The devil you know

    A pulse of control warps reality around Absinthe as she tries to push herself into the twilight where ghosts and strong spirits reside.  Reality ripples and bounces back, knocking her down to her knees in front of the second bed in the hotel room where she was trapped.

    "You okay if I smoke?" asks Bishop as the early thirties Italian New-Yorker casually stands up from the guest chair and walks toward the window.

    Absinthe is desperately trying to catch her breath in-between the two hotel beds.

    Bishop casually steps onto the window sill, then through the window onto the ledge, looking around and lighting his cigarette from his finger.  He turns sideways to lean against the window, and turns his head casually toward the mage.

    "Terrible habit, I know, but, everyone's gotta die sometimes, am I right?!"

She said / SHE said

    Absinthe would never admit liking anyone outside of her order.  The Ladder are selfish politicians, the Guardians are a dangerous cult who do the Throne's work, the Books are mad scientists, and the Libertines are one step better than Marauders.

    It took three years to deal with the omen Abaddon warned her about on the side of the St. John's River.  He was right on almost everything, save for the death toll it caused.  The Arrow think his legacy are a danger, driving death to fuel their purpose, but so far others have vouched for them and so they avoid "left-hand" status.

    Our Masters have proof of his contact with Bishop, the "ruler" of this area of the Throne, and our highest value target.  Multiple 'Satellite' Cabals were assigned to Abaddon, though tracking a Master to avoid detection, as expected, has been difficult.  Our Moros contingent is thin, and we allocate resources as necessary.

    Absinthe has continued to be a steadfast Guardian.  Her 'wild-child' aesthetic has become not a affect, but part of her personal culture.  She has found the supernal connection between the dead skin of life to multiple other concepts, and is well on her way toward being a Sage in certain areas, barring her hubris getting in the way of her wisdom and gnosis.  As she wrote in a poem, "Life defends life, as the remainders of one enhance the longevity of the next."

    As the masters brush finished the notes on the scroll, Absinthe finished the glass of scotch and gave a tongue-in-cheek blessing to the entity she had ended that night.

    "Ya dirty mac, I gave you a thwack, and sent you packin' with your tiny cack!"

    The bar erupts in laughter and cheers at something on the televisions, and she laughed at her own joke given the synchronicity so hard that she fell backward off the barstool onto the hardwood floor of the James Joyce Pub.

    Her ungloved right hand felt the wood beneath her, and her perception spread throughout it like nerve endings running along muscles.  In a second, she knew every grain, worn board, soft spot, and loose placement of the entire floor in the bar.

    A strong arm helped her up...which she accepted before her brain screamed at her that she didn't notice this person.  She could typically feel people around her before they EVER touched her.

    The man was a tall ginger in a simple but well-tailored suit only an inch over her height.  He had a pleasant, sales-men's face.  She hated it from the start.

    "Absinthe, I presume?" he said with a heavy New-York gangster accent.

    She hated him even more.

    Her mind raced at her assets.  There were two bobs outside, and one backup sympathizer in the bar.  If this guy could get this close without notice, however, she needed to play the politics.

    "Sure.  Who the fuck are you?"

    "Bishop," he stated plainly, the 'genuine' half-smile never fading.

    "We doing this here?" Absinthe asked as she began moving her hands in mudras to summon supernal strength.

    "S'up to you," he said, "though I have no intention on force being used unless you make it necessary."

    Her innate magical perceptions finally catch up, and she can feel that this is an illusion, or only part of a presence.  Any force she could apply wouldn't harm the target fully.

    "First, what the fuck you want?   And only second, where?"

    The businessman reaches toward the bar where no drink is, and lift an imaginary shot to his lips, downing it in one.

    "Debate and negotiation on cabal territory.  Any delegate.  Jose Marti Parque since it's comfortable for 'ya.  2 AM, eastern standard.  No harm from either side.  My bond," he says as he hands her his business card.

    Absinthe knows enough to know that this is an agreement being bound by fate.  The Arrow knows Bishop was an Obrimos Guardian, so FATE is not an Arcana that he could reach easily, though this sounds like a FATE agreement.

    But the intelligence the Arrow could gather is too valuable to pass on...

    "And your word that no harm will befall either side is there," she states clearly.

