Sylum Clan

Nothing is True. Everything is Connected.
Sylum Clan
McFassy Fortnight / Sylum Aesthetics / Sylum Events0

McFassy Fortnight: Paul Mallory

Paul Mallory Aesthetic

(This snippet ties into The Russian Spy)

As Paul made his way through MI:6, he couldn’t help but think for a spy organization it sure had a lot of glass walls.  He had got the call from M, early in the morning, requesting his presence. He couldn’t read her tone, or figure out what she needed him for.

It could range from a new mission as a Double-O, an under the table mission to break into some Nazi asshole house to go through their safe, or request for lunch.   Either way he made sure to pull out his best suit, and look presentable.

He settled outside Moneypenny’s desk, giving him a smile.  The latest assistant was tall and very handsome, M was probably enjoying the eye candy, he did look aesthetically pleasing in the designer jeans.  He wondered if it had stopped James from flirting, likely not.

His older brother’s main mode was: Flirt.

“She’ll see you now.”  Moneypenny gave him a reassuring look.  “Warning, she’s annoyed about something.”

“Isn’t she always?”  Paul put away his iPod and headphones.  It was starting to get old, but it was perfect for him to concentrate.  

“Get in here Paul!”

“I see what you mean.”  He ignored the staring at his ass, as the door closed behind him.  With a flick of the wrist he unbuttoned his suit and sat down in the front of her desk. “What can I help you with M?”

“I have a mission for you.”

“Official or unofficial?”  He could tell by her tone, she was upset about something.  

“Unofficial for MI:6, but officially for the Clan.”  She leaned back in her chair, watching him intently, waiting for a response.

“Okay.”  Though he had never been introduced to Arthur, or for that matter many members of the Vampire Clan he was involved with.  He had been turned twelve years ago, and still hadn’t taken a trip down to Cornwall, he figured that was mostly due to M. “What’s going on?”

“A traitor rose up in Sylum, one who was attached to Camelot.  His last communication was to another traitor here in England.”  She had a small snarl on her face, if there was one thing she despised was traitors.  “As you are not known in the Clan, I want you to follow them.”

“Who?”  He asked shifting in his seat to take the file folder she picked up off her desk to hand him.

“Danny Blue.”  She gave a quick intro of the Vampire, while Paul read the more detailed reports.  “I need you to talk to Jacob Frye, it would seem the idiot pissed off the Rooks, and they’ve been keeping an eye on him for a while, it’s how we got most of the information.”

“The idiot who runs around the rooftops in a top hat?”  He asked with a smirk. “He’s got style, will give him that.”

“He’s good, don’t let the ‘idiot’ play you.”  She gave him a smirk. “Him and his sister have good control of the East End, and know more of what’s going on in this god forsaken city than us half the time.”

“I’m sensing a trip to the Rookery.  James has stated a few times the food was good.”  He finished memorizing the information, and then put it back on M’s desk.  “Anything else?”

She slid a phone across the table.  “Dump your old one. This will be the only one you use, it’s encrypted to the point even I can’t fathom.  Don’t let Q see it, as he would want to marry it and have its babies.”

Paul picked up the phone fiddling with it a bit.  A thumbprint was required to open the screen, he set his thumb on the dot, watching with a sense of dread and awe as it scanned and then peeped.  The phone was nothing like he had ever seen, it was slim, sophisticated and had apps he was sure weren’t standard.

“Fancy.”  He flicked through it, blinked a few times when the music section was filling up with albums he preferred.  “Really fancy.”

“Don’t ask.”  She stood, taking the file folder to the shredder.  Took a second to give Cockatoo a pet, and snack. “Have you heard from Dr. Evan?

“He’s going to Rio, something about a Sloth Sanctuary.  James suggested he stay at Sanctuary Clan, that they had lots of Sloths.”

“Oh yes, adorable creatures.  I should send Vachon a note, it’s been a while.”  With a last pet, she sat back down. “This could lead into places that no one is expecting.”

“I’ve been in weirder situations.”  He pointed out, slipping the phone into his pocket.

“I know.”  M hesitated, then gave him a rare smile.  “Paul, you’re my youngest boy. I know you’re good at what you do, very good.  You wouldn’t be a Double-O if you weren’t. Just be careful, and read up on the Illuminati while you’re at it.”

