4807/Don't Say the Word...

Don't Say the Word...
Date of Scene:	20 January 2021
Location:	Grandenetti Cathedral - Chelsea
Synopsis:	Blade goes to the library. It goes about as predicted.
Cast of Characters:	Meggan Puceanu, Eric Brooks

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Meggan Puceanu has posed:
A continuation of "Hush Little Cleric": https://heroesassemble.mushhaven.com/index.php?title=4724/Hush,_Little_Cleric...

In which Blade goes to shake down a library and Brother Felipe owns the coolest silver stake. This does not make him a Templar.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Grandenetti Cathedral is already stirring, growing more active, as the hour wears on. Activity around the dormitories where the priests keep their humble chambers shifts and flows, but the hidden workings of Father Samuel and Father Carl -- the plump man and the hawkish one who wiped out in the ice -- apparently deter anyone from coming near. Maybe it's an unspoken law of the Church, to respect one's privacy and neighbours.

Imagine that, gossipy clergy.

When Brother Felipe emerges with Blade, he is trying to hide a stake up his sleeve and doing an awkward job of it. One simply doesn't stuff a pointy silver weapon into their pocket and call it a day. However, that perpetual hand-wringing has an advantage. No sign of Carl where he fell or that golden-haired girl either, but the scrapes in the snow near the broken window show where the older priest slipped.

Laity start to venture into the main building itself, coming for early Mass or starting their charitable efforts for the day. A small stream of people weave around the campus.

"You'll want to see his office, I expect. I swear we scoured it top to bottom. In case he fell or had a meeting," Felipe explains. The archives don't occupy the cathedral but a rather unimpressive stone building, a later addition, lacking some of the corbels and flourishes of high Gothic design. It's through a side door he leads the frightening, armed hunter. "Erm... Father Paul is quite near-sighted. He startles easily. I want you to know. Just in case." How do you ask a man like Blade to tone it down? "It's down the steps, we'll be turning to the right. The offices have their own section, close to the study rooms. For private review of books, they're really no more than vestibules. But Father Theodore has a locked up space, and he's in the manuscript repair room often enough too."

Eric Brooks has posed:
"Are you trying to tell me to mind my manners?"  Blade finds this more than a little amusing.  He grins, an uncommon expression for him, but probably the only kind of smile that wouldn't seem completely out of place. 

The vampire hunter drags a gloved fingertip along a bit of stonework, then holds it up to reveal a distinct lack of dust.  There's a quick nod coupled with a raised eyebrow.  Though his own hideouts often leave much to be desired, Blade approves of tidiness.  Makes this part of his job easier.

"Anywhere Ted spends his time is worth taking a look," he acknowledges, carefully avoiding the use of the past tense.  "We've got some spooky clues, sure, but so far it's not much to go on."   

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"I'd never be so rude." Brother Felipe would pat his head but he's clutching a slippery stake in his fist, trying to pretend he is doing nothing of the sort. His arm presses to his side. "Me just wandering around could rouse Father Paul's interest. I'm best served by finding a book box. Yes, then I can put this in the bottom and pile on a few files. That should do it." He nods at his own ingenuity, the symptom of a man who never plays video games or has to stalk around with barrels to fling at poison-spitting goblins or phase spiders.

His attention comes back to Blade. "Yes, yes, this way then. Quiet as church mice, then." One of them is that church mouse, and the other is probably the mouser. He makes a decent effort at moving along with the soft swish of his robe dusting against his feet, his rigid upright stance not helping his gait. The long hall opens on a large portion of the Archives, which is unsurprisingly full of bookcases and many more filing cabinets, the sort used by museums, libraries, and the like across the world. Many papers can't stay out in the light without deteriorating. Men's souls? A different matter. Father Paul is probably the fellow at a large desk with a rather modern monitor, peering nose-deep into a fat hardcover book that's clearly been tattered on one side. The scans on the monitors of those pages are a credible effort to digitize the collection. Felipe spots him and freezes, then hurries on. "Up there," he whispers. "Right door, second one. I will have to unlock it. Hope that he doesn't hear, he's got the ears of a bat."