    He blinks once, but doesn't show any other sign of care.  "Agreed," he says, hand never moving with the card outstretched.

    Absinthe sighs once.  No one can see her eyes close behind the glasses as she focusses on her magic to try and read as much as she can.

    Her body never shows it, but she is shocked by the absolute blank that Bishop is in front of her.  She begins to feel around for ghosts and other old spirits attached to this place.  She feels a heat, so absent from the sight of death, and begins to track it.

    The heat intensifies, making it easier to find, until she realizes it centers on the body of bishop, and instantly becomes so scalding she.....

    Absinthe grabs her face as her eyes begin to scald as if she put hot peppers in them....

    She feels hands on her shoulder

    "Are you okay?!" asks the ginger businessman

    She pushes him away, "Yes, fine, can someone give me wet napkins or something?!" she says flailing as she begins to push her mundane senses away to rely on her arcane senses.

    She can feel every material and every body near her.  Even a living person has dead skin cells.

    What continues to bother is she can't feel Bishop.

    Multiple people try to console and help her, bringing wet towels or any salves they have.  After a moment she looks around...and Bishop is gone.

    Thinking she walked into a trap, she leaves certain non-magical signs in various places, before heading to her room in the nearby hotel.  There's a lazy janitor and room attendant very close by.  They stink horribly, but Absinthe is comforted by their presence as she walks into her room for the first time, totally expecting....

    "Champagne or bee-ah," says the heavily New York accent.  The ginger is there as if he spawned in the room.  Her shock at someone breaking through her wards and traps saps her breadth.  She sees the guy in the room's mirror as if he was really there.

    "No, thanks." she says warily as she walks into the room two steps to let the door close but not lock.

    "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead" he says bluntly but absent minded as he looks around the room.  "No mini bar?" he asks as he looks up.

    "What the FUCK asshole?!" Absinthe yells, becoming aggressive and instantly drawing combat forms near her hands.

    Bishops hands come up near his shoulders in defense and mock fear...."Whoah, WOAH! I'm not hear to fight, seriously!"

    His hands never move, and he looks directly at her and away as if he's really there and not trying to start shit.

    Absinthe took a few seconds to feel the air move.  His body is actually there this time, but she doesn't let her guard down.

    She points dramatically, "sit down asshole!"

    He looks side to side and plops down, hands still comically up in the air.

    "Okay, you win.  Can I put my fuckin hands down now, Christ!?" he says

    She considers and blinks twice...but wants to make him squirm.  Fuck the throne.

    "No, keep 'em up."

    "So, are you actually in charge or....." he starts

    "What do you want?!"

    The ginger leans back and runs his hands through his hair as the freckles evaporate and his skin and hair darken to a casual brunette.  The color changes end when he looks like a traditional Italian American as his hands stay up in the air.

    "To meet you." he says as his hands come down to rest laced in front of him casually.  All facade of him feeling threatened by Absinthe is gone.

    The pulse of Absinthe's senses return a horrible response telling her...."you're in a bubble."

    However this happened, she walked into a space based trap.  She begins to whisper wards around herself under her breadth.

    "Absinthe," begins Bishop, his tone now casual, distracted, and deep stereotypical NY Islander....."don't bothuh..."

    

Necromancer Hangout

https://www.theblackhammock.com/

 The throaty growl of the Indian Scout motorcycle ricocheted around the slipway.  The bikers and locals sitting in the nearby bar cast a casual glance toward the parking lot, but didn't give it much notice since it was a common occurrence.  Bikes come and go occasionally, even during the middle of a weekday.

    Only one man in a dingy hoody with dirt caked boots didn't react.  The hobo was sitting at a shamble of a table, fragile plastic patio furniture, a few feet out of the bar's screened in patio.  The hoodie swayed slightly side to side as he sighed and gave a patient, meaningful glance over the small land peninsula that served as the center of docks for this St. John's "fishing camp".  Just after noon it seemed blissful and calm...as most snowbird yuppies think a "Florida fishing camp" might look.

    The hobo scratched his stubble and turned his head to the right.  He calls out to be heard with both volume and a respectful tone..."Marie?!  Can I get two more buds, please?!"  The bartender provides and the last few minutes of casual bliss pass without notice.

