11-19-2013, 08:17 AM
Mr. Smith was wrong. There was much in this world that surprised Armande. Chief among them was the sheer capacity of otherwise intelligent men to make ridiculously foolish decisions. Dock number one against Mr. Smith's character. FOOL, judged Armande, as trinkets were paraded around his nose.
He rose without invitation, clasped his hands behind his back and strolled to circle the newly arrived wares as he had the tablets before. Stony crevices etched his face with deep contemplation. As an associate of the Vatican, he perhaps was disgusted by the plastination of creatures that should be tossed to the fires and burned to ashes. Particularly the body of the Dreyken.
An age of darkness indeed, Mr. Smith described. And how does one define 'an age' - epochs of time between great cataclysmic events or blocks that extend as far back as human memory can reach?
It was only a matter of time before a man of means, strength and wealth encountered what slid in the shadows of the world. Mr. Smith had taken upon himself a quest to find meaning in the chaos, and judging by the array of weaponry, he possessed adequate intent to do so.
The Regus was a pillar of patience while Mr. Smith's oration concluded. As it ended, he bowed a slow nod of the head for the man's logic. The Ascendancy, among others, was a topic to defer until later. For now, the Regus was focused on exploiting one thing: Mr. Smith's hatred of these vile beasts.
"You have enormous means, effort, and resources Mr. Smith. I am quite impressed." Standing alongside the four bodies, draped in holy robes of his office, the Regus' presence fit lock and key alongside these corpses preserved in time. He was the shield to stand between them and Mr. Smith, between the stuff of nightmares and the tranquility of an otherwise normal living room.
"You are, of course, exactly right." His tone was flat, speaking the obvious, but his expression was a simmering fire as though Mr. Smith had kicked cold logs and found searing white charcoal beneath.
"Your hunting trip stumbled upon the things that we have sworn to contain. You've broken the veil and peeked into the holiest of places mere mortals should never see. My name is Armande Nicodemus, and I am the Regus of the Vatican Historical Society and a suborganization known as the Atharim; Guardian of the Remnant and Vicar of Iscariot." Let Mr. Smith consider the immense meaning of those titles.
He came to stand before Mr. Smith. The man's physical presence was impressive, but there was that edge of confidence from the Regus that said he could crumple the man to a pile of rags as easily as shake his hand. And if the forthcoming invitation was declined, he very well may do that. Of course, there were gentlemen in the other room to consider, so the assassination would need to be more clandestine than grotesque violence allowed today, but the threat remained. Armande would risk his own life and body to forward the Atharim's goals, but leaving the organization leaderless would be foolish on his part. He had not yet found a worthy successor - not that he intended to die any time soon.
"It is our sworn duty to protect humanity from such beasts as these," he spread his arms. "And prevent the apocalypse, which hastens, I am convinced, on the Ascendancy's wings. Over the centuries, men such as yourself have forwarded our cause and backed our efforts worldwide. You have means and wealth, Mr. Smith that could go far to advancing our mission. If you accept the invitation, your foundation could truly do charitable work of the greatest importance you could ever conceive. Will you accept your share of the financial burden for which we labor with life and soul?"
Will he be content with contributing finances only? Or will Mr. Smith demand a greater role? Questions to consider. Less capable men than he had been transformed by Armande's hand into menacing hunters.
He rose without invitation, clasped his hands behind his back and strolled to circle the newly arrived wares as he had the tablets before. Stony crevices etched his face with deep contemplation. As an associate of the Vatican, he perhaps was disgusted by the plastination of creatures that should be tossed to the fires and burned to ashes. Particularly the body of the Dreyken.
An age of darkness indeed, Mr. Smith described. And how does one define 'an age' - epochs of time between great cataclysmic events or blocks that extend as far back as human memory can reach?
It was only a matter of time before a man of means, strength and wealth encountered what slid in the shadows of the world. Mr. Smith had taken upon himself a quest to find meaning in the chaos, and judging by the array of weaponry, he possessed adequate intent to do so.
The Regus was a pillar of patience while Mr. Smith's oration concluded. As it ended, he bowed a slow nod of the head for the man's logic. The Ascendancy, among others, was a topic to defer until later. For now, the Regus was focused on exploiting one thing: Mr. Smith's hatred of these vile beasts.
"You have enormous means, effort, and resources Mr. Smith. I am quite impressed." Standing alongside the four bodies, draped in holy robes of his office, the Regus' presence fit lock and key alongside these corpses preserved in time. He was the shield to stand between them and Mr. Smith, between the stuff of nightmares and the tranquility of an otherwise normal living room.
"You are, of course, exactly right." His tone was flat, speaking the obvious, but his expression was a simmering fire as though Mr. Smith had kicked cold logs and found searing white charcoal beneath.
"Your hunting trip stumbled upon the things that we have sworn to contain. You've broken the veil and peeked into the holiest of places mere mortals should never see. My name is Armande Nicodemus, and I am the Regus of the Vatican Historical Society and a suborganization known as the Atharim; Guardian of the Remnant and Vicar of Iscariot." Let Mr. Smith consider the immense meaning of those titles.
He came to stand before Mr. Smith. The man's physical presence was impressive, but there was that edge of confidence from the Regus that said he could crumple the man to a pile of rags as easily as shake his hand. And if the forthcoming invitation was declined, he very well may do that. Of course, there were gentlemen in the other room to consider, so the assassination would need to be more clandestine than grotesque violence allowed today, but the threat remained. Armande would risk his own life and body to forward the Atharim's goals, but leaving the organization leaderless would be foolish on his part. He had not yet found a worthy successor - not that he intended to die any time soon.
"It is our sworn duty to protect humanity from such beasts as these," he spread his arms. "And prevent the apocalypse, which hastens, I am convinced, on the Ascendancy's wings. Over the centuries, men such as yourself have forwarded our cause and backed our efforts worldwide. You have means and wealth, Mr. Smith that could go far to advancing our mission. If you accept the invitation, your foundation could truly do charitable work of the greatest importance you could ever conceive. Will you accept your share of the financial burden for which we labor with life and soul?"
Will he be content with contributing finances only? Or will Mr. Smith demand a greater role? Questions to consider. Less capable men than he had been transformed by Armande's hand into menacing hunters.