He answered back to me: Hold in thy mind all thou wouldst know, and I will teach thee.
E'en with these words His aspect changed, and straightway, in the twinkling of an eye, all things were opened to me, and I see a Vision limitless, all things turned into Light - sweet, joyous Light. And I became transported as I gazed.
The Corpus Hermeticum
I. Poemandres, the Shepherd of Men
--
Hours after Hawksley ran into Kelsey on the street, Sera gave him a sample of what might be called Papa Smurf, what might be called The Blues, what might be called Marauder Crack, what Hawksley is not-so-creatively calling That Blue Stuff. He didn't have to ask her where she got it, because she told him. He hardly had to ask her for the sample itself, in fact.
The circle that Sera and Sid saw created in salt, blood and water on the floor of the suite's sitting room has nothing to do with this, though. That was just practice, and practice for something else anyway. A room in the Four Seasons, moreover, is hardly the place for the sort of ritual he has in mind. Even the sixteenth floor isn't high enough.
Collins rents him a Jeep. Collins helps him find the place. Collins helps him pack and then Collins stays behind with the girl because that is what Collinses are for. He sets out long before dawn in that Jeep and begins the ascent of Mount Elbert as soon as there is enough light to see his feet in front of him. He is not the only hiker this morning, but he doesn't reach out to make new friends. Without wasting breath on chatter, without stopping for anyone else's needs, Hawksley starts the hike. It is not the most rigorous hike one can undertake, alone or otherwise; the strain of the ascent is in the thousands upon thousands of feet of elevation gain. It's in the headache that builds at the back of his neck and crawls up his skull and surrounds him. It's in the great thirst for water, the need for rest, the moments of dizziness, that overtake him as he climbs.
But that is where the ritual begins. Before dawn, before the climb, and in the contemplation of the climb: that is where he allows it to begin building. Those other hikers could sense it, see something ancient and inhuman in his eyes, feel something in him that may have once been of the earth, is tied to the earth, but belongs so far above them. This is when he allows the arrogance to begin to build in him, as well, for he is not as they are. He is Awake. He is aware. And even the weakest, frailest extension of his power is beyond what most of them can even dream of.
He has seen colors that they have no names for. He knows the taste of light and the rippling, incandescent lust of gravity pulling at him. Even
as
he
denies it.
And ascends.
--
The desire to lie down is nearly overwhelming. The headache and the nausea make the world tip and sway, but when Hawksley stands on the peak, he remembers why ancient peoples with no mountains in the distance would often create them, building barrows of earth or peaks of clay brick. Other mountains, as old or older than this one, bow to its height. In the contiguous United States, only one peak goes higher. Hawksley breathes in deep, accepting the pain, accepting the sickness, standing when he wants to fall. He has a little time. Not much. He stops surveying the land and begins to build his circle.
It is a light one, easy on the eyes, perhaps even easy to miss if you don't pay much mind or accept that hippies are just hippies. The triangular symbols for each element are drawn in the earth, their view seen from within the circle -- the only place that matters -- and clusters of stones are assembled at the four corners atop their symbols. He buries colored stones brought in his pack in barrows of rough, dirty grey ones: yellow to the east, blue to the west, black to the north, red to the south. The pentagram he points to the east, always the east, its arms and legs extended between the spaces of the others. In a star within a circle within a circle within the elements of the world, Hawksley painstakingly creates the wadjet out of white and blue stones that he felt weighing him down all the way up here. Other hikers catch up, look at him, leave him alone.
He ignores them. It isn't hard.
Hawksley colors the Eye of Horus, the Eye of Ra, the Eye of the Moon with blue powder from a vial. He spits into it, the sort of thing that get him the side-eye from other Hermetics, who would use purified water bathed in the light of three full moons. He spits. He remembers that Jesus-of-the-stories was taken to Egypt as refuge from those who hunted him. He remembers that Jesus-of-the-stories spat in the dust, dabbed the mud on the eyes of a man blind since birth, and restored his sight. If one would open their eyes, one must not be blind. And if spitting in the dirt until the blue powder of a magical drug to turn it bright and stain the earth will open his own eyes, then, well.
So mote it be.
