[Closed] Another Brick in the Wall

A Resistance journalist and a university professor walk into a tourist bar...

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Brunnhold's college town, located inside the university grounds.

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Adam Spencer
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Thu May 02, 2019 11:17 pm

The Brass Uncle • Anaxas/ Brunnhold
On the 37th of Bethas, 2719 • Evening
Bethas was drawing to a close and, with it, so was the merciless chill and snow that had blanketed all of Anaxas. At least it made the three-day trip to Brunnhold a little less awful.

The town itself had never been to Adam's tastes, though. The innate classism frustrated him, but more than that, it made him suspicious of the whole gods-damned place. They had to be hiding something inside that university; he was sure of it. Otherwise, why wouldn't his fellow humans be allowed to access it? "It's dangerous to non-magical beings to learn about such things," the galdori might say condescedingly, but at the same time, they clearly saw nothing wrong with utilizing their magic when it suited them, regardless of the impact it had on anyone outside of galdori society.

He was no great fan of Vienda, but at least the city was livable, and at least, in its own way, it was no respecter of person provided you were ambitious enough and talented enough to eke out your way in the world. Brunnhold offered nothing for him like that; it closed him out, physically, and he would rather have been anywhere else than a place that kept him at arm's length for fear of what he might find out if he was let in any closer.

To make things worse, the Brass Uncle had clearly shed whatever scant charms it had from the last time he was here. It made his teeth hurt. Everything was so bright and cheerful and horrifically rustic. But it was as good a meeting place as any. All the cheer and chatter would muffle any awkward conversation he'd have with the galdori faculty member within the din, and the customers, mainly tourists, would never recognize either his target or him, or likely care.

Some awful recording of a street band burst out on the phonograph, and he grimaced. At the very least, they could have found people who played as if they weren't drunk, or played more interestingly when drunk. Someone had clearly ripped the restaurant off, tricked its proprietors into thinking this was music. It wasn't even close to music. He sank into the chair, trying to bury drunken tourist laughter and screaming children and not-exactly-music, but it was maddening.

This evening's conversation had better be worth it. All the way here, trapped in a place he remembered as radically different, subject to all this -- if the galdor he was meeting had nothing interesting to say, he'd ask for his travel expenses back, and the immense amount of Flashfight he'd have to drink to ignore all this.

Tightening his grip on the glass of Flashfight, he shut his eyes against the din. It didn't do much to stop the noise, but it did at least make the screaming children at the table a short distance away vanish from his sight, if not his hearing. If this was the high-water mark of educated galdori society, no wonder it was a few days' journey from Vienda and kept under literal lock and key.

He pulled out his pocketwatch. Time enough for the professor to arrive and say whatever was to be said, from what the message that had gotten to him through the cell had said. If it was at all useful for the Gadfly, it might even merit a drink. A valid business expense, at least.

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Tue May 21, 2019 4:15 pm

37th of Bethas, 2719
The Brass Uncle | Evening
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He was late, as always, Castor Devlin not quite able to bend all of Vita to his will to put a few more hours into the already long thirty-hour day. Instead, the man had slipped from Brunnhold's campus after yet another student had appeared in his office, needing yet another of his Perceptive projects explained in simpler terms. He'd lingered, aware of the hands on the clock in his large study, watching them move to the rhythm of his accelerated pulse even as he carefully tempered himself and gave the young green-uniformed teen a few extra moments of his time in order to think through the problem herself instead of accidentally giving away all of the lesson in his impatience.

Once the young woman was quite enlightened, grinning and thanking him, he was tugging on his coat and thanking her, locking his office door behind him, and quickly scooting past another gaggle of galdori to get outside. Stalking his way across campus in the reluctant warmth of late Bethas, the Magister of Perceptive magic tugged up the collar of his coat, curling fingers into his cravat and pulling it loose, tucking it carefully into the inner pocket. He ran fingers through his hair and over his beard, putting away his spectacles.

Through the gates of the prestigious University proper, he chose to walk the entire way through the Stacks to the Brass Uncle even though he knew—he knew—that taking a cab would have been faster. As he walked, he carefully dampened in his field, gathering the mona that was so heavy and so very familiar and present in his existence gently against his person that by the time he arrived at the tacky old student dive with its loud colors and louder decor, Johanne Ceres felt more like just another average galdor than one of the most powerful Perceptive sorcerers in the Kingdom, his field still imposing but no longer oppressive in its strength.

It was only a minor disguise, but it was, in his opinion, just enough to keep the Resistance comfortable with his assistance, especially since only Serro knew just where in galdor society Magister Devlin really existed. Ceres was a useful nobody, and he liked keeping it that way, his connection to Brunnhold claimed as a minor clerk, a lowly paper pusher, instead of the Chair of his Department.