"Shhh!" in other words.

Eric Brooks has posed:
"Quiet down, priest.  You're going to get us caught."  The still-amused voice is a bare whisper and it's now coming from Felipe's left rather than his right; sometime in the last few seconds he more or less disappeared and reappeared.  "Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."  

You never know what you might find or where you might find it.  Keen eyes sweep across the room in a top-to-bottom and side-to-side pattern, searching for any detail that may be out of place, even in this area. However, he's not terribly familiar with how archives are supposed to look.

Once they're outside the door, Blade shifts his gaze to the presumed Father Paul while he waits to enter.  He's learned the hard way that no one is above scrutiny.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Felipe tries not to squirm at the sensation running up his back. Nothing strange to see here, though as he positions himself in front of the door to Theodore's office. It even has a pleasant little nameplate, Brother Faneuil listed to be sure they're in the right spot. Gotta love bureaucracy for working in someone's favour.

The keys slid from a pocket boast a retractable lanyard. Felipe looks utterly casual -- no, he really doesn't -- as he surreptitiously slides the first key into the lock, slow as molasses. Tries to turn it so the handle disengages, which means of course it gets stuck and needs some rattling around. He doesn't curse. Not very godly to curse.

Paul is busy staring into his book and at his monitor, pleased to work on the distinguished task of preserving information for others to use. He mouses around and seems quite competent about his task.

"Come, come, you don't be tricky with me," Felipe admonishes the bolt and then sighs. Freedom! The door is open, and he pockets his key. "I'll come round with a box in, say, ten minutes. See how you are doing. If you want to get to the repair room, it's labelled. Repair Room. End of the offices, turn right and you cannot possibly miss it. Mind the floor, bit creaky."

He nods to Blade and then shuffles away, because they're conspirators to a crime. A crime that may be forgiven but letting someone into another man's office spends his remaining audacity.

The office proper isn't much to speak of, given the frosted glass square window for privacy and solid wood. No signs of a fight in here.

It certainly smells a bit off though. Vellichor for the scent of books, a little musty, and something that might as well be a human steak piece of paper, like that which Blade found earlier.

Eric Brooks has posed:
lade opens his mouth to speak, but changes his mind before any words come out.  He's put this poor man through enough.  For now. 

Once he's begun his inspection of the office, the odor hits him hard enough to bring him to a physical halt.  This time he was looking for it, but that doesn't mean it's not an unsavory aroma.  

After a moment to acclimate himself he follows his nose, letting it bring him closer to the source one breath at a time.  As he does, his fingers walk over various details and his eyes are narrowed.  This window seems intact, at least. "What I wouldn't give to have Sherlock Holmes in my back pocket right now..." he mutters under his breath.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Brother Felipe is a stake-wielding footpad. In his dreams, he'd never anticipated this most likely. He risks a mirage, a thing that is not there, if he does not hurry to claim a box. Putting a few books in will allow him cover, and no more worrying about a pointy silver stake.

Here, for a time, is the remnant of a man more true than his bedroom. The office has a tidy quality to it, smartly arranged on shelves that lie bolted to the walls. A desk shows signs of order and some disorder, pens neatly put in drawers, and a glass box laid over a wrapped up manuscript, open to a place. The woven bookmark lying out of it like a great beast's tongue lolls up against the glass. Clearly those drawers have been checked, a calendar on the wall and another blotter on the desktop askew from a vetting by his peers. Drawers contain their secrets, a selection of boring papers, a little bottle of cough syrup, many white linen gloves. A letter opener. A photograph of the smiling man, a somewhat younger, elderly man, and a beaming lady with wild black curls half their age. Theodore, another fellow, and that woman all bear a shared book they hold up. There's no date, but it looks like New York, looks vaguely recent.

But the book. The stinking bit of book. It's easy to find the smell; it doesn't come from the manuscript, but the desk. Just under the desktop, just atop it, like a ring of grease and fat left by a particularly ugly cut of meat.