“Now you have me intrigued.”  He stood, moved around the desk and gave her a kiss on the cheek.  “Do I have backup?”

“James or Craig, or your father.  Trust no one else.” She patted his cheek.  “Go talk to Jake, he’ll let you in on a few things.”

“I’ll head over there now.”  He buttoned his coat, and headed for the door.

“Paul… be careful.”

“I will.”  And with that he left the office, gave Moneypenny a smile, before heading towards the elevator.  He had a feeling his life just got interesting.

 

 # # #
McFassy Fortnight / Sylum Aesthetics / Sylum Events0

McFassy Fortnight: Charles Victor

Charles Victor Aesthetic

He looks at me with disappointed eyes.

I see it.

And he knows I see it.  

He has never made it secret.

Why should he?

Instead, it has taken me far too long to figure out the meaning in his expression, especially given that it wars so closely with my father’s.

Unlike Victor, Craterus is by far the more patient man.

His love for me runs deeper.

Hotter.

Yet there it is.

His disappointment.

What can I say to that?

Men have never talked in this house as they should.

Perhaps I am alone in recognizing it?

At times, I know when I am wrong.  I am not so foolish however, as to imagine I am always wrong.

Men such as Victor are not required to either explain or justify themselves.  They are simply a force of nature, and to get in the way of their endeavors is to face the brunt of their ire.

And so, again, I may say I am not always wrong.

I am, on occasion, in the wrong place perhaps.

Dearest Craterus does not see it thusly, nor does he recognize the moment for what it is.

Before Nature, can any man defend his right?

I am not a Shakespearean character that I might bellow fruitlessly at the coming storm.

At least as a Vampire, I heal the faster.

There is blessing in that, before some unfortunate believes me the victim of an entirely different fist.

Craterus asked me yesterday – at last! – why I permit myself to be so abused.

Whereupon I did reply with some haste, “Why do you permit it?”

And with that, my father may well have struck the same blow upon him as my words did cause.

It was a considerable shock to us both, I dare say, and my chagrin granted me to stutter and stumble over my own tongue as though I had become naught but a babe again.

I would not hurt darling Craterus for the world, but only then did I pause long enough, stuck in that awful moment, to realize my physical discomforts at being so struck had indeed been felt by him each time too, from as long ago as our Bonding, if not before.

Why would he not tell me this?

Did he think I already knew?

And why do those around about me assume I must always inherently comprehend what none have actually deigned to teach?

On occasion then, I am the fool my father sees.

And the disappointment that Craterus endures.

Where lies the future in all of this?

I was not gifted the precognition to know it, despite my other silent skills, but resolve from this moment forth to be the catalyst that at long last fires the dawn instead of following the dying day to dusk.

 # # #
McFassy Fortnight / Sylum Aesthetics / Sylum Events0

McFassy Fortnight: Craterus

Craterus Aesthetic

The first time he’d seen Victor backhand his Mate for some trivial and otherwise minor offense, it had taken every fiber of self-control he possessed not to rip the man’s head off and piss on his ashes.

For his part, Charles had stood there and taken it stoically, blinking back the stinging tears that sprang naturally to his young eyes.

That had been a very long time ago indeed.

And since then, Craterus had catalogued a considerable number of bruises inflicted upon his beloved, each met by that same determined stare in return.

He wanted to believe that eventually all that pain would reach its peak, and with it the years of resentment his Mate had surely to have been building.

For Charles never fought back, despite having been very well trained to defend himself by a pair of old friends who never gave him an inch when it came to developing the necessary skill sets for a whole lot more than merely self-preservation.

Craterus had reconciled himself by sheer force of will, to the obvious vulnerabilities that came from being so remorselessly tied to a man in his life who had made it abundantly clear that should the need ever arise, he would have no problem removing even his own son from the world, for the sake of maintaining all that he had built.

Thus it was, that he tolerated – albeit barely – the blows which inevitably followed that very first.

Much had been done in secret, away from Victor’s prying eyes and ever present, ever grasping reach.

Much was still to do.

And Craterus was disciplined enough to reach his goal, though yet again he was made very well aware of the power his own Sire could wield, as into their home Victor brought the bitch who would doubtless be the downfall of them all.