    There's too much volume for anyone to hear the crunch of boots on gravel as the rider of the Indian Scout bike makes her way through the bar...but it only takes a few moments for most of the natives to see the athletic blonde biker bitch in tight road leathers after the screen door clatters closed.

    It's the middle of the day on a Thursday, so there's only the locals and regulars here.  It's a sparse handful of folks.  However, every single one notices the intense and arousing blonde biker chick with 'John-Lennon'-esque circular sunglasses.  Only one idiot said anything to that woman as she walked by them...and she didn't even respond.    She walks with purpose...right the fuck past them...and out to the seemingly pathetic hobo out on the far dock table.

    No one noticed her casual snap as the screen door clapped closed.  It was just coincidence that the cat-caller's old bar stool was rotted on one leg and collapsed so he fell to the floor.

    The biker's heavy boots make thick dents into the soft earth as she walks up to the decrepit patio furniture.  "You're a dick," she says to the grungy man in the hoodie as she takes one of the beers and raises the bottle to her lips.

    The hoodie nods slightly in acknowledgement.  "Where's bob?" he says in a lazy baritone.

    "Really?  You know I'm not stupid enough to bring them out here," she retorts, then finishes off the bottle.  "So....*BELCH*...do we need privacy?" she says, starting to enjoy the view of nature as the river flows by.

    "Not until someone pays attention," says the hoodie, his tone patient and calm.  "Why would anyone care about us out here?"

    "Wow," says the biker chick as she plops down at the table and finishes off the bottle, "you really HAVE lost touch with reality."

    The hoodie staring out into the river turns, just enough to reveal half his face.  It's the face of a middle aged man who has worked in nothing but harsh environments, or is on the cusp of losing his battle with cancer.  His right eye is sunken, skin stretched over pronounced cheeks, and thin lips barely covering teeth that seem a grimace or a grin.  They make brief eye-contact, and both share a subtle morbid chuckle in comradery that none would ever notice.  A few seconds of silence pass before they break eye contact.

    The tension breaks as she smacks his shoulder roughly and they look out over the river..."Okay, what the fuck am I doing here corpse-Jesus?"

    He's already watching the waves churn in the river..."the restless are moving north-west toward a gaping nihil.  I know two cabals are heading that way through fate or direction, but the Arrow need to be ready."

    An enormous over-dramatic sigh escapes Absinthe's lips as she removes her shades, revealing caverns where eyeballs should rest.  "Plain-speak dead-ass!  Your 'that side' mumbo jumbo don't mean shit here!  What the fuck do we need to do on this side?!"  She leans forward to get closer to his face, resting her beer-arm's elbow on her knee to make staring at him easier...

    "HEY STEVIE TWIX!" yells the mid-day drunk guy from the bar as he exits the screened in patio onto the land dock.

    The grave-digger's hand moves off the table and onto her raised knee since she's been resting her foot on the plastic chair.  "Let it go." he says clearly.  Even though the tone is chill, it's not a directive, just guidance.

    Absinthe doesn't care what he thinks.

    "Sure." is all she mumbles as she puts her shades back on and pulls her leg off the chair, letting his hand drop into air.  She stands full up and turns toward the annoyance.

    He's all smiles and open arms once she faces him, the intense biker chick isn't as intimidating in the bright middle of the day.  "Hey baby, I was wondering where you w*HCK*"

   With one fluid movement, she wrapped his arm around his head and spun him around, then kicked out the back of his legs and twisted his mid section as his face hits the soft-wet-grass.  He begins to vomit as she talks to him...

  Her voice is icy cold, not metaphoric, but actually cold on his earlobe.... "I'm not your baby, fucktard, and you're lucky that this hobo has patience for people like you.  If it wasn't for bad-asses like me, you would have died crying for mommy long ago. So go back to the bar, shut the fuck up, and open an endless tab for me and my friend till I say otherwise.  Get it?!"

    She lifted his head as he choked out the remaining sick.  "I get it, I get it!"  he sputters as he clears his windpipe.  Absinthe gets up off his bent legs and actually helps him stand up so he can run back into the bar as the screen door slams hard behind him.

