15968/Black Grape

Black Grape
Date of Scene:	27 September 2023
Location:	Shadowcrest Manor - Bristol Township
Synopsis:	Extradimensional 'grapes' found in Gotham City, a portent for occult strangeness? Certainly nothing to be sneezed at, but...funny name...
Cast of Characters:	Atrun Rai, Phoebe Beacon, Zatanna Zatara

---

Atrun Rai has posed:
    There are many ways that Atrun-Rai could - and has - employed in order to arrive within the bastion of the Mistress of Magic. Many tend to involve the rending of dimensions as if turning on a lighter to melt through an overstuffed trash bag. Here, though, as he arrives at the gates of the Zatara estate having walked some way from his latest dimensional wound - and, his pace leisurely, walks along the drive from the gates toward the enormous house. Feels the grass recoil from his presence. Reality, usually solid and structured, starting to ease at the corners like ice brought in from outside. His mission is to /preserve/ reality at the behest of his ineffable masters, and yet his presence is a constant, subtle corrosive.

    Fun things to grapple with when you once served to hold back that dark.

    At length, the man in dark suit and scarf arrives at the door. Long fingers sweep through the coiled braids of his dark beard, and similarly dark eyes sparkle as they track the lines of the entrance. The crackling of power within the grain of the wood. He smiles - and, then, reaches out with his hand. And knocks.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    She hadn't been by in... a long while. A Long While. She'd stepped out of an old bookmarked location a small walk away from the gates to Shadowcrest, her hair wrapped neatly in a dusky pink scarf and pinned in place, a denim jacket over a black T-shirt and dark wash blue jeans, the worn leather of her bicycle boots showing as she checks her package, a few things tucked in an aged canvas tote bag, wearing her normal beat-up leather bag over one shoulders and blue acetate-rimmed sunglasses perched on her nose as she comes around a corner to cross a street, and looks up as her senses tingle with that feeling of gray static that could only ever mean --

    "Seems Zatanna's in demand today." Phoebe greets Atrun-Rai good naturedly with a nod of her head. "Good to see you, Atrun-Rai."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The dimensional mansion where Zatanna was born seems to have a life of its own - cradle, protector, servant, sentinel, time-traveler, and depository of memories and magic. It obeys its owners, though that word has overtones that Zatanna has never felt entirely comfortable with - she prefers friend. There is that kind of give and take between them. It is her role to refurbish and maintain its unusual life, shoring up its magic, burnishing gilt that no longer glows, and strengthening wards that can lose their power over the long years of its life.

Without doubt; her favorite room is the grand library. The room for receiving guests and studying the tomes that line its walls. From autumn till late spring, the large fireplace trimmed in red Italian marble, ornately carved like a forest, hiding faces peering between its leaves and boughs, dances with a fire that animates the room and fills it with just enough warmth. No drafts, no burnt shins needing the protection of embroidered fire guards, no messy ashes.

Zatanna is in her favorite chair with a book on her knee when she feels the house tremble in its particular way when it feels guests approaching. She looks up, eyebrows lifting, when it quakes again, shoring up its walls that stretch into time and space against imminent threat. A mirror between two bookcases, one of the newer features in the centuries-old house shows her who is on her doorstep. A servant glides to answer it, greeting both visitors with a slight bow at the waist and a whispered, "Mistress Zatanna awaits you in the library."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    Phoebe gets a faint smile as she appears on the doorstep beside him - as always, the Atlantean sorceror favors his fellow willworker with a nod. "Magus Beacon," he offers before turning his attention back to the door. Does he sense the man coming to receieve him? Perhaps. Or perhaps the existential clockworks that tick inside the manor have a perceptible rhythm all their own. "A pleasure as always. I hope that I don't trammel upon your own business here, but you will I think be interested nonetheless."

