4724/Hush, Little Cleric...

Hush, Little Cleric...
Date of Scene:	14 January 2021
Location:	Grandenetti Cathedral - Chelsea
Synopsis:	When a Jesuit scholar goes missing, Blade discovers there's more than he can chew to deal with. One missing scholar, one cult? What's to worry?
Cast of Characters:	Meggan Puceanu, Eric Brooks

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Meggan Puceanu has posed:
A chilly winter day dawns dim and cold, grey clouds admitting a watery light and the driving wind suggesting a nor'easter is on its way. Chelsea thrums with early deliveries from vans, the honk of busses, all signs of a city beginning to properly wake up. For the Catholic worshipful who work and live at Grandenetti Cathedral, things began long ago. Services are already in full swing, but not all those black and white-frocked men are on their knees or singing the glories of God.

Three gather with some concern in a stone-laced entryway to the church offices. Their breath steams in the air and they blow into their chapped hands, stamp their feet to stay warm. Faded grey heads together, they speak in soft tones and look around. In every inch a conspiracy, this. Another brother coming near is gently turned away, some kind of subtle authority exercised by the portliest. They wait a moment until he's gone.

"You can't just call up the local precinct. What are we to say, we could not guard our own home? Our own keys, at that." The eldest of the three grimly checks his watch, and then scuffs his foot in irritation. "How would that reflect on the cardinal? On us?"

"What else do you do for robbery?" insists the fat one.

Signs of something amiss aren't exactly obvious. A cracked window stands ten feet overhead. The light doesn't glow there, dark and dull. Melted snow forms an icy sheen across bushes at ground level, making a hazardous path for anyone who walks, like a young woman in an oversized coat picking her way presumably from the shelter of the church.

But a simple fact remains, issued from a panicked seminarian in his late thirties to the abrupt disappearance over the previous day of Brother Theodore. Word sent out discreetly into the ether, passed on by word of mouth and a scrap of paper to the good priest's associates. Brother Theodore Faneuil, another of the cogs in the Church's great machine, offers translation services and interpretations for matters that would trouble anyone other than a Jesuit. Helping keep the world a bit safer by warning of the things that hide in the dark.

A man gone. Keys missing. And so many possible enemies in the dark ready to pull a pawn off the board.

Eric Brooks has posed:
Rumors.  Whispers.  Hints and hidden details.  They fuel much of what Blade does.  Tonight, surprisingly enough, he's not hunting for vampires.  Not specifically, anyway.  He's on the lookout for a priest who's gone missing in action.  Word arrived via an interrogated familiar, who heard it from another, who heard it from yet another.  That means Blade doesn't know much, just that something happened here and someone isn't where they should be.

He lets out a long, quiet sigh of air.  He doesn't like churches.  They make him feel out of place.  Not unreasonable, considering he's wearing his usual ensemble when he arrives.  His only concessions to discretion were to leave his sword in his car and to take off his sunglasses when he entered.  Now, clad in black and thoroughly sticking out, he's exploring the cathedral in search of any hints as to what might have happened.  The cracked window is noted, something to potentially explore later. 

When Blade comes across a trio who are clearly trying to have a private conversation, he doesn't hesitate to interrupt.  "Padres," is all he says by way of greeting.  And then he waits.  For him, often his presence alone is enough to shake loose information.  People like him don't wander into places like this by accident, and he's not completely unknown in the city.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Games of intelligence telephone rarely come out clean. Garbled facts and details. Oh, Brother Theodore, batty old fellow. Wouldn't harm a fly. Him? Ever since he got mugged last year, kept to himself. Him? Consorts with warlocks, he does, /and/ a detective. Probably selling things to Papa Midnight, you know how sneaky and slippery those church men are. Rob everybody in the name of faith, just as bad as the rest of us.

An incomplete picture of a man not much in the temporal world, except when it comes to his doorstep. A doorstep currently guarded by three old crows groaning and grumping among one another in the cold, feathers ruffled in a hope to keep warm. The third of the lot, the quietest, wrings his hands and keeps looking to the door into the dormitory like he expects it to grow teeth and bite him. The Cathedral campus is large enough that public spaces are vaguely separate from ecclesiastical offices and a library, the soup kitchen and social centre whole enclaves in their own right. Comings and goings aren't so startling, except with such a thin crowd around. That makes the parishioners or the tourists stick out a bit more, but the three have their heads in the clouds. Fomenting trouble has a smell.

