#35 Simon Billinghurst-Mumford had always vaguely known there was more to life. Some vast universe just outside his limited perception, and perhaps an even vaster one inside. His friends, family and teachers thought him an aimless daydreamer, obsessed with books about magic and fantasy. The more he read, though, the more he researched real world history, the more it seemed like magic must be real. Waiting there, just outside of his high pressure world of a student passing multiple A-levels, including Computing (A*), Further Math (A*), Physics (A), History (A), Classic Studies (A), and Latin (B), was a world of magic.
His parents thought him mad for studying Philosophy at University. Why not something more practical like Engineering or, at least, Philosophy, Politics and Economics? His family had some social connections to some Tory back-benchers who could turn one of those into a career, but Philosophy? They may have posh connections, but little inheritance beyond the double barrelled name. At least he passed the entrance exam at Oxford and was offered an exhibition at Magdalen. He excelled in his coursework, earning a BA in Philosophy with first class honours.
About this time he caught the eye of a powerful patron. His mentor explained the situation one night, over dinner, which the patron did not eat. He could offer him great power, but it would require tremendous commitment. No, it's not in government. No, not business. It's something bigger. A secret world, a very long-term commitment. Interested?
Simon spent seven years studying Hermetic magic, while maintaining a cover as a minor civil servant involved in importation of art objects from India. His awakening was a polite affair, a ritual arranged for Lammastide, cloaks and sigils and all that. Finally, he had all he wanted, the world of magic layed bare for him. He excelled in the study of Spirit and Correspondance, with a minor interest in Entropy. He never knowingly met a technocrat or other enemy of the Order of Hermes, but then he was a minor scholar, really, organizing the libraries at the Chapter House, on weekends and evenings.
At his day job, he became involved in a tariff row over the importation of a certain sarcophagus. Was it simply a dead body being transported for the grieving family or was it an art object in it's own right? Legally it fell into a grey area and had to be kicked up the chain of command. It became a minor scandal, with the PM of India accusing Britain of stealing India's cultural heritage and descendants of the Indian Raj in question saying they simply wanted their great-great-great, etc grandfather buried where belonged, in Hounslow with them. Preferably in a modern coffin, thank you. The fact that Sotheby's was involved was irrelevant, they said.
One night, while reviewing paperwork in the warehouse, the sarcophagus in question and who stepped out but the Raj in question, looking far too fresh for someone so old. Simon threw up some basic defensive rotes, but the Raj started asking him questions. The evening ended with Simon driving him to a Tremere chantry and being embraced.
Simon will never, ever forgive his sire. All real magic left him. Once, he could mumble a few words in Enochian and touch a clay tablet to his forehead and listen to any conversation in th world, or other worlds. He could spend his evenings listening to Bach, the actual Bach, play the organ either through past viewing or by asking his Wraith to do him the honour. He could apport to Mykonois for a quick holiday or turn base metals to gold. And, now? The rituals are so basic a random child off the street could do them.
He held the power of a god in his hands, and the Tremere took it from him. He knows he must be obedient for now.
But he will have his revenge someday. These stunted freaks will pay, and pay dearly!
His parents thought him mad for studying Philosophy at University. Why not something more practical like Engineering or, at least, Philosophy, Politics and Economics? His family had some social connections to some Tory back-benchers who could turn one of those into a career, but Philosophy? They may have posh connections, but little inheritance beyond the double barrelled name. At least he passed the entrance exam at Oxford and was offered an exhibition at Magdalen. He excelled in his coursework, earning a BA in Philosophy with first class honours.
About this time he caught the eye of a powerful patron. His mentor explained the situation one night, over dinner, which the patron did not eat. He could offer him great power, but it would require tremendous commitment. No, it's not in government. No, not business. It's something bigger. A secret world, a very long-term commitment. Interested?
Simon spent seven years studying Hermetic magic, while maintaining a cover as a minor civil servant involved in importation of art objects from India. His awakening was a polite affair, a ritual arranged for Lammastide, cloaks and sigils and all that. Finally, he had all he wanted, the world of magic layed bare for him. He excelled in the study of Spirit and Correspondance, with a minor interest in Entropy. He never knowingly met a technocrat or other enemy of the Order of Hermes, but then he was a minor scholar, really, organizing the libraries at the Chapter House, on weekends and evenings.
At his day job, he became involved in a tariff row over the importation of a certain sarcophagus. Was it simply a dead body being transported for the grieving family or was it an art object in it's own right? Legally it fell into a grey area and had to be kicked up the chain of command. It became a minor scandal, with the PM of India accusing Britain of stealing India's cultural heritage and descendants of the Indian Raj in question saying they simply wanted their great-great-great, etc grandfather buried where belonged, in Hounslow with them. Preferably in a modern coffin, thank you. The fact that Sotheby's was involved was irrelevant, they said.
One night, while reviewing paperwork in the warehouse, the sarcophagus in question and who stepped out but the Raj in question, looking far too fresh for someone so old. Simon threw up some basic defensive rotes, but the Raj started asking him questions. The evening ended with Simon driving him to a Tremere chantry and being embraced.
Simon will never, ever forgive his sire. All real magic left him. Once, he could mumble a few words in Enochian and touch a clay tablet to his forehead and listen to any conversation in th world, or other worlds. He could spend his evenings listening to Bach, the actual Bach, play the organ either through past viewing or by asking his Wraith to do him the honour. He could apport to Mykonois for a quick holiday or turn base metals to gold. And, now? The rituals are so basic a random child off the street could do them.
He held the power of a god in his hands, and the Tremere took it from him. He knows he must be obedient for now.
But he will have his revenge someday. These stunted freaks will pay, and pay dearly!
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