    And then...the wheels turn, the mechanisms click into place -- and there is the man at the door. "Thank you," he offers to the servant, and smiles. "Please. Lead on."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "I'm not--" Phoebe begins, but breathes out, giving a weak smile. "No. Just stopping in with something I thought she might like." Phoebe answers back in a quiet voice, adjusting the wide ribbon of a choker collar she wears. Today's color matches the rosy color of her headwrap. "I hope I don't detract from *your* business here." she replies to the ancient Atlantean, holding her bag in front of her as she gives a smile to the servant, and gives a nod. She should know the way -- provided the house hasn't rearranged like some magical homes are wont to do.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Said mistress rises from her chair, twitching a piece of imagined dust from the drape of her silk blouse tucked into perfectly tailored pants. The pearls glowing at her neck with a faint blush of pink are the only color in her black ensemble, that and the fantastically embroidered Turkish slippers - a find from her mother's closet.

The well-oiled clockwork of the mansion is already at work by the time the door opens to admit the visitors and the library door is held open for them. A kettle sings in the kitchen, a tray is laden with macaroons, and savory canapes, tea, coffee, even a decanter of wine glinting ruby, in case her guests feel the need for something stronger.

The mage hadn't needed to see who had arrived at her door. Each of her guests have a unique color and sensation in the magical spectrum. The house has never really accepted Atrun-Rai, feeling him a deadly threat cloaked in a diplomatic smile.

Closing the distance between the fireplace and door, she holds her hands out to take theirs, with a warm smile for them both. "What a surprise, Phoebe," she murmurs, offering a kiss. "You look wonderful." Her sapphire eyes study Atrun-Rai for a moment, "An honor to have you, sir," with a formal nod of her head and a gesture to the sitting area - two couches and several arm chairs around a low lacquered table.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "Overburdened with self-confidence," replies Atrun-Rai in a soft tone meant only for Phoebe, his words gentled with a wink. "Worry not, I shall carry my own store of it in trust for you." And with that they are whisked away, or perhaps he simply follows Phoebe to the lady's chambers. Either way, they are...away.

    The house, of course, has every right to be suspicious - while his own creature from moment to moment, he is every bit a creature of the Void now. Not /quite/ monochrome, but enough as to seem a second shadow, he drifts along besides Phoebe as they enter the study, and now as the lady herself moves to greet them he effects one of his little not-quite-mudras in greeting himself.

    "An honor as always, Magus Zatara," offers Atrun-Rai to Zatanna, a note of deep ceremony there. "You will forgive me if I do not sit, I hope. Particularly bad for the upholstery this evening."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    There are very, very few people Phoebe would accept at no notice signs of affection without bristling like a hedgehog -- or slinging someone with a judo throw. Zatanna is one of them. Phoebe sets her canvas bag down with a 'thunk' and accepts Zatanna's hands and the kiss -- with a tightening of her shoulders beneath the denim jacket. Old protections die hard.

    "I'm sorry to intrude on you like this. I happened to make a couple things and thought you might like some, but if you have serious business with Atrun-Rai I can come back another time." Phoebe states, voice low and stiff like she's been fighting a bad cold.

    What actually happened is that she panicked right before she portaled over thinking she might be zapped with lightning or dismissed to the middle of the ocean, so a warm greeting was a pleasant surprise!

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"You are never an intrusion, Phoebe." Blinking benignly, pretending not to notice Phoebe's faint sign of defensiveness, Zatanna steps back, then turns to lead the way to the sitting area framing the fireplace large enough to admit a full-gown man and wide enough for a good-sized bull.

"If we have business, then it is new to me," she explains with a quick glance over her shoulder at Atrun-Rai, a question floating in a twist of her lips.

"Please," she gestures him toward the break in the sitting group framed by the fireplace. An innocent gesture on the surface. But, once, albeit long ago, the fireplace swallowed a threat to the household with nary a scorch to the immense hand-knotted Kashan at their feet.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "Any business that I might have with Magus Zatara will of course include you as well, Magus Beacon," states Atrun-Rai, breezing right past any refusals with his own confident (that reserve, one supposes, he had mentioned holding in trust for the young woman.) "But let us start with yours, please. I am pleased to hold the second post."