So does the faintest trace of blood, a tiny errant note in the frozen soil, old stone, cheap, gritty soap and other assorted smells that anywhere in New York acquires after a few centuries of occupation. The portly one is the one who jerks his head up first, and straightens himself with pomp. A broad hand rests on a broad belly, but he isn't rude.

"Sir," seems the appropriate term. "Is there something you need help with?" That accent is pure Philly, through and through. The others survey him indirectly, closing ranks, as is habit of a flock to do when a wolf dances by. Their nods reinforce a veneer of polite, distant curiosity.

At not so far a distance, the blonde wrapped up in her coat lifts a mobile phone into the air, framing stone and sky. No flash, just the faint digital sound meant to mimic an oculus winking mechanically. Then another, as she slowly rotates in a panorama of pinched windows, Romanesque vaults, artless cement.

Eric Brooks has posed:
Blade softens, but only slightly.  His perpetually frown settles into something closer to a neutral expression as he shakes his head.  "I'm the one who's here to help you," he replies.  "You lost one of your shepherds.  What happened here, priest?" 

As usual, he doesn't mince words or waste time.  While his information is incomplete, his source was thoroughly beaten enough that Blade considers it to be reliable.  There are just enough hints around to deepen his suspicions without confirming them.  And so he examines each of the men in turn with eyes that are so infrequently uncovered.  They're piercing, to say the least, and fit with his black coat and body armor.  

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"You. Pardon me," the older man catches himself, the splutter of a response immediately smoothed over. "I wasn't aware anyone had been called."

He asides a sly look at his companions. They look equally blank, peering at him closer. The one wringing his hands mutters, softly, "How would you even know that?"

The portly one draws himself up, which would be impressive if he were fifteen years younger. "I'm afraid we haven't been told about your coming. And you are, sir?" It's less buying for time and more sorting through being startled.

None of them smell of more than deodorant, no traces of blood. No muck on their shoes, but the same slush as everywhere. The girl who keeps taking photos is currently intrigued by a wall.

Eric Brooks has posed:
"Blade."  It's one word that says a lot in some circles, nothing at all in others.  "No one called me.  People see things, then they talk about them.  I make sure they talk to me." 

While he's not what most people would consider patient, the fear and apprehension coming from these men is an almost tangible thing.  "Calm down," he says, holding out one gloved hand in a settling gesture.  "Tell me what happened.  Don't leave anything out." 

Surprisingly, he's barely looking at them.  For a long moment his focus is on the only other person nearby.  The photographer.  Then he blinks and shifts his gaze back.  

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
It's like saying bus, axe, cat. The initial blink from the trio doesn't speak of too much knowledge on their part, though the older one stares down his beaky nose. He makes a sound of vague contempt and disgust at the back of his throat, almost phlegmy. "What did I tell you, Father Samuel? The manner of company kept in these hallowed walls has declined, along with the respect properly accorded the Mother Church. I will have no part in this business. See for yourself!"

A frustrated wave of his hand is sharp, the flapping of a wing. "I will not be party to this business of sin and crime." With a flap of his black vestments, he turns sharply for the building. Almost remembers the door is open, and diverts in a sharp path to swing around the building. It's only a matter of time that he strikes the ice, his leather Italian loafers poorly suited for the traction, and footing gives into the blonde girl there.

But that is a matter of minutes ahead. At the moment, the hand-wringing priest and the portly one both give Blade their appraisal. The former pipes up and says, "A man's missing."

The disapproving noise doesn't stifle him. "Well! Do you expect to find Brother Theodore in the archives again? He isn't, we've looked. He isn't anywhere on the grounds and he isn't at the rest home or the hospital. He is not a man who takes excursions. He has simply /gone/--"

"Or absconded," says the bigger one.

"And he wasn't in his room. He did not come down for service, breakfast, or have anything sent up. He's quite up and disappeared," the man says, his liver-spotted hands wrung again. "Quite unlike him, and as the junior curator for our archives, it is quite unacceptable. His workload is not light. I shall be up for hours putting those boxes to right!"

Eric Brooks has posed:
"Therefore you have no excuse, every one of you who passes judgment, for in that which you judge another, you condemn yourself," Blade calls after the departing priest.  "Romans.  I know how to read, y'know." 