    She let out a sigh as she put her glasses back on and sat down at the small dock table.  "Fuck you, dude.  That guy deserved it."

    "They're all idiots and don't know any better.  You're invulnerable...you didn't have belittle him."

    "They're animals and don't deserve any better." Absinthe says as she grabbed Abaddon's half-full bottle raised it to her lips.  She smacks her lips with the final swallow of suds and coyly remarks with a snarky smile, "you don't have anything I should worry about do you?

    His tone becomes even more droning as he says, "You started something.  His ego....,"

    "...Makes him a pussy to his friends.  I get it," says Absinthe, "I'm also fucking bored and you were the idiot who put us in a spot with sleepers!  Now, what are we dealing with?"

    The door to the dock peninsula creeks open as the two drunks come out toward the two.

   The biker chick drops her head in defeated consternation, her bad-ass tone becoming more of a woman asking for desperate answers... "Hey grandfather time, am I gonna kill them?   Does it matter?  You going to help?"   A second goes by that feels stretched out forever....

    "Fuck you then." she says...not angry, just resolute.

   Okay reader, let me explain that any mage is dangerous if they feel threatened.  Even worse is a necromancer who can control both death and matter.  Worse still is if that mage is Adamantine Arrow, which are essentially the monster hunters and marines of the supernatural.....Absinthe is that worst case scenario.  I won't bother describing the two "Florida-men" who came out of the bar...you see them in your mind's eye.  One is in overalls, the other in camo shorts.

    "Come on, honey!" says overalls, "that hobo ain't gonna buy you enough drinks!"
    "Whatever you're into, we got you!" camo shorts chuckles "seriously, whatever!  I'll hook you up!"

    Absinthe stands and steps around to have solid footing.    The vision of a tight leather biker Stevie Nicks is more than these two drunks can process and the pace slows.  [She HATES that she looks this way naturally]  She raises one gloved hand and beckons them closer with the traditional pointer finger "come hither" gesture.  So simple, so enticing.  So stupid.

    Even though she's a tall 5'8" with her boots on, they're tall men, nearly or over six feet.  A few seconds of tension pass as they walk up, all drunk smiles.

    Her gloved hand taps camo jeans on the thigh...his belt breaks and the shorts let go....falling to the ground....he scrambles around backward as she tilts her perspective to the next threat.  Her fist raises and the atoms of air between it and overall's face get out of her way to deliver....till they reverse and resist, air pressure condensing around her arm, making her punch sluggish and flaccid as it connects with his face.  He takes a solid blow to the nose...far stronger than he expected from her, but not as debilitating as she wanted, and backs away, tripping over the hem of his pant legs and falling to the ground.  Her face snaps to the seated hoodie, pissed at his interference.

  Absinthe whips her full body around, her gorgeous blond hair flashing in the midday sun.  Her nimbus flares, smoldering fire pits churn where her eyes should be, the carbon choked smoke staining the rims of her glasses and putting charcoal smears on her forehead and hair.  Abbadon can see the ripples of heat cooking the air around her and charring the edges of the plastic table between them.

    All camo and overalls see is a very tough and now angry biker chick having a melt down, but for some reason they can't explain, they both feel uneasy and scared.  They scramble back into the bar, pushing each other to force their way through the screen door first.

    Any person who can see magic the way these folks can would assume she's a demon or monster, and would have no clue that she's one of the few things protecting normal people from the very same.  "Are you FUCKING kidding ME?!" she screams, her voice ripping the air around it, resulting in every bird ejecting themselves directly away from her into the horizon.  They're far more sensitive than sleepers.

    The hoodie turns to her completely, his gentle storm blue eyes lock onto hers.  His face is so unmoving, so without unconscious reaction, that it would scare sleepers because they can't reconcile a corpses face on a moving body.

    "You're not my kid," he says, in a way that sounds like he gave up on the job half-way....and turns back to the St. John's river.  He pats the fragile plastic seat next to him.., "come on Sergeant Morticia.  We got shit to discuss."

    The flames and affects of her nimbus vanish in a puff as she chuckles against her will.  "I would say 'you fuckin kill me sometimes' but I don't trust you not to..."