The bell of the Brass Uncle's door jangled—just as garish as the rest of the place—and the dark-haired man's blue eyes swept the room while he smiled at the waitress who greeted him. The place was full of students at this hour, plenty of older students who didn't have their formal dinner tonight. Perhaps he should have been attending that, but they were so clocking boring.

He'd been told a very general description of the man he was looking for—a human from Vienda—and if the music would have been a little quieter, he would have felt far more capable of making the correct deduction. Mister Ceres winced, adjusting to the atmosphere, if one could call it that, and met the gaze of a younger, dark-haired man with a pocket watch before he waved his hand at the server swiftly approaching, dismissing her. Inviting himself to sit without actually asking, the older galdor hooked a thumb toward the phonograph,

"They're actually much better in person. Or so I've been told. I hope you don't mind if I join you, Inspector, sir."

Johannes offered the lilt of a smile, his no longer delicate features softened by a well-trimmed beard. Humanity had been offered positions of local police work, though no human actually bore such an otherwise lofty title. Mister Ceres spoke in a low enough tone of voice as to not draw too much attention to its use, settling into the chair and making a hand motion to indicate that he'd have what Adam was having,

"I apologize for my lack of timeliness. Sometimes campus has a habit of holding more than just gated passives captive against their will. Anyway," His eyes flicked to the Flashfight as if the galdor was in fact anticipating his own before he returned to the human's face, "please, call me Johannes or just Ceres will do."

This was the operative that Serro had decided was worthy of breaking his cover for? The Magister sighed, leaning on the table, resisting the urge to read the young man's thoughts without even speaking a word of Monite by drumming fingers on the table instead. Clearing his throat, he added with what could only be described as a mischievous tone, "I didn't pick the venue, just so we're clear."
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Adam Spencer
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Fri May 24, 2019 7:36 pm

The Brass Uncle • Anaxas/ Brunnhold
On the 37th of Bethas, 2719 • Evening
So Johannes Ceres was… a functionary, distinctly unimportant in Brunnhold. The news was not what Adam had been expecting, and it felt distinctly unwelcome. Adam had wanted someone more powerful, perhaps, or at least more distinguished, and so he did his level best to hide the flash of disappointment on his face as the expressly average fellow walked into the terrible restaurant.

His brows drew together, though, at the dismissal of the server and the way the man seated himself without asking, before deciding it was par for the course for galdori. Smiling at the bearded felow who smiled back at him, he tilted his head to the already occupied chair. “Please, have a seat, if you haven’t already.” It was wry, though, calculated to entertain instead of insult.

He leaned back, taking a silent moment to figure out the man to whom he was speaking. He had no magic of his own, but what he did have was his wits, and they were at least reasonably strong, even stuck in this din.

“It’s Flashfight, so you know,” he told Ceres. “The drink of human warriors, or so the legends tell us.” He took a pointed sip of the drink as Ceres stared at it, relishing the taste for a moment before setting the glass down with a soft thunk of its heavy base against the table. “And it’s not a bad place, for its purposes. Though the last time I was here, years ago now, it wasn’t quite so…” He thought for a moment as he trailed off, before deciding on, “… base. But I hear tell that all this noise hides conversations. Do you know, I bet that even a Seventen couldn’t make out two people talking quietly in here. Unless that Seventen could read lips, of course.”

He folded his hands in his lap, a signal that he was at peace, before wondering vaguely, “So the information that brought me here – it’s still current? I know it took me a bit to get here, but that can’t be helped, unless somehow your lot can do something like transport a man with a flick of your hand.” He raised his brows, curious if Ceres himself could perhaps do that.

Beyond them, the music segued into another jarring, half-inebriated song. This one louder. “If you can suddenly make that clocking thing stop working, by all means, go ahead, break the needle in two. I won’t stop you.” But it was as much a challenge as it was a request – curiosity to see what Ceres could do, if he was really useful enough for the Resistance. They really could have used someone more important than a paper-pusher, even as Adam knew his own presumed mediocrity was a disguise.
Last edited by Adam Spencer on Fri Jun 07, 2019 5:33 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Thu May 30, 2019 1:38 pm

3rd of Ophus, 2718
Laboratory Beta | Evening
The Cadet was unimpressed with his presence and the older galdor hid his amusement behind an equally disinterested expression even as he read the surface thoughts and emotions of the human across from him. He'd dampened his field and put on a cheap suit, assumed another name and ordered a Flashfight as if he had every right to do so, as if he was ignorant of all the connotations that the man before him chose to so carefully point out to him in syllabic detail.