    And with that the Atlantean steps back from the two, just a step or so, to indicate said position in the order of things. From his robe he draws his usual silver krater, sipping from the rich red contents similarly conjured, and looks on without further word.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Magic houses are scary things.

    Phoebe releases the breath she was holding and leans over to pick up her canvas bag.

    "Well, the first harvest happened, and I've spent the weekend making a few things." Phoebe remarks as she sits -- more perches -- on the couch. She draws up a blue bottle.

    "Lavender extract. I'd planted some Lavender from seeds form my old house up at the Wayne estate, and got a decent amount of blossoms in. And--"

    The second bottle contains a liquid that is dark ruby red. Coincidentally matches some stains on Phoebe's fingers.

    "Pomegranate syrup, with some cranberry and orange peel. I recalled you were pretty fond of Pomegranate, I think. And decided to bring these two items over... sort of ..."

    Her ears and cheeks darken. "Apology for radio silence. Just trying to give people space."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    If you think this place is bleak, you should see Atrun-Rai's digs.

    The magician smiles and simply watches. There's a certain...affection, perhaps, as he watches the two women interact. Especially when Phoebe starts to blush - old as the hills he may be, but it's never a bad thing with women can thrive in each other's company.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
A magical current of air wafts from the fireplace, releasing a rich floral fragrance, astringent and soothing, on a background hum of bees and warm tilled earth as Phoebe holds up the bottle of lavender essence.

"Lovely and beautifully made, Phoebe."

Zee already smiling, lights up when the deep ruby red bottle is exhibited. "You /know/ I love pomegranate. Pure poetry on the tongue. Sweet and bitter. Thank you, dear." She leans from her armchair to pat Phoebe's arm, ignoring the flinch she might provoke. "We both have been caught up in our business. You are always welcome here. Your room is always aired and ready for you."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "I know. And there's times I wish I could have come over and just talked, but... I get in my own way. Always do." Phoebe replies, though she's clearly embarrassed, her hand curling a little at the touch on her arm. It's not a fault of Zee's. She takes a deep breath and lets it out, deflating slightly. "... I really hope the plants I had in there aren't dead. That's gonna be such a mess if they are." she adds forlornly. "Luckily the scorch mark from the fire ball practice between me and Charlie's seems to've grown in." she states, and she looks up, catching the scents on the air from the fireplace.

    "... did your house just thank me for the home-grown lavender?"

    And then she looks to Atrun-Rai, and motions to Zee "Please, if you have business that needs tending to, don't let my domestics get in the way!"

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "Domestic affairs are the backbone of any good household," Atrun-Rai replies, gesturing airily with his half-drained krater before tucking it back into his robelike suit and wherever it might ultimately go. Handy, all of that. After a moment, though, he looks about, and says out loud to the house:

    "I bring tidings of contagion, and thus must show a sample to the mistress. It will not harm anything, or anyone, while I possess it. May I have your permission?" Because he knows, though Zatara is the mistress of magic, this house is a /locus/ to have a mind of its own. One never treats a house like this like...well. Just a house.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"You know House treats you as one of our own, Phoebe,"Zee replies, mild admonishment in a fleeting frown to the young mage. "Your plants thrive under our care, waiting for you. And, the fireball experiment," she nearly smiles, "left no trace. We /are/ a magical household and can hold our own." Zee nods agreement with Atrun's summary of a good household.

The fire snaps and grumbles at Atrun-Rai's next words then steadies, readying itself for bad news. Zee fixes him with a solemn stare, back straight, shoulders squared to hear the worst.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe's ears and cheeks are still darkened as she breathes out, admonished and feeling mollified that she was still welcome in Zee's household.

    But it is to Atrun Rai that her attention turns, her eyes narrowing a moment as she draws up, folding the canvas bag to tuck away into her backpack.

    The reaction from the house definitely alters the feel in the room, and she prepares, that static at the base of her skull troubling her mind.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "Thank you." This he says while first nodding to the hearth, then the lady attached to it -- and, without further ceremony, reaches inside his not-quite-a-cassock once more before withdrawing...an orb.