The blow that fell upon his Mate’s right cheek that day was loud enough to be heard from the lobby all the way upstairs to the shadows on the balcony, as it cracked with vicious fury and deliberate malice.

Once more, Charles said nothing, though Sidney snickered like the self-satisfied little asshole he had become.

Instead, it was Craterus who flinched, watching at the railing, waiting for retaliation.

It had to come.

One day.

Surely.

 # # #
McFassy Fortnight / Sylum Events1

McFassy Fortnight: Teaser – Quintus & Arianne

“Are you writing all this down?” he asked, unsure about being in such close confines with so terrible a stench, even though he had been subjected to his own fair share of appalling smells and dreadful sufferings down the many long centuries of his life.

“Of course!” she replied, horrified to imagine that such a situation might come her way and she be remiss enough not to document its entirety.  “I might not yet be aware of who exactly would benefit from it, but I am not prepared to lose sight of the significance of this poor man’s injuries.”  Arianne had never truly seen such a thing, even in her own long experiences, and she was still somewhat struggling to reconcile her patient’s tenacious desire to live, with the all consuming nature of what he had thus far endured.

Several times, during the worst moments, when no sedation had been able to keep him at ease or free him of pain, she had begged him go to God and end his torments, for he was indeed a man of the strongest faith.  Yet he had refused, no matter the consequence to himself

It made her wonder who exactly he was punishing.

His reasons for being thrust into her care, were hard enough to understand for one not particularly well versed in the ways of either politics or current social thinking.

Not that she was a fool.

Not by any means.

She was simply a woman raised to mind her business, leave the ways of men to those who could maintain them – whatever their ills – and do as she had been chosen by the powers of providence to do.

She was a healer.

And from that she took great contentment.

The rest was of little concern.

Or so she’d imagined.

Until there before her, lay a corpse refusing to die.

Though at one point she had figured it rather generous to even think of him in corpse-like terms, when he was but a fraction of anything immediately resembling life.

That he bore her husband’s face, had itself been made all the more shocking by those who carried him into her home, as they too were quite clearly of the same kin.

Stubborn then indeed, was her husband’s blood.

It was he who had taught her reading and writing, for until the day he discovered her to be incapable of either, she had simply retained her learning in her head, carrying all she had experienced and come to understand, in the very same way her mother had, and her own mother before that, seeing no other need to instruct anyone else once her people forced her into the forest and left her there condemned as a witch, to perish at the vengeful hands of the winter’s cold.

Fate had destined her life to a different path than the one men once thought to grant, and whilst she’d thrived upon being left to her own devices, it had taken her Mate to finally unlock the strange mysteries of reading and writing for her, that she might eventually keep record of all that she knew, and then aid others in need of her medicines.

Poor Quintus had often been hard pressed to keep her well supplied with the necessary tools, and he had learned to make a great many writing implements for her, from stylus and pencil, to tablet and paper.  For she recognized the virtue of her continued crafts, and the need to leave instruction for anyone who might think to follow her path some day.

“He will live?” Quintus asked, not especially shocked at whose face he found himself staring at the night her newest patient arrived, but the man was of red hair, and he already knew that those with such coloring were more naturally inclined to tolerate pains with ease.

Although they also tolerated fools with great temper.

“In his place, so too would you,” she replied.

For the first few weeks she had barely left the man’s side, and been eager to assure him when he woke, that he was never alone in any of his anguish.

As time had gone on, Quintus fashioned various means for preventing him from causing any further harm to his damaged parts, and had expressed a certain fascination with the healing processes he could see occurring.

“As a human, without the benefits of our extraordinary nature, there would be no returning,” he muttered, “but as he is, he is.”

“And he is remarkable,” Arianne admitted.  “Worthy of your blood line, husband.”

“And your tears, woman.  I have heard you grieve for him.  I have felt it.”  He put her left hand over his chest.  “Would that I had you by my side when first I was myself returned from the dead.”

“You torture was but brief compared to his.”

Quintus nodded sagely.  “Ay, there’s the truth of it.”

“You ask me daily if he will continue to fight, and I tell you daily, yes.  His body and it’s workings already fill several of those books you brought me from the city.  I will need a good deal more before we are done.”

“And you shall have them, of course.  One day there will be those who find your work of highest value.  I don’t doubt it for an instant.”

“One day,” she mused, “when men no longer value life the ounce and death by the pound.”