"I didn't realize I was intruding." He offered, almost smugly, though the effort it took to play the kind of galdor he was expected to be was far more uncomfortable than the Magister in disguise made it seem. Glancing away from the dark amber bottle to study the face before him, he ventured further, "There is a very unpopular academic theory that all sentient species on Vita descended from a single ancestor—humanity and galdorkind, long ago, exactly the same. If ever a galdor was publicly flogged in counter-theories and long-winded treatises, it's that man."

Ceres smirked then, entertaining the cadet's somewhat opinionated observations without disagreement. The point of the Brass Uncle was, apparently, not only to not hear your neighbors but also barely hear yourself think. He leaned a bit, the broad-shouldered galdor resting his palms on the worn tabletop, settling into his seat as if he finally intended to stay there,

"Catch the notice of the wrong Seventen, and they can read more than your lips. As for your lead—yes, everything still seems to be unraveling in that direction." The older man's eyes narrowed with the admission, his facial expression beneath his well-trimmed beard one of distaste as if his words had actually been sour against his tongue. He thought back to the morning after Clock's Eve, to the faces around the table, to the kinds of men who mad plans without a care in the world for any lives involved within them.

Fingers curled against the wood and he blinked back from the brief memory with what could only be described as a very convincing mockery of a scoff, "The flick of a hand? Well. Organic matter cannot be moved in such a way, no, but I've heard of some very grand magical experiments involving inorganic matter and teleportation recently. Promising. Or horrible. Both, really—"

Johannes paused and leaned back in perfect anticipation of the waitress bringing his own bottle of Flashfight, the coordination of his movements so graceful it was as though he'd had eyes in the back of his head because the young woman setting his drink down was just as human and non-magical as Adam. Ceres thanked her, uncapping the beer with the press of his palm and a twist, raising it halfway between himself and the other man in brief tribute before speaking again,

"What—that?"

Slowly, the older galdor's clueless, deceptively innocent expression became one of mischief as if he was suddenly that one troublesome uncle who contentedly snuck candy to his nieces and nephews when no one was looking. Rakishly hiding his annoyance at the human's discomfort and doubts, he took a swig of his beer before setting it down on the table with an exhale through his teeth. He understood and had long-endured Serro's intolerance of galdorkind within the Resistance's end game plans. It made sense—why have those who you long to overthrow present within your ranks? What if those galdori suddenly had doubts? What if those galdori miscast during an important operation? What if they had always simply been untrue? There were so many what ifs in an organization that was already so volatile and desperate to survive that his very existence within their ranks was a huge, undeniable risk.

He'd proven himself more than once in ways that obviously Adam had yet to experience, considering this was their first meeting, and the sensation of the human's curious surface thoughts filtering through his dampened field, through his heightened and powerful Perceptive awareness that he wore like a mantle or his very own Magister's robes, did not offend him so much as endear him.

Castor Devlin sighed, sitting up in his seat and squaring his shoulders, adjusting to place his palms flat on the tabletop as if making a very obvious point. He was, in fact, more than just a mere Magister, more than just a well-studied master of his chosen Conversation. He was, as rumored on campus, in very real possession of his own True Name.

As if his monic presence had been a flower in evening, tightly closed, Ceres allowed his field to unfold, the sensation not unlike petals opening if said petals had carried the magical weight of someone of his caliber instead of simply the colors of spring. He arched a dark eyebrow and kept his hands on the tabletop, meeting Adam's gaze evenly. He spoke no Monite, moved not a finger, but his field shifted in a way that could be described as reminiscent of the rushing of the tide, invisible, sentient particles bending not to his spoken will but to his very thought.

His eyes fluttered for but a moment, the Magister's attention shifting toward the phonograph. The song skipped as if someone had jarred the table it rest on, a scratching sound audible for a heartbeat or two before there was suddenly silence.

He blinked.

A few people in the room grumbled. Someone audibly tsked.

The waitress that had served them both moved quickly to investigate, apologizing softly even as Adam would feel the man across from him begin to gather up his field and dampen it again, drawing it close to himself as if it was another layer of clothing, Castor's expression so neutral and deadpan that it wasn't even conceit.

"Oh, godsdamnit. The needle's broken." Hissed the waitress under her breath, her voice strangely amplified in their little corner of the Brass Uncle. Raising her voice to an obviously meant to be audible level, she added, "Be right back, folks. I've got another needle 'round here somewhere."

A few more sounds of discontent and then the buzz of conversation picked right back up again as if the music had never stopped.

The dark-haired galdor simply reached for his Flashfight, this time pausing to clink the rim of his dark amber bottle against Adam's, adding a wink before he took another drink, "Now that we've properly investigated my credentials, Inspector, can we move onto more important conversation? I'm actually a very busy man, since we're now being honest."
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