    She shakes her head and sits down, calling over her shoulder "Where's the next round?!  Don't make me ask again!"  Abaddon's heavy sigh gives her something just to the left of glee, though she doesn't show it.  For all the pain and suffering she endures for humanity, these morbid moments of levity with other Necromancers lets her find kernels of joy.  After all, it's a dead man's party...

I can be anything I WANNA BEEEeeeeee.......

 "These bills are fuckin' weird," Jeff says to Leo.

"You tryin to fuck us?!" Leo says as he thrusts the barrel of his 9mm toward the old man's wrinkled crown a few times.

He stabilizes his wrist on the agent of death.  "I can end you right now bitch.  Just say, 'when'."

The cold metal of the barrel presses against the forehead of the man, who at this point has pissed himself, and is praying to whatever god he worships, hoping to understand what he did to deserve this.  Jeff has given up on his control and is swept by the current.  Leo is clinging to his individuality by violence, which never ends well...

The merchant's wife has been in a back room, her hand shaking as she clutched her cellphone in the midst of an active 911 call.  She's trying to save her husband and her children.

"Enough....you ass-hat," a voice rings out loud and clear in the small jewelers shop on the avenue.  The thick Scottish accent comes from a five-foot-nothing East Asian man emerging from the shadows of the back office.  He looks at the immaculate lapels of his expensive suit and scoffs before he dusts them off and looks at the scum in front of him.

"Do you want yourself to win, or your family to fail, jackass!?," Leo says casually as he points the barrel at the surprising yuppie who came out of no-where.

"When did you fail yourself,  ya damned munkey?!" the voice echoes in Leo's mind...

Leo remembers every hardship he avoided, every challenge he failed, every time he could have done better but knew, somehow, it was easier to give up and get free minor progression than actual success.

The beat cops in the city have seen this too many times recently.  Some small time crook suddenly becomes psycho because he didn't get mommies' love.

Leo gets a new apartment in a padded room.  Jeff gets watched for a month...then ignored.  But not by everyone.

Jeff finally gets out, and starts to do more damage than Leo would ever do.  He randomly kills leaders of free will, he stops someone from finding the cure for cancer that would be found on the internet.

______________________________

Melissa and Chris look at their newborn baby.  "Jeffery," says his mother.

Always Watching

" I really liked this scent," I think as I finish my daily shave...

        ...as I am applying the luscious foam with the 'old spice' scent to my overgrown stubble...

I feel my web vibrate and have to put the razor down before I start.  I (we/us/I) watch as always...

    ...I flick the last of my shave scum into the sink basin and look up into the mirror...

I look down at the fresh razor wondering how many moments repeat before it reaches my face.....

    ...I can see the razor approach my face from so many angles before it ever reaches me...

My smile/wink/grimace are all the same reaction to the movement on my web.....

    ...I don't need to close my eyes to change my perspective.  Everything is our perspective now.

She tries to move her fate far away and her friend blurs their mentality...it's irrelevant.

    ...They see themselves, they see each other, a camera watches, a bird complains, a bug pursues...

Acknowledgement is existence.  "I" do not exist without being perceived.  Sentience becomes so, by definition, when it becomes aware of itself.  "I think, therefore, I am."

Kneel to your Exarch.  The first of all.  Her number is four, and your ego is your worship.

    

Faded Script

    "Curator Belium," yells the novice down the hall, his speed not causing slight flickers in the illusionary sconces.  "You have mail!  Actual snail mail!"  The light ironically casts no shadows for members of the caucus, a subtle protective measure put in place by the Curator and other assisting Obrimos.

    Belium turns around, his face bright with honest surprise since there are few channels the caucus receives physical communication through anymore.  With her ascendence to Curator more than a decade ago, most communication had become electronic or supernal, but always esoteric.

    "From who?" she says amused.  The novice hesitates for a moment, then admits, "I can't tell.  I did all the divinations I can think of, but ..."  He hands Belium the letter, a simple unassuming envelope, with a slight static shock passing between them during the handover.  "I'm sorry," he says with a gentle smile as she accepts the paper.

    Belium passes her hand across the envelope, her face creasing in ways the novice had never seen before, making him uneasy.  To him, the envelope glows slightly with a blue light, but nothing more.  Her creases disappear as she returns her attention to him.  "I need to investigate this.  Good job", she says before turning away and heading to her study, her flat boots making a heavy thud against the stonework floor of the hall.