Eric Brooks has posed:
Casually tossing a desk usually doesn't provide many helpful clues, at least in the types of situations where Blade tends to get involved.  He's unsurprised to find that the majority of the contents are mundane, but he still pokes through everything until he's searched every dark corner. 

As he begins to narrow down what he might be smelling and where he might be smelling it, the hunter raps his knuckles against both the desktop and the underside.  He's seen false drawers installed for less reason, along with other hiding places.  His eyes widen and his pupils dilate as he pokes his head beneath the desk; he's sucking up every bit of ambient light to get a better view in the dark than most people would in a brightly lit room.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Casual destruction probably would distract the head archivist from his duties. Scanning is fun, but random banging around, not so ignorable. Thus the office in its tidy array can be assessed into quadrants: work completed, work in progress, work awaiting, the workstation itself. A framed French landscape on the wall adds a touch of art. A sculpture of Mary and another of a saint with a book in hand watch over Blade's efforts, serene and welcoming.

The desk itself doesn't stand a chance to his fist, his questing fingers searching for latches. He finds a latch hidden inside the main drawer, at the top. Pulling it loosens the lid of the desk, opening it up. Not exactly a secret compartment but it's not one immediately evident. Removing the manuscript under the glass box allows the lid to tilt up and back, exposing a variety of packaged envelopes held together by ribbon or flattened in a hard-covered, heavy book: a dictionary of Latin to English. Their age and postmarks vary, stamps stuck in the corner both American and foreign. Mostly American, a few French, one German, one English. But more importantly, the stench.

The stench might be overlooked, by someone with weaker senses. Not him. The spot where it resided, the source of this, is among a selection of folders. Manuscripts, selections of writings, notes. Many are Latin, some French, some English. Careful drawings and scribbled statements. A picture of a raven, "HARBINGER?" underlined with a red circle.

Warn Fr. Marco, on another page.

The same fine handwriting spiders across a torn scrap, the lower half missing: Sis. De Silva, 5:30. 1/16. Ask for confirmation re: disturbances?

From the English side, there are marks and notes about exsanginuation, flensing, extractions in quotation about a group or individual accused of such practices by the Inquisition. Dates range from 1400 to 1850. It's the piecemeal work of a man following a lead. At least one of the print outs is an email, Latin. No signature, but the NYU.edu email address is telling.

Eric Brooks has posed:
Even Blade has a phone.  It's a burner //and// it has a cracked screen, but the camera works.  Before he moves anything, he takes photos of it from multiple angles.  He's no investigator, but police procedural dramas are among the few television shows he bothers to watch.  He knows it's possible to screw up evidence without meaning to, like someone without medical training attempting to move a crash victim and causing more harm than good. 

Still, Sherlock Holmes is unavailable.  Blade might not be the detective these people need, but he's the one they've got.  Eventually, reluctantly, he starts moving just about everything.  The envelopes and notes seem like a natural start, so he pulls out the loose ones and starts making a pile.  The items inside the dictionary are added, dictionary and all.  (Blade speaks many languages, but his Latin is both limited and rusty.) 

He lets out a long, thoughtful sigh and his brow furrows as he considers what's spread out in front of him.  Then, en masse, he adds any file from the vicinity of the stench to his rapidly growing stack, explaining his need for the dictionary itself.  "What were you onto, Ted?" he murmurs.  "And who wanted to stop you?"  There's a moment where his fingers hover over the photo of three people proudly displaying a book.  "I wish you would've left me someone to hit.  I'm much better at that." 

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Three people showing off their book. A friendly air about them, shy on Theodore's part, restrained in an exceedingly European way for the middle. Place of pride for the wild, curly-haired woman, the only one who seems happy to face the camera. Theirs is a moment frozen in history, some kind of academic matter.

Felipe is bustling about and sooner or later intends to reappear. Ten minutes of work isn't much for him, even with his nose actually buried in a book or looking for something out of place that clearly needs reshelving this very instant. He's out there, a friendly brown and black figure maybe spotted between the stacks and cabinets like a particularly unstealthy bird.