He turns back to the remaining two and crosses his arms over his chest.  "If I've heard about... Theodore, you said? If I've heard about Ted, I doubt he ran off with the scullery maid or the new initiate with a twinkle in their eye.  We can hope he's alright, but prepare yourselves.  One of you needs to write down everything you know about him for me, no matter how trivial.  And what the hell else is going on here?  You're all too twitchy for it just to be about one man you can't find."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The attempt to quote scripture at its experts warrants raised brows, minor shakes of a head, little more. The portlier one give a slight smile, tolerant to a point. For other things, maybe not.

"Brother Theodore," he corrects slightly. "I should hope not. He's 84, well past the time when he can be expected to choose another path in life." He pats his stomach again, straightened. "Brother Felipe, this may be..."

"Of course," Felipe scrunches his face up, his grey brows a sharp V. "I know he was not in his room. His room is nearly empty. His medications were not touched or picked up. We take vows that allows us few personal items. There is hardly anything of interest, unless you believe having three sets of slippers instead of two is excessive."

The door is still closed and a look askance shows a dull and simple hallway into the dormitory. He gestures to Blade. "If you must see, I can escort you up there."

Eric Brooks has posed:
Blade shakes his head.  "Uh-uh, you don't get to look at me like that.  I've had access to the Bible for longer than either of you have been alive. Maybe both of you put together.  Show some respect for your elders." 

And then, as if he hadn't just chastised the clergy on both their age and area of expertise, he nods and gestures ahead of them.  "We can walk and talk.  If he's 84, are these the kinds of medications he can't live without?  I need to know if I'm going to find him warm or cold." 

Though his words are unkind, his tone isn't.  Blade has lost too many of his own to make light of the situation.  "If he can be found, I'll find him," he amends.  "He deserves it.  You do good work here."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The double-take of an older man is a rare thing. But it comes along as the portly fellow takes the choice to get inside the dorm, where it's substantially warmer than outside. It's at that moment with the door opening that his senior peer crashes into the blonde girl outside, spilled onto the ice. Curses are ignored by dimmed hearing, and the startled feminine voice reacting colours a rising note of concern. No doubt words wound out in 'are you okay' and 'is all well?'

Felipe is slow to go up those stairs, old knees and all. He gives a sharp frown over at Blade, then shakes his head. "No. Just regulating blood pressure, enhanced vitamins, like D. Supplements, for the most part. He is in reasonable health but age is an enemy to us all. I should hope he's warm but I believe his coat is still hanging. Do you think he might be hypothermic? I hadn't thought."

His expression turns worried. "I had not started making inquiries. He might be disoriented and cold. Oh, that's awful, even if he's possibly run off with the keys to the Archives. I hope he hasn't. But a Jesuit, they're all odd in the heads. They get so wrapped up in their work and forget they're the sword against non-believers, instead of the friends of them. I don't know, he keeps the worst of company. I'm not sure if he stole anything or simply went off, but that's what he does. Up here, on the left."

The door is closed, humble, like the rest. Brown, with numbers on them, and clearly tampered with in that someone has gone in without wearing gloves, priests aren't detectives. Inside, it's a very humble situation with a narrow bed, a cross on the wall, an armoire. He has a writing desk, paper and pen in place. Books in a bookshelf, of course the writings of Augustine, Loyola, Francis. It's a small, humble space, mostly impersonal. Mostly normal, except the cracked window. The rumpled bed.

Eric Brooks has posed:
There's a brief pause at the misinterpretation of the warm vs. cold concept, but Blade opts not to elaborate.  That really would be unkind.  "You're a good man, priest," he says quietly. Safe to assume, perhaps, but still a rare compliment from the vampire hunter. 

Then, though he is still listening, the bulk of his attention is focused on what's before him.  He scours every inch of the room with inhumanly keen eyes, but he's more interested in what he may be able to smell.  Those clues can be even more telling.

