but it could just as easily of been paranoia. Still, he was correct. Samael wanted answers. …and solutions.
“I understand.” he replied. “If he will not speak to me, that’s of no consequence. I can seek audience elsewhere. Still, I do hope he can shed some light on my… interests. Even if only from watching this demonstration.”
Azul Morag – Sep 30, 2009 at 10:44 AM
[bg=#9EB0B4][so=#685311][imga=right]http://space-kitten.org/forum/picture.php?albumid=2&pictureid=1841[/imga][b][u]Amadeus Ritter: Asmodeus[/u][/b]
Amadeus smiled. “I do hope you will be satisfied,” he said, narrowing his eyes like a lazy feline. Indeed, his lower eyelids rose as much as the top ones lowered. He was smiling faintly. “There is still about an hour before the demonstration begins. If you agree, we can proceed to the chamber where the demonstration will take place. It’s not in a common access area of the Club. This may sound strange, but I enjoy watching the preparations for this sort of event.”
Amadeus gave a thoughtful nod.
“Unless you prefer to dine before, but I don’t advise it.”
Divinatas – Oct 7, 2009 at 6:34 PM
Samael got the impression that dining was probably the last thing he wanted to do before this demonstration. His stomach was not weak by any means, but he was unsure of what to expect.
Nodded curtly, he agreed. “No, I do not wish to dine. I find myself curious about these preparations myself. Importing artifacts from the Egyptian Desert must have been quite a feat.”[/so][/bg]
Azul Morag – Oct 19, 2009 at 10:02 AM
[bg=#9EB0B4][so=#685311][imga=right]http://space-kitten.org/forum/picture.php?albumid=2&pictureid=1904[/imga][b][u]Amadeus Ritter: Asmodeus[/u][/b][/color
“Money and influences alleviate most difficulties,” Amadeus replied with a smile. “I am sure in your practice you may have come across people who believe everything can be cured fast and easy as long as they hand out enough cash. I know I have come across many of such people in my lifetime.” Amadeus led the way out of the exhibition chamber and through a long lounge with a bar and comfy couches where a few gentlemen read books or engaged in conversation.
“Doctor Norse, everything in this world can be bought and sold. As all absolute truths, the principle is very simple: life and death are about exchanges. Everything has a price, whether such price is hard value or sentimental, emotional value if you will, is irrelevant to the basic principle. Translated into common speech one may say, ‘Nothing is for free.’ There is though one higher power – one Gift exclusive to mankind which can override the dynamics of life and death. That gift esteemed doctor, is Free-Will. Free will is the Gift of Man. This essentially is the power of choice. In every situation no matter how difficult or trapping it may seem, a human being always has a choice to make. Free will is absolute and exclusive to mankind. Nowadays people like to forget that.”
They were going down a wide corridor illuminated by gas lamps that led to a winding staircase that overlooked a smaller hall with a dense aroma of incense and filled with Arabian music, low and voluptuous. A woman in gauzy attire gracefully danced on a stage balancing two large scimitars. The place disappeared form view as the staircase sank further through another level and what seemed to be a library; all decor was red, dark wine, dark red oak and black; it was eerily silent. Despite there was no door between the previous space and this one, all sound and scent were gone as if they had crossed an invisible wall. Golden lamps lit the silent chamber. The walls seemed cushioned in red satin and black pins in a diamond pattern. The winding stair turned narrow but still wide enough for two men to descend side by side and changed from marble to forged iron.
“You may wonder why I tell you this. I find you interesting and I believe Niemeyer might give you audience so I want to help you. Not to spoil your road to discovery,” Amadeus’s voice was melodious and smooth like a professor’s and now richer with a kind of sarcasm, “but you will find yourself in a crossroads very soon. Every decision you take is yours and no power in heaven or hell has command over the choices you make. As long as you remember that, you will keep your dignity. Undignified people quickly fall from Niemeyer’s graces.”
“Do excuse me for boring you. Here is the door.”
Indeed, there [i]was[/i] a door: a door that one second ago was not there at all on one of the walls. It was carved in squares and lines like many a door and asides from its strange ability to appear out of nowhere there was nothing remarkable to it.
“I have a guest,” Amadeus said to the door. “His name is Norse.”
The door opened an eye. It was nothing extraordinary either, except its unusual location; the wood seemed to ply and house it perfectly in an strange transition from wood to flesh. The eye cast Samael a head to toes look that seemed quite disdainful before closing and disappearing. At the same time, the lock clicked and the door opened.
“After you, Dr. Norse.”