If he were not mid-ritual, he would smirk at the phrase entering his mind, reminding him of someone else's paradigm. But Hawksley has been preparing magic since he stepped out of his Jeep. Every step of the multi-hour climb, every pound of his head, every turn of his stomach. It builds, and it builds, and by the time he spits into the Eye of Horus, the feeling of it fills him. It feels like power.
Hawksley rises to his feet, which flank the ever-watchful eye of a god who is older than Jesus-of-the-stories and even older than Horus. He looks out over the panorama before him, opens himself to the sky, and sends his awareness
everywhere.
--
[Scrying for the resonance of The Blue Stuff primarily, globally if necessary. Also using Matter in case there is an interaction between the magic and the material that is part of its purpose. Essential questions are: finding who made it, finding who else has taken it, finding out what the hell it's supposed to do/how it works if possible.
Total successes: 8
3 WP and 2 Quint burnt off]
Hawksley @ 8:16PM
[Scrying. Correspondence 2 + Prime 1 + Matter 1 (what the hell)
Difficulty: 2 + 3 (coincidental) - 1 (taking time) -1 (sympathetic magic) = 3]
Roll: 2 d10 TN3 (8, 9) ( success x 3 ) [WP] VALID
Serafíne @ 8:17PM
(stamped!)
Hawksley @ 8:18PM
[Scrying. Correspondence 2 + Prime 1 + Matter 1 (what the hell)
Difficulty: 2 + 3 (coincidental) - 1 (taking time) -1 (sympathetic magic) +1 (extending) -1 (quint) = 3]
Roll: 2 d10 TN3 (5, 9) ( success x 3 ) [WP] VALID
Serafíne @ 8:19PM
(stamped!)
Hawksley @ 8:21PM
[Scrying. Correspondence 2 + Prime 1 + Matter 1 (what the hell)
Difficulty: 2 + 3 (coincidental) - 1 (taking time) -1 (sympathetic magic) +1 (still extending) -1 (more quint) = 3]
Hawksley @ 8:21PM
[HELPS IF YOU ADD DICE, KAI]
Roll: 2 d10 TN3 (1, 8) ( success x 2 ) [WP] VALID
Serafíne @ 8:22PM
(WITNESSED)
E'en with these words His aspect changed, and straightway, in the twinkling of an eye, all things were opened to me, and I see a Vision limitless, all things turned into Light - sweet, joyous Light. And I became transported as I gazed.
The Corpus Hermeticum
I. Poemandres, the Shepherd of Men
--
Hours after Hawksley ran into Kelsey on the street, Sera gave him a sample of what might be called Papa Smurf, what might be called The Blues, what might be called Marauder Crack, what Hawksley is not-so-creatively calling That Blue Stuff. He didn't have to ask her where she got it, because she told him. He hardly had to ask her for the sample itself, in fact.
The circle that Sera and Sid saw created in salt, blood and water on the floor of the suite's sitting room has nothing to do with this, though. That was just practice, and practice for something else anyway. A room in the Four Seasons, moreover, is hardly the place for the sort of ritual he has in mind. Even the sixteenth floor isn't high enough.
Collins rents him a Jeep. Collins helps him find the place. Collins helps him pack and then Collins stays behind with the girl because that is what Collinses are for. He sets out long before dawn in that Jeep and begins the ascent of Mount Elbert as soon as there is enough light to see his feet in front of him. He is not the only hiker this morning, but he doesn't reach out to make new friends. Without wasting breath on chatter, without stopping for anyone else's needs, Hawksley starts the hike. It is not the most rigorous hike one can undertake, alone or otherwise; the strain of the ascent is in the thousands upon thousands of feet of elevation gain. It's in the headache that builds at the back of his neck and crawls up his skull and surrounds him. It's in the great thirst for water, the need for rest, the moments of dizziness, that overtake him as he climbs.
But that is where the ritual begins. Before dawn, before the climb, and in the contemplation of the climb: that is where he allows it to begin building. Those other hikers could sense it, see something ancient and inhuman in his eyes, feel something in him that may have once been of the earth, is tied to the earth, but belongs so far above them. This is when he allows the arrogance to begin to build in him, as well, for he is not as they are. He is Awake. He is aware. And even the weakest, frailest extension of his power is beyond what most of them can even dream of.