"Wait," Blade stops short and tosses a glance over his shoulder.  "You said he has your keys?  What do you keep in your Archives that needs to be locked up?"  He makes a dismissive gesture to stall any protests.  "I don't have any personal interest in your trinkets or relics, but it sounds like someone might.  Especially if you've added anything to your collection lately."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Well, if the confidence doesn't pluck up Felipe a bit, he'd be lying and having his sins confessed, absolved, and squinted at by a fellow a few buildings over. He does tend to stick too close, but in the small chamber, it really isn't built for more than two people. It would have him standing on a woven rug, the rag kind that are so brightly coloured and a common feature of Europe and South America. It's the one spot of colour in the whole thing. The building itself creaks with an old heating system trying to cope with the wet and cold of a NYC winter. The murmurs of conversation, and prayer, much more prayer. The spartan little room truly isn't too much of interest on the surface, but there are oddities. Cracked window. A tilted book, the faded scent of flowers in it. A scratch on the floor underneath the desk chair, fresh enough to burst the veneer of the hardwood floor. The rug and bedspread both shifted along a similar line, but their placement wouldn't make sense for someone who slipped out of the bed or hopped into it. The armoire leaves a trace of darker wood behind in two spots where its feet met the ground, baring a darker golden shade than the worn wheat-gold boards. A filament of blood at the windowpane, above the slushy bushes, the ice where a man in a cassock shakes off a helping hand.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Why, church records. Baptismal," says Felipe, "marriage, death. You'd not want those out. Our accounting business, of course. Anything donated by the parishioners, records from our brothers, fathers, and the associated sisters who help out. We maintain records of nearly everything here, plus the library itself. Not everything is fit to go on display. As junior curator, Brother Theodore is responsible for keeping them all in good order and going through documents, restoration, filing, fixing. Everything from a hymnal to a collection of praise to Mary needs to be rebound on occasion. We've copies going back to the cathedral's founding, it's all quite impressive. Climate controlled, just like the New York Public Library has for its more important collection, you know. All that requires access, so you haven't just anyone wandering about like a bull in a china shop. It takes all kinds." He is patient to explain this, his eyes squinting as he focuses on the room. "Jesuits are academics more than inquisitors these days, you surely know. He's happiest in his books, and that's why I thought he might have fallen asleep in the stacks or taken a fall. Nothing though, and no one saw him. It's not as though we have video cameras to review but security and the others didn't see him come back. I know he was in his room, he left after his working hours. We've a schedule, you see. It should be on his desk, I would imagine, a simple black grid on letterhead from the cathedral."

Eric Brooks has posed:
The scratches are a telltale sign.  More than anything, they remind Blade of the marks made by someone moving furniture to access what lies beneath.  He flips back the edge of the rug with a booted toe and kneels to rap his knuckles against the floor experimentally. 

That's when he smells it.  A tiny breeze through the fractured window carries the scent of blood to the half-vampire's nostrils.  Almost instinctively, he sucks in a breath and bears his fangs. 

Felipe's words bring him back into the moment.  "Books?  Some that are rare enough and old enough to require a skilled curator and a climate-controlled environment?  Sounds like something more than a hymnal might have found the way into your stacks.  Have you taken inventory?  Unless the keys are just lost, I'm always suspicious of anything that goes missing at the same time as a person." 

The scraped floor is momentarily forgotten, but only momentarily.  Blade has already crossed over to the window and is examining it closely.  He leans into the trace of blood and takes another breath, caught somewhere between looking like a person appreciating a good steak and a bloodhound who's been handed a fresh trail.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The scratches, subtle and thin, are fresh enough. They don't speak of age. The rug shows its age when flipped over, no sign of any tag, proving it's the real handicraft. Felipe watches with some concern, opening his mouth and shutting it again. His hands come together. "I assure you, the construction is quite solid. We live in quiet contemplation and humble ways, like Our Lord," he helplessly offers.

The presence of fangs may not be seen, but if they are, he scrambles all the way back to the door on instinct. The crucifix on the wall and the mirror clearly are not issues but he's not a master of occult lore.

Human blood, solely. Not a lot, enough to suggest a scratch to the flesh. Something nicked, possibly a bruise burst. The floor beneath has the quality of floorboards used for time, creaking a little with weight. The bloods not far from the desk, and drawn straight back to the glass, suggests an outward movement to the door instead of everything displaced one way and the window cracked another.

Felipe rubs his face. "Of course-- inventory... the head curator would have a field day if we had not. We accept donations and estates, but nothing so shocking unless you think the prayers and poems of a beatified woman are somehow curious. They are a treasure, of course," he hastily amends, "but who would care about them? Not something that Brother Theodore would have handled, his are all the dusty things and I cannot imagine why he would run off after his shift. Unless he stole a book! I cannot imagine it, I just can't. I can show you the miserable box myself, it's full of faded old papers from the nineteenth century and a few from the twentieth, full of regular church business."