    The subsonic vibration given by the lock of her private study filled Belium with comfort.  Finally alone she didn't need to conceal the giddy joy she felt at receiving this missive from a respected senior member of the order.  She went to her stock of material regents and found the tiny vial of Hermium given to her by the assumed writer.  She slipped her hands into enchanted silk gloves to assure delicacy, gently dipping a golden quill into the liquid.  She began to intone the celestial notes necessary to remove the wards set upon the envelope, drawing the solution to the ward's key in the air just above the rectangular paper.

    The wards dissolved and the illusion disappeared, revealing a simple sigil on the back of the envelope.  "What must I do?" she said out loud in a clear voice to the empty room.  The chair in the corner of the room tilted once, then twice, creating a one-then-two pattern of knocks.  She couldn't couldn't help her smile broadening, feeling she was closer to solving the key and receiving the message.  She whispered into the envelope, "knock once, then twice," her breath catching in her chest as she waited for the response.

The chair stopped moving and the seemingly simple glue of the envelope was suddenly gone, allowing her to gently remove it's contents.

Whispers on ghostly lips

    Abbadon answers the interviewer's question, "Listening through the veil is just something we do.  It's not new, but it's never easy.  Imagine leaning your head against a cotton web, but the cotton is wet and sticky, icy hot and icy cold.  It also somehow makes a sound that feels like moaning whenever it moves, not a crisp static like fibers grabbing each other, but more like the moan of a violin or cello...strings shaking in frustration at being touched.

You see Abaddon tilt his head to the left, distracted by something...

    No one has ever accused the Ferrymen of being overtly "fun".

    It's not like we don't know have a good time, it's more like we learned how to appreciate the smaller joys in life just as much.  I'm sorry, I may not be explaining myself well enough."

He blinks a few times and looks left and right, reminding you of a parent bombarded by yelling children.

    A harsh voice, like someone hoarse after a couching fit, whispers between the two of you...'Conductor, Michael says the bright-one returned.'

    Though the obvious voice shocks you a little, Abaddon doesn't react visibly, just stirs his tea a bit more before setting it aside.  You are once again shocked by the unassuming manor of this lanky middle-aged man.  No one would be surprised to hear he was a grave-digger or an undertaker.  He wears simple dirty jeans, a well-worn workman's shirt, and a woolen hoodie with the hoodie constantly over his brow.  You're pretty sure entropy or fate tries to keep his eyes away from direct contact.  

    There are rumors that he's an archmage in disguise.  While it doesn't seem like his nimbus is active, once anyone speaks to him, the field of calm and patience and the urge to have a well deserved sleep becomes a challenge to disregard.  It's the main reason your caucus sent you to research his history.  The Mysterium have precious few Legacies, and a time-living founder is rarer still.  Like most masters, connecting with them is a rare chance, so you have to ask every question now, before this moment is lost....

    "Why didn't you join the Throne?" you ask, shocked by how easy you said it.  You see his attention pulled back to the present of the question, as if all the distractions he may have been in were less important.

    "Because they're slavers." he says starkly without missing a beat.

    "The soul persists regardless of intellect or will."  He shifts in his seat and sets his arms on the chair's arms, obviously engaged in this topic of conversation.

    "A soul without either becomes an echo.  They're stuck in our realm, but as an intangible thing.  Ironically they don't stick around long because the other forces of shadow will consume or control them.  That or the throne enslaves them.  We [the Ferrymen] try to guide them to the far shore...but it's more an effort on our part than theirs.  There's not enough of the person there to make it to somewhere else.  Most ghosts and wraiths have enough will to make it easier, but it's still a challenge."

The mention of 'somewhere else' peaks your interest and your journalist spirit....

    "But aren't your people supposed to be the guides of the dead to somewhere else?  If you are ferrying souls, where are you ferrying th...?!"

    You are halfway through your statement as Abaddon stops staring into the bottom of his tea-cup.  As you finish, he half-smiles and looks conspicuously to his left.  He looks down at his dried tea, and begins tapping the spoon on the porcelain edge.