Quintus kissed the top of her head as she turned from him back to her patient.  “One day,” he answered firmly.  “One day.”

 

 # #
McFassy Fortnight / Sylum Events1

McFassy Fortnight: Teaser – Guido & Wesley

 

Arianne had the patience of a Saint, but then Wesley was one of the few who knew the true identity of her Mate, so he understood how she’d coped all those years.  It was a secret few would ever know. 

Whenever he and Guido came home to them though, they’d bring boxes of gifts from Italy, and lavish them with all kinds of treats.

Arianne did love her notebooks and journals.

As far as Wesley was concerned, they deserved the very best for keeping his Mate in the world, when to every rational intent he ought to have been long gone.  In fact, his gratitude was often hard to fully express in terms that could be readily accepted, but Arianne knew, and her patience with the pair of them never failed, even when they’d still been working their respective ways through the early stage of their Mating Bond, learning about each other’s particular needs and desires, and how to cope with their histories together.

It hadn’t exactly been simple, but then he didn’t imagine it was easy for anyone, no matter the circumstances of their meeting, or the baggage they brought with them.  The centuries since then, had permitted him a finely honed sense for when his Mate’s emotional state was reaching collapse, and he would, if at all possible, ship the two of them safely to the isolation of the Scottish Highlands where silence, open space, and crisp fresh air were guaranteed to cleanse almost every Soul of it’s ills.

Sometimes however, there was nothing better than to be surrounded on all sides by the most comforting of things, in the surety of absolute safety.  And this had become one such moment as Guido’s increasing agitation and sleepless frustration roiled through their Bond like an approaching hurricane.

Wesley had, years ago, come to accept that he could do nothing to prevent it, but he could certainly curtail it, and one of the most satisfying ways to do so, was the pillow fort.

His Sire had first suggested it back in a time when it didn’t actually have such a cute sounding name.  But no matter the modern connotations, it worked brilliantly at defusing the dreadful mixture of socially enhanced pressure, anger, and abhorrent self-loathing that Guido could only contain for so long.

Arianne watched him then from the living room doorway, as the space they’d made in the middle of the floor was steadily transformed into a veritable pillow fort work of art, that she rather liked to think of as more like a ‘pillow cavern’.

It took just about every cushion in the house, several sheets, and the contents of her blanket chest to construct.

Wesley then added a string of softly colored LED lights that gave the whole thing a warm glow on the inside, and he finished it off with a tray of his Mate’s favorite snacks and some of their favorite oils for various and sundry purposes.

“Perfect?” she asked.

“Yep!”  He beamed proudly.

“You’re a Master Fort Builder,” she assured him.  “And just in time too.”  She could hear her own Mate back from having dragged Guido out on a long, and hopefully exhausting walk.  “Go upstairs and get changed.  They’ll be in shortly.”

Wesley kissed her on the cheek as he dashed past her, and she closed the living room door firmly, so as not to spoil the surprize.

Whatever it took to keep her boys contented, she was totally good with.  She just hoped her occasionally dense husband caught on to what was happening, before giving the game away.

Thankfully, however, the noble Roman she’d managed to corral in the kitchen, didn’t realize anything was amiss until he plonked himself down on one of the barstools and grunted in pain as his backside met wood with nothing in between to soften the blow.

By that time, Guido was safely ensconced in the ‘Pillow Fort of Epicness’, being slowly stripped naked by his linen shirt and leather pants clad Mate, who was lingering over every inch of him, and drawing him steadily into a haze of sensual comfort that swept away all the fears and torments of the past before they could became far too real again.

Their Bond was positively aflame, as kisses deepened and skin was laid bare to the finest of touches.

Wesley knew what Guido needed was to be reminded that his body was capable of so much more than pain, and with all the time in the world at their disposal, nothing could pressure them to hasten or doubt.

No one could reach them.

Touch them.

Stop them.

They were as one in that place, always together, always united.

There was some teasing and a little laughter to break tensions, but there was no physical restraint, no hurt, no torture.

Wesley had learned well from Master David how to build desire using every single inch of Guido’s body to explore along the way, with hands, lips, and tongue, until he had his Mate whimpering, purring and climaxing without effort or stress.

It was fun to challenge himself so, given that his own sexual predilections leaned firmly toward more painful lusts and violent fucking, and he rather enjoyed the release from being taken hard and spanked into submission.