He's oblivious otherwise, mopping his head of sweat. Another breath; that hints to the window. Hitting it, not going through it. The ting of something dark, a spice that's gone off, dry and dusty tangents. Yew. Blood. Ash. Suppurating fat, much reduced, barely told, and a jot of something heavy on incense. Barely there, like a ghostly streak left on a window that fogged over. To a half-vampire's senses, it reeks of the /wrong/.

Eric Brooks has posed:
"Pious men in their 80s don't often break bad and turn catburglar," Blade observes, almost absently.  "I would like to see whatever he's worked on most recently." 

This is important and he knows it, but his focus is still on the blood.  He runs a fingertip over the telltale trace, then sniffs his glove.  "Someone took a scratch.  Not bad, but bad enough to bleed from it and they were busy enough that they didn't notice.  Pretty fresh."

He's a hunter, not an investigator, but even Blade can sense that there are puzzle pieces here that fit together.  Now he stoops again to examine the floor, tracking the path of the scraping and scratching to try and determine if it's from regular use or some uncommon shifting.  "84 is old for a false floor, but it's not outside the realm of possibility," he murmurs, again mostly to himself. 

That's when he catches the second whiff.  He stiffens and sucks in the scent of things that go bump in the night.  Then he straightens and fixes his eyes on the priest's.  "What.  Is going on.  Here?  Someone did something in this room that they absolutely weren't supposed to.  If you know anything, now's the time to tell me.  Otherwise I'm likely to get... impatient."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Well, you never know. Felipe lurks around the corner, poking his head in. He's still jittery, because a hunter is a thing outside his normal domain. "A fall in here? Maybe. I don't recall that Brothers Dominic or Juan said anything about that. They were at prayers and retired, said it was quiet." He winces when Blade moves along.

One thing is obvious, that simple armoire is old, extremely heavy, and not something a chipper Jesuit in his twilight years is pushing around. The chair is a possibility given its low weight, but not the dresser. The bed, being bolted to the ground, hasn't shifted any and from down there, it's possible to see those brackets strained in the same direction of movement as the armoire's shift. It's like catching proof of a gale in still frame, but instead of palm leaves flapping in one direction, the furniture does the same. Even the wrinkles in the rug and the bedding match.

The angry tone of voice makes Felipe twist his fingers around one another instead of plucking up, no bravado in him. He's puffery and blowing when paperwork is involved, but deflates like a broken balloon if faced with real trouble. "I don't know! I told you, he's an old man and keeps odd contacts. Jesuits often do, but he never much went into the community. He's a scholar, they came to him. Other priests, students, the occasional professor. It's how they operate. I last knew he went back from the Archives to his room. He was gone before prayers, and we started looking. In case he was unwell, or had lost track of the time. In your old age, it becomes common to wander in the mind a touch." He conveniently forgets Blade's real age, or it wasn't taken seriously.

"I can't imagine him bringing anyone back. It's locked. We never entertain guests here, there are reserved places for that. Mother of God, have mercy, Brother Theodore was a proper man. If someone came up here that wasn't him, they weren't doing it through any way we know. Either they stole a key or forced their way in and we've got nothing that shows a forced entry. Or Brother Theodore, or his key. Which is why they thought he was a thief, but I don't believe it so likely."

Eric Brooks has posed:
This has the stink of the occult mixed with a dash of something personal, though the second half is more hunch than anything else.  Either way, Blade doesn't like the way it smells and it shows, from the wrinkles around his nose to the disdainful curl of his lip.  He shakes his head to dispel his tension.  "Sorry," is all he offers to explain his behavior.  "But something happened here.  Might have been a wand burning," he thinks out loud.  "Some ritual candles, probably human.  And frankincense.  It's always frankincense.  If it wasn't here, it was close.  Wait...  The third man.  Romans, the one who left when I showed up.  Who is he?  What does he do?"

It's another hunch. Blade doesn't wait to hear the explanation, now he's moving toward the armoire.  "Keep talking.  I think there's something under here and we're about to find out what." 

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
A stink of the occult would be right, saturated there in a faint, violent wisp. It rips the veneer off of simplicity and tranquility, repackaging a room of a cloth to a crime soon. Is there room for god and goodness where something foul has flit through? A look gone startled crosses Felipe's sweaty face. "A... a wand? You mean those pointy things that lady in the fishnets does? But I don't understand what it has to do with frankincense...? We reserve that only for our incense and our rituals, it's too dear and important."