Inside's a different matter. Blade has himself quite the little collection, and he can easily shove the lot inside a cloth recyclable shopping bag announcing the wonders of the Chelsea Market. It's a few blocks away. Or one of the infinitely many bankers boxes, loved for their cardboard sturdiness. The envelopes for the most part contain letters. Some have photocopies or handwritten copies of text, the works of scholars.

Probably not natural to have a full sigil drawn in elaborate detail on one, with the skill of someone using a protractor, angles, and a grasp on astrology or astronomy. It has a LOT of circles. Letters aren't filled in between, but the whole design, even if it's no bigger than a Canadian loonie coin, screams 'occult' and 'witchcraft' all over. The writing above is loopy, swift, black ink scored off.

    //I'm concerned there might be a correspondence between the graffiti at Aldgate and Moorgate with this. So far the dragons are holding. I've no reason to think they would not, but consider the consequences! I need you to reference the earlier rubbings I took with this, from the BL. Convince me it hasn't just received a shift on the axial trine, add in an anchoring sigil. Precise work, if you ask me, too precise. I need clarification if corresponds to the L. Key or Greater Goetia before raising it up the ladder.//

Another page, from an address in Boston, bears the Jesuit seal of red wax, broken on the letter. The postmark is only two days old.

    //.... roused from our sleep and I haven't been able to shake the feeling all day. I begin to doubt the wisdom of sending that copy to Ms. Lopez for review. You'll check in on her for me? If you hear anything, anything at all out of the ordinary, use the utmost precaution. Loathe as I am to say it, at any sign of trouble, do not hesitate to contact John. I've already asked one of my flock to keep an eye out for him.//

Eric Brooks has posed:
The photo is important in a way that Blade can't quite figure out or nail down.  He trusts his instincts and takes another snapshot of it, making sure the picture is centered and he's got the camera properly focused.  He doesn't take the original with him, though. Even he has some respect for people's personal things.

With that done, he takes a closer look on the items he's planning to 'liberate' in the name of his investigation.  It's the sigil that attracts his attention.  The image feels wrong in the same way all these vaguely occult aromas do.  A closer look reveals that he might actually have found something.  He scans the pieces of correspondence and hmmms thoughtfully.  "Dragons and consequences? Well.  Sounds like they're planning to outsource.  It's probably time I did the same." 

The names and locations keep bouncing around inside his brain, though.  Boston, at least, is one he's familiar with, though he's not in a hurry to take a road trip on his borrowed motorcycle.  Carefully, he starts loading his haul into a box while he considers his options.  

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Yoohoo, it's Felipe time!

He's totally not making a point of entirely hiding his presence with the box, straining to hold up the modest collection of leather and cloth books. They are heavy, thus. Sweeping by the office gives an opportunity for him to peer in the darkened doorway, almost sneezing. The stifled sniff is enough.

Paul looks up for a moment.

"Just me, Father. Coming to get a fresh start on cleaning up and scanning the records from the Foundling Hospital and Graydon Collection." If it were in the brother to be casual and lean up against the wall, he would.

"Yes, yes. Make sure you keep them together. Those last two volumes wandered off last week, left in the philanthropy section. Entirely unsuitable." Paul squints and looks off towards the offices, and it may or may not dawn on him Blade is there. His pince-nez rests on his nose, and he swivels around in his manager's chair to return to the captivating work of capturing details accurately on screen.

Felipe's still sweating, waiting. Is Blade still in there? Well, his trip out is waiting for him.

Eric Brooks has posed:
There's one more quick look around, but Blade officially has enough to keep him busy for the immediate future.  Once everything is loaded into a banker's box, he hefts it onto one shoulder and steps out into the hall. 

Felipe gets a nod, along with a brief cough.  Something is about to happen that doesn't happen very often.  At  all. 

"I'm taking this stuff, too.  And... thank you.  For your help."  Blade's words are sincere, but his tone is stiff.  With his hands full, he shrugs helplessly to indicate his own lack of expertise when it comes to gratitude. "Whatever.  Just get me outta here."