Guido too had learned many lessons in helping him achieve such a desire.  But that was for another day entirely.

Wesley had to concentrate on his Mate’s needs above all else at that point, without getting carried away in the wrong direction.  Though he had to admit, straddling Guido’s waist as his ass was cupped by those big, solid hands of his and squeezed through his leather pants, that he was craving any and all expression of their mutual need for each other, whether soft and slow, or rough and hard.

“I want to be inside you,” Guido murmured, when his caresses had the desired effect on Wesley’s increasingly rampant cock.

He loved the sensation of those deliciously soft pants against his own bare flesh, and it had already gotten him hard just being naked under Wesley’s oh, so very innocent gaze.  For there had never been a time when his Mate had failed to look upon him with a very special sense of reverent awe.

Not that Guido felt his deserved it.

Far from it.

Yet Wesley insisted that he would rather worship on his knees before his Mate, than do so at any other man’s bidding, regardless of faith.

And so Wesley took his time wriggling out of his clothes, teasing and grinding over his Mate’s erection, until they lay, skin to skin, panting slightly.

“I’m already prepped for you,” he whispered, licking a path down Guido’s neck.

They had always used rich scented oils as part of the sensuous experience, but there were times when he surprized his Mate with pressed olive oil, or grapeseed that had virtually no smell.  And it pleased him greatly when Guido chuckled dirtily.

Rising up, he positioned his Mate’s swollen cock head at his willing hole, and lingered there, watching Guido’s expression, a soft smile on his face.

“I love you,” he murmured, bracing his hands on Guido’s abdomen as he sank back down with a slow, steady self-control that had taken him some considerable practice to master without shaking or trembling.

It was infinitely pleasurable, and so well worth the play of emotions that crossed their Bond in the process.

Guido gripped his Mate’s buttocks possessively when he was fully inside the tight warmth of Wesley’s body.  “I love you,” he said softly in reply.  “So much.  So very much…”

And the wave of unspoken gratitude that flooded through them both, was enough to bring tears fast behind it.

“I know,” Wesley whispered, bending to kiss his lover’s fluttering eyes.  “Let me take care of you.”

And he always would. 

He had sworn it before Father Kiernan in a tiny chapel in Rome when they’d first been struggling to reconcile faith with need, and past with future.

He’d never broken that vow.

Not once.

And he swore it again as he tightened himself on the rigid flesh buried inside his body.

It would be ever so.

Just the two of them.

Safely together.

 

 # #
McFassy Fortnight / Sylum Aesthetics / Sylum Events4

McFassy Fortnight: Karla

Karla Aesthetic

“She shot my son!”

Smiley just sat there and stared across the desk at his oftentimes elusive Mate, who had to all intents, just miraculously appeared in his office like a wraith on All Hallow’s Eve.

“She set him up!”

Still Smiley said nothing, knowing the best way with one who generally said little enough himself, was to play the same card.

“She doesn’t get to keep living for this!”

Several sarcastic comments on the nature of parenthood, lanced caustically through Smiley’s mind, but never once made themselves known upon his face.

“My own government wants her dead!”

Having deconstructed the material Lorraine had used to frame the Head of Berlin Station as the much sought after traitor known as ‘Satchel’, George had only a moment before put the phone down on M, after securing her agreement on a mutually beneficial deal that would ensure the cooperation of the Americans for quite some considerable time.

“I’ll kill her myself!”  Karla snarled it with a particularly vicious tone that naturally reminded George of the manner in which his Russian nemesis was known to conduct daily business.  “She’s murdered sufficient Russians to justify a death sentence from Moscow.”

“Moscow bought her cover just as much as London and Berlin.”

“My son is not a traitor!!”

“Very true, but then again he is no more like you than he is like me.  David will inevitably have his moment to confront her before he goes back to work.”

“Insanity!”

Smiley pushed his glasses up his nose.  “The Wall has come down.  The world changed shape over night.”

Karla’s eyes narrowed nastily.  “And one day we will truly be obsolete, but until then, I will see justice done!”  He was about ready to thump his fists on the desk.

“It will be,” George assured him.  “The real ‘Satchel’ is ruthless, efficient and quite brilliantly smart.  At least for a female operative.  She’ll be made to help train a different generation of spies for us in this brave new world we are creating.”