He wets his lips and then rubs his pate. "H-he's Father Carl. He's one of the priests, and handles more personal matters. Visits to the sick, on occasion. More in the upper..." Oh, there's no nice way to say it. His voice wavers, anxious. "Bureaucrat more than practicing. He heard about the absence of Brother Theodore and I s-sought him, well, along with Father Marco, so that we could find out what happened. You can't be thinking he was up to anything no good?"

The scent of the frankincense dwells in the area of the window, and it peters out by the door. It doesn't pass much further. The armoire pulled open shows clothes for a man of slight build, not many. Folded pants. Neat shirts. There pairs of Italian slippers, all knocked about from being shoved a few inches. A spare rosary falls from a box, crystals gleaming like blood, the silver cross gone utterly tarnished despite the rest of it being in fine repair. Crumbled ashes of something completely weathered to nothing, the envelope that contained it hinted at only by a heap of dust.

A single coin, old. Very old.

A denarius.

Eric Brooks has posed:
The contents seem innocuous at first.  Upon further inspection, the tarnish on the rosary stands out.  It isn't until Blade takes a second look that he finds both the coin and the remnants of something that seems equally old.  With careful hands, he places the coin and rosary in his pocket, then he produces a baggie and collects a sample of the dust.   "I'm taking these," he says.  No, he wasn't asking. 

Moving on.  Discretion has never been Blade's strong suit.  Also, despite his attempts to avoid it, he kind of likes this priest.  He glances across and shoots the man a secretive wink.  Then, without further ado, he grabs the heavy piece of furniture from either side and picks it up.  For him, it might as well be an empty carboard box.  He walks it to the other side of the room and sets it back down gently.  He's just as curious about what might be under it as he was about what was inside.

Eric Brooks has posed:
Before taking his inspection any further, he sighs and glances over at the obviously good-hearted Felipe.  "Do you think Carl might be up to no good?"  From his tone, it's clear where Blade's opinion lies on the subject.  He's come to trust his instincts. "If he wasn't, he'd probably be helping you try to figure out what's going on, not talking you all out of calling the police. Which, don't. Not going to be helpful in this case."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Felipe protests, but it doesn't matter much, does it? The attempts to protest Blade stealing a rosary or a coin aren't much going anywhere. He doesn't get protest about dust, because the fierce fighter of things hunting dust bunnies is too surreal. He shakes his head at the wink.

The armoire weighs a good two hundred pounds and more, solid wood and all, but it gets moved aside. Underneath is a set of floorboards, and the slightest traces of more dust; granules that come away like something deteriorated awfully fast. Moving the boards around isn't too tough, and the only thing that shows up is a badly weathered page.

It's greyed around the edges, so too the ink written on it. Not handwritten for the most part, the neat paragraphs have the feel of old typeset novels, printed with cloth-bound covers, a dime a dozen in the city's many used bookshops. Where some of the ink is scraped off, the barest imprint remains. In some cases the words are filled in by a crabbed, tidy hand with sharp, pointed handwriting in what probably wasn't a ballpoint pen. This is much newer, feeling of ink, but the colour has faded some. It's written wholly in Latin, for the most part, with a few comments on the side in French. Fanueil - it's a French name, for all there are places in the US bearing it. The page has an uncommon kind of resilience to it, more like vellum.

Felipe looks abashed. "We are not supposed to think badly of others, you know. It is a poor attempt to emulate Christ to harbour such thoughts. He is a difficult man with a demanding job. He cares very much about the opinion of the public, and how they view the church. He is a man who does not tolerate wastefulness or deviation from proper policy." He clears his throat, flapping his hands. "It's the old way. With the scandals... the ones with the children, foremost... everyone worries about their reputation more. The police they don't trust, fearing it will expose frailties of a mortal institution dedicated to the divine."

Eric Brooks has posed:
"Padre.  It's alright."  Blade seems, against all odds, to understand this sentiment.  "I get what it's like to want the best for everyone and not know how to make it happen." 

There's something in his voice that's different.  Hollow.  The words of a man with a purpose that will never be truly fulfilled.  He looks up at the priest and for just a moment he seems to carry every bit of his 98 years.  "We'll get you some answers.  I'm guessing you can read Latin?" 