    The first few taps are confusing, but the next few begin to make your head spin.  For a brief few moments, you can see a transparent figure standing next to him, a formal figure from turn of the century old-west.  He has an oversized pocket-watch that he continually looks at, and you realize his eyes are oversized like a surreal cartoon.  His cartoonishly tiny lips continue to move, whispering in Abaddon's ear.  {Dear reader, I wrote this part in 2017, way before GET OUT.}

    Then another figure becomes clear, a woman in an archaic cotton wedding dress.  Her face is bloated and purple, the flesh seen outside the dress is swollen and bruised.  Her fingertips however have flesh eaten away to tips, and the bone beneath filed to razor sharp point.  She sits to Abaddon's side, whispering to him about their coming wedding and how he's the only one for her, while her razor fingertips constantly try to split his arteries on his forearm.  Only a flowing silver-blue layer of energy keeps the spirit from opening his arteries.  What you previously thought was him reaching to scratch an itch on his back is obviously a reaction to her constant subtle attacks.

    His hand then moves to her face as he whispers "sleep/stillness" in a version of Atlantean this is both confusing and clear.  Her corpus wavers and fades.

    You had just finished saying, "...ferrying souls, where are you ferrying them to?!" when you get this strange sensation of deja vu.

    Abaddon places his tea cup on a side table and leans back in his very uncomfortable looking chair.  "What do you want to hear?", he says with a gentle smile.

    Twenty dead seconds go by as you think...

    He chuckles and leans forward, "There's no real answer.  If you believe all of existence is relative, then that explains rotes and legacies but not perpetually throughout time.  If existence is absolute, then how do we reconcile new legacies or the growth in hedge mages?  Vampires, Mummies, and other eternals add even more snags in the threads of our conjecture.  I've published a number of thesis on the souls of vampires, by the way.  You should read them!"  He says the last sentence with the chuckle of a seasoned researcher showing some ego, but you already know his published work throughout the order is the definitive work on the supernal nature of the soul among the undead.

    Finally the moment has come where you feel it's the right time to ask the question so many want answered.  Your journalist, sensationalist, and curious nature come to the forefront.  The words jump out before you can catch them or reconsider.  "Are you actually dead?!"

    All semblance of emotion slowly drains away from his face.  He slowly leans back into his chair, and that added distance gives you a modicum of relief, but you feel this is the calm before the storm.

    As a mage you have seen and felt when other mages uncloak their nature.  It can be scary or crazy, but gives you a direct insight into their truth.  For mages who know how to look, it can make a mage who tried to show off also show their vulnerability.

    Suddenly you're being choked.  The hand came out of nowhere.  You can't breath...you find your arms and hands flailing and scraping against anything, trying to pull this thing from off your throat so you can get air.... you're not sure if Abbadon is still sitting as the world begins to roll.

    Your vision quickly becomes blurry.....then fades to dark.....

    The light is shocking.  It's a bright flash before you are back, floating, like you had just asked Abaddon if he was dead.  Except your body is now below you....the room that was empty is now FULL of people....SCARY people.  This must be the waiting room of the dead from Beatlejuice crossed with Hellraiser.

    In front of you is the image of a sitting grim reaper superimposed on top of a gaunt, haggard naked man seeming to float in a hungry abyss.   The reaper shape is enormous, dark, and the edges of it's form seem to keep this internal emptiness at bay.  There's no scythe, but a throbbing chord of colors move around the right wrist of the reaper and the man, not tied together but ephemeral echoes of each other.

    You realize that the figure isn't moving toward any of the dead around you.  It's not pursuing or consuming anyone else.  It's skeletal hand points at one of the soul around you and beckons them to approach.

    As the soul approaches, the figure shrinks, becoming a humble creature, slightly shorter than the soul's personification.  You can see an exchange occur, the shrouded figure talking with the soul of the car salesman. The figure splits in two...one guiding the soul far away...the other continuing it's service to the crowd....

    You wake up coughing, your hand instinctively going to your throat.  Your eyes send daggers at Abaddon, who is calmly sitting in his chair, breathing calmly with his eyes closed.  "What was THAT?!"

    Hi

[For any MtA players: The 'Ferrymen' are a Mysterium + Moros Legacy.  Fate is their added Arcana.]