“For the Americans?”

“No.  For us.”

“The Americans will simply hand her over?  Are you mad?

“Yes, they will.  And no, I am not.  At least not today.”

“How will they do this?”

“Well now, that would depend on whether you trust your son to be more ruthless than you, more clever than me, and more efficient than our enemies across the Pond.”

“You just said he was nothing like either of us.”

“He’s not.  He’s better than we ever were.”

Karla snorted, though it sounded more like a disgusted cough as he contemplated the future.  “He can adapt.”

“Indeed.  He’s very good at it.”

“While we are old and crusted over?”

George allowed himself the mildest laugh.  “We do have our moments, don’t we?”

 # # #
McFassy Fortnight / Sylum Aesthetics / Sylum Events0

McFassy Fortnight: Guimar de Massard & Leigh Teabing

Guimar de Massard Aesthetic

“That is not my Mate!  How can you even think of such a ridiculous thing?”

Guimar could hear the ranting from some considerable distance, given his sensitive Vampire ears, and though he knew it would be far better for his state of mind if he were to block it out and just keep walking, he honestly couldn’t bring himself to pretend it wasn’t happening.

He’d gone from the overwhelming elation of finding his Mate, to the crashing reality of being rejected, in less time than it took to boil an egg.  And he’d not even had chance to say a word to the man he’d found lecturing a group of tourists on the history and mythology of Rosslyn Chapel.

“I should have stayed at home,” he whispered, slipping into his native French.  “I should not have come.”

Cadfael couldn’t bear to see his Sire’s hands shaking so badly.  “Come and sit in the car for a moment.”  He was trying to keep an eye on his own Mate too, as Lord Beringar demanded a few answers courtesy of the very nice, but clearly very bored American from Knight Clan, who had introduced himself as ‘Hicks’ and claimed to be acting as de facto bodyguard to Leigh Teabing – a man whose presence in Camelot Clan territory should have been discussed between Clan hierarchies preferably before there was a problem.

“I don’t care, woman!  This is not possible, and I refuse to accept further meddling in the issue!”

Cadfael already knew Teabing to be as vociferous as he was loudly obnoxious, having met him when he’d stayed for a few years at Camelot Castle after Romulus and Remus tossed him from Lealta.

Rome had refused to deal with the man’s obsession over Robert Langdon, and Venice had made it abundantly clear that they would not tolerate anything whatsoever, threatening their beloved Leonardo.

But the general consensus had been that once Teabing found his own Mate, the man’s belief that he actually belonged with Langdon, would naturally fade away.

A sad fact that suddenly seemed, under the circumstances, to be quite ridiculously naive.

Teabing had always maintained that Langdon was falsely Bonded to Leonardo, who had been psychologically manipulating him from an early age.  It had led to more than one awkward assessment by Lealta Clan’s Ruling Council, as they struggled to determine the nature of such strange allegations, and whether there could be any real truth to it.  Questions were raised as to whether Teabing was meant to complete a Triad with Langdon and Leonardo, but such a suggestion was fiercely and repeatedly refuted by all three parties.

Leonardo’s miraculous salvation of Langdon as a boy, when at a seven years of age he’d been trapped at the bottom of a water logged, abandoned well with virtually no hope of rescue, was called into doubt and re-examined.

Nicolaus Meridius, as Head of Sylum Clan, had been forced to get involved over it all.  So too Arthur Pendragon, as Teabing, being British, had been a member of Camelot Clan at that time.  It had been one almighty fuss after another until finally Teabing found himself a place in Knight Clan, where his particular eccentricities could be overlooked as long as he didn’t cause any physical harm or distress as a result.

It hadn’t helped that Alexander, as Leader of Sanguen and therefore Head of the Kin Clan Structure, repeatedly threatened to behead the man for being a self-righteous prick, should he ever show his face anywhere in the Mediterranean.

Hugh had snidely suggested back then, that Imenand must surely have bribed La Croix with a hell of a lot of money, for taking Teabing out of everyone’s way.

Not that anyone ever suggested otherwise.

Still, things were rather inevitable after That Night, and Teabing had been investigated ever more thoroughly as a Childe of Galileo.  

While Langdon himself had found it impossible to believe that someone so much a scholar