    It's a little thing. The size of a marble, perhaps. But it pulses, as if alive - no. Not life. Something quite the opposite. Beneath the inklike globule of darkness, /something/ seems to squirm, but it is not any force of creation which gives it animation. With a rueful smile, Atrun-Rai lifts the thing to the light, where it seems to give off a pale shimmer in full rebellion of natural law.

    "Behold," says Atrun-Rai, his words equal parts sigh and revelation. "The Black Grape. Or that is what we called its like in my day, among the ranks of the Mestales."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The muscles in Zatanna's jaw tighten visibly, her nostrils flaring at the scent of black energy pulsing in Atrun-Rai's hand. Her right hand rises in a gesture of refusal, nearly a hex against the abomination then returns to its natural poise on her lap.

Flames leap in the fireplace with a preternatural roar. One cinder pops and rolls across the precious carpet in protest at the roiling marble's existence and comes to a stop at Atrun-Rai's feet.

"The Black Grape?" she asks, her voice tight with distaste. She takes a deep breath, her gaze moving to Phoebe protectively, then to Atrun-Rai with a challenge.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe, on the other hand, seems *fascinated* by the grape. The pulsing energy of unlife, of things undone, unbecoming. She watches as it's lifted up, her dark eyes with its black coffee tones and highlights of red when the light hits them just right follow its movements, though her fingers curl tightly against her canvas bag.

    She's turned from her gaze by the fireplace's roar, and she watches the glowing cinder roll against the carpet and to Atrun-Rai's feet in protest, and her lips form a slight moue.

    "The house doesn't like it." she remarks with a little bit of ironic sarcasm in its obviousness.

    "What *is* it?"

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "We had no black grapes, as you know them, in my day." Atrun-Rai gives the orb of darkness held between his thumb and forefinger a thoughtful look, quite comfortable handling what is, in its way, practically antimatter. "Red, blue, green, purple, white, gold...even orange. But black? No. And so when we found these...things...we called them as we saw it. For to allow them to grow would make for a woeful vintage." He gives no sign of worry at the cinder, for he expected something of the like. The mistress of the house, after all, gave all the sign needed.

    "It is an egg. Of sorts. A form of anti-life, spawned in the Void and occasionally crossing over. It grows, spawns a cancerous sort of organism - much like fungus, really. But eventually, it gives rise to monstrous creations, never the same lineage twice. The Powers want them snuffed, and so I am here." Atrun-Rai speaks a word, something that is as quiet as a whisper but rings with the authority of a powerful shout -- the orb is engulfed in a flash of brilliant gray flame, something of far more powerful entropy than the not-womb that it consumes. Annihilation, pure and total. The gray flame of entropy's very core.

    "I found this growing on a subway track in Gotham City," says the sorceror once the absence of air and space made in the abhorrent fire's passing is filled in with a soft 'pop'. "They are never found alone."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The fires of non-existence refract in the library mirror, its depths as profound as a black hole. The cinder at the black robed sorcerer's feet expands and pops with a snap like bone breaking. A threat to the holder of the dangerous orb. The carpet is unblemished though a tang of sulphur stings the nose.

Zatanna's eyes narrow at Phoebe's enthusiasm for her polar opposite as Atrun-Rai rolls the abomination between finger and thumb like a truffle about to go into a sauce of his own making. She turns that look on the fireplace then looks sharply at Atrun-Rai holding the end of the known universe so casually.

"A seed," she says flatly. "Which implies a sower. Or am I mistaken? Is this something spontaneously sprouting from the Void. Mindless and random?"

His last words hit the mark, "Gotham? Will we have an arbor in the subway that commuters can harvest. Grapes," she muses, a deep worried line incised between her brows.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Or if an egg, a layer." Phoebe comments quietly, distracted by the orange grapes -- she always thought that was a new cultivar.

    She curtails her interest in it as she takes a deep breath, considering.

    "I'll add the subways to my normal patrol routes. IF there was one, there may be more," she wrinkles her nose a moment, and then she draws one leg up -- pauses to look at the couch she's sitting on -- and puts her foot firmly back on the carpet. Alfred tutted enough about shoes on furniture, no telling what the manse might do to her if it's not distracted fully by Atrun-Rai.