There's a blink, then he's back to being a focused, driven, young-seeming man.  He hands the page up to Felipe, but carefully.  "That's either kidskin or it's human," he observes.  "I hope you're not squeamish."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Felipe hangs his head, more of the energy poured out of him. He scratches at his neck and then laughs slowly. "Oh, that's an easy one. Most of us do. A requirement at the seminary, plus it would be rather a loss to the world if we couldn't read the Gospels or the Scripture as they were written for so long. Vatican II brought a good many things, but putting things in their people's language was probably the greatest." He scratches his brow and looks around. "But is this really the time? I mean, we've got no idea where Brother Theodore is. If it's short, I could, I suppose."

He startles when there's a page handed to him. The thin hands taking it drop the page and he jolts back with a mild shriek. "You can't be serious! Who would /blaspheme/ that way?" Shaken, his face turns to total ashen grey, and he gawps. "You can't... I... Oh God in Heaven, I pray for the soul of that poor... let it a cow." It's more like deerskin, too fine. Huffing a breath to not hyperventilate isn't working well but he puts a hand over his face. "M-maybe if you held it up."

Eric Brooks has posed:
Still kneeling, Blade takes a moment to rake a hand through his hair and pull in a deep breath.  Almost, just barely, he allowed himself to be a person.  That's a fool's errand.  Gamely, he smiles, but that expression seems even more out of place. 

Finally, he shakes his head and lets out a chuckle.  "Sure.  Right now it's the best clue we have.  It wouldn't be hidden unless there was a reason." 

Like a herald about to make a proclamation, he unrolls the surprisingly supple sheet and holds it up so Felipe can see it.  "Something happened here," he reiterates.  "You'll have to trust me, but someone bled their way through this room, then probably out the window and all the way to the street. I'm still figuring that part out. Either way, I'm guessing this is all connected somehow."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
It's a fool's errand. Maybe. It may not be. The poor man pulls his dark sleeves low and he huffs, honest about it, earnestly frowning. "Let's get this over with. I don't know how long that's even been there."

His gazde moves unevenly over the lines, a squint growing stronger by the minute. "I don't see how you think that's possible. The window's closed fully. We don't have a ladder out and no one made a parach... mother of God."

He needs to not use that, but he crosses himself, eyes gone wide. A gulp makes his Adam's apple bob precariously. "'The rite of disembodiment?' For we shall liberate ourselves from the coils of flesh and entropy, becoming resolved and pure? It's some wicked account, that is all it can be. Such a thing should be burned, speaking of how to purge the blood of the weaknesses of the flesh, and arising anew without clothes of spent mankind? What malediction is that?"

Eric Brooks has posed:
"The worst kind."  It's the only appropriate response that Blade can muster.  "Something wicked this way comes, padre." 

He rolls up the improvised scroll and tucks it away along with his other clues.  When he stands, he has a look of concern on his face that's new.  More personal.  "I wouldn't tell anyone about this if you don't trust them.  And take this.  Faith makes for a good shield, but even God's warriors need weapons." 

Blade takes Felipe's hand, turns it upright, then presses something cold into the holy man's palm. Implacable, he squeezes the other man's fingers around the object to make sure it's kept.  It's a stake; enough silver to constitute several months' rent, even in New York. "If you need it, you'll know."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The poor man's thinning hair lies flat and he draws out of the room. "I don't..." They are both cursed with the knowledge, conspirators in something worse. Clutching a crucifix won't help and he rolls his head to the side, looking at the image of crucified Jesus. "I would like to think that's part of an awful novel. It's a depiction of how to... to... not be in a body. How they removed themselves with some criminal scoured of his flesh and his blood." He holds onto the stake with a shocked look when it's shoved into his hand, and he is lucky not to drop it on Blade's foot. That would be embarrassing.

"Wh-what do you expect?" The pointy end stays down, out of his thigh. Small warriors for God. "There aren't Templars anymore. The Knights militant are charitable. They don't... not like this. Are we expected to think... that... Brother Theodore was hiding this for a reason?"

Eric Brooks has posed:
"Everything that's hidden has been hidden for a reason."  Blade holds both hands out; it's a calming gesture.  "Relax.  Maybe it's something, maybe it's nothing." 

The hunter has spent entirely too much time being completely human today and it's not sitting well.  "If I find out anything about Ted, I'll let you know.  In the meantime, just take care of yourself.  I'll sleep better if you do."