He has seen colors that they have no names for. He knows the taste of light and the rippling, incandescent lust of gravity pulling at him. Even
as
he
denies it.
And ascends.
--
The desire to lie down is nearly overwhelming. The headache and the nausea make the world tip and sway, but when Hawksley stands on the peak, he remembers why ancient peoples with no mountains in the distance would often create them, building barrows of earth or peaks of clay brick. Other mountains, as old or older than this one, bow to its height. In the contiguous United States, only one peak goes higher. Hawksley breathes in deep, accepting the pain, accepting the sickness, standing when he wants to fall. He has a little time. Not much. He stops surveying the land and begins to build his circle.
It is a light one, easy on the eyes, perhaps even easy to miss if you don't pay much mind or accept that hippies are just hippies. The triangular symbols for each element are drawn in the earth, their view seen from within the circle -- the only place that matters -- and clusters of stones are assembled at the four corners atop their symbols. He buries colored stones brought in his pack in barrows of rough, dirty grey ones: yellow to the east, blue to the west, black to the north, red to the south. The pentagram he points to the east, always the east, its arms and legs extended between the spaces of the others. In a star within a circle within a circle within the elements of the world, Hawksley painstakingly creates the wadjet out of white and blue stones that he felt weighing him down all the way up here. Other hikers catch up, look at him, leave him alone.
He ignores them. It isn't hard.
Hawksley colors the Eye of Horus, the Eye of Ra, the Eye of the Moon with blue powder from a vial. He spits into it, the sort of thing that get him the side-eye from other Hermetics, who would use purified water bathed in the light of three full moons. He spits. He remembers that Jesus-of-the-stories was taken to Egypt as refuge from those who hunted him. He remembers that Jesus-of-the-stories spat in the dust, dabbed the mud on the eyes of a man blind since birth, and restored his sight. If one would open their eyes, one must not be blind. And if spitting in the dirt until the blue powder of a magical drug to turn it bright and stain the earth will open his own eyes, then, well.
So mote it be.
If he were not mid-ritual, he would smirk at the phrase entering his mind, reminding him of someone else's paradigm. But Hawksley has been preparing magic since he stepped out of his Jeep. Every step of the multi-hour climb, every pound of his head, every turn of his stomach. It builds, and it builds, and by the time he spits into the Eye of Horus, the feeling of it fills him. It feels like power.
Hawksley rises to his feet, which flank the ever-watchful eye of a god who is older than Jesus-of-the-stories and even older than Horus. He looks out over the panorama before him, opens himself to the sky, and sends his awareness
everywhere.
--
[Scrying for the resonance of The Blue Stuff primarily, globally if necessary. Also using Matter in case there is an interaction between the magic and the material that is part of its purpose. Essential questions are: finding who made it, finding who else has taken it, finding out what the hell it's supposed to do/how it works if possible.
Total successes: 8
3 WP and 2 Quint burnt off]
Hawksley @ 8:16PM
[Scrying. Correspondence 2 + Prime 1 + Matter 1 (what the hell)
Difficulty: 2 + 3 (coincidental) - 1 (taking time) -1 (sympathetic magic) = 3]
Roll: 2 d10 TN3 (8, 9) ( success x 3 ) [WP] VALID
Serafíne @ 8:17PM
(stamped!)
Hawksley @ 8:18PM
[Scrying. Correspondence 2 + Prime 1 + Matter 1 (what the hell)
Difficulty: 2 + 3 (coincidental) - 1 (taking time) -1 (sympathetic magic) +1 (extending) -1 (quint) = 3]
Roll: 2 d10 TN3 (5, 9) ( success x 3 ) [WP] VALID
Serafíne @ 8:19PM
(stamped!)
Hawksley @ 8:21PM
[Scrying. Correspondence 2 + Prime 1 + Matter 1 (what the hell)
Difficulty: 2 + 3 (coincidental) - 1 (taking time) -1 (sympathetic magic) +1 (still extending) -1 (more quint) = 3]
Hawksley @ 8:21PM
[HELPS IF YOU ADD DICE, KAI]
Roll: 2 d10 TN3 (1, 8) ( success x 2 ) [WP] VALID
Serafíne @ 8:22PM
(WITNESSED)
my whole life is thunder.