    She draws her dark eyes to Zatanna's and Atrun-Rai's gaze.

    "Or an arbor for grapes to collect Commuters. I recent fought some odd entities in Gotham's sewer systems, but it doesn't feel like this."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    An apologetic nod is give to hearth and hostess both as the fires of annihilation vanish, and Atrun-Rai folds his arms over his broad chest. "The Black Grape is a...symptom. Of rot - esoteric, not physical or human in the main. Essentially, when I found them as a living man, it was an afterproduct of cults and monsters. As it not a cult that worships the Powers Themselves, and thus not sanctioned by them, we can assume that it is some other splinter of Void-worshippers that exists out there. They could be human, or..." He shrugs. "Who can say? Not only do humans have religious power on this world."

    A glance between Zatara and Phoebe, then the hearth. "I hope that I have not overstayed my welcome. Were it not necessary to illustrate its existence I would never have brought such a thing here." A beat. "I should point out, they can be burnt and destroyed. They are material, albeit qlippothic in nature. But only flame and similar energies, please. Bursting them would only make them spread."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna graciously waves away Atrun-Rai's apology. "It had to be demonstrated." After giving the fireplace a meaningful look, "I speak for the Household."

"Nothing feels like that. Nothing," Zee savors the word then favors Phoebe with a long stare.

"Will you? And what will you do when you find it?" She holds up a hand to stall any protest at the question. "I don't know what I would do with it. Not being on intimate terms with the Void."

Eyebrows drawn together in thought, "At the least we can cordon the areas off which will involve the municipality and all /its/ glories." A glimmer of hope smoothes the frown away at Atrun-Rai's words.

"Burn it? Well, that is good to know. I don't feel like playing badminton with the Void, personally. But find the group stupid enough to play with Annihilation? That would please me no end."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Right. Fire and flame, not popping like pimples or boba." Phoebe comments quietly, and she makes a scrunched face of disapproval of the very idea of popping a pimple of Annihilation. Teenagers.

    She rubs at the back of her neck as she looks to Zatanna, and then she gives a soft sound of concern. She rubs the back of her head and looks to Atrun-Rai. "I'll have to report this to the Bats, and I have a few other contacts around Gotham City for my work with them. I don't suppose there's a mundane way of tracking them without endangering non-magically-inclined types."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "I will purge them." This in answer to Zatara's query as to what he will do when finding them, as plain and bland as ordering a pie. "Reality must be preserved."

    Then to Phoebe, he shrugs. "I am at your disposal, of course. These things form in forgotten, empty places on their own, not in the bowels of cities - though of course, many are the times when the Grapes formed arbors in the gatherings of humans and other beings. The result is...unfortunate." He leaves it at this.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The tray brought in for Zatanna and her guests has laid neglected. The tea kept hot by a magical teapot. Zatanna waves her hand at the tea table where it was set. "Can I pour you anything Phoebe?" She tilts her head in question at Atrun-Rai, expecting a refusal.

"Thank you for these tidings. We," she glances at Phoebe, "will do our utmost to inform the magical community and others of this threat. Is it possible to harvest the grapes, erm, eggs and use them?"

She rises and goes to the table to busy herself with pouring refreshments.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "'Forgotten and empty places' -- have... have you walked through Gotham's undercity? Or back alleys? I think Times recently called the city 'the height of human misery and hopelessness'. We beat out Madripoor." Phoebe states with a dry expression. And then the question of refreshments.

    "Oh -- ah, tea, please." she accepts a cup.

    "Sounds like I've also got a hike to some ruins in the future to double check them." she adds forlornly.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "There is empty and there is empty," reminds Atrun-Rai, lips quirking at the corners. "The loneliest of Gotham City's undercrofts are not the same as, say, the Rub' al Khali."

    Then, to Zatara, he lifts his hand in apologetic refusal before speakins further. "As for their use? Anything is possible. Hence the need to purge them as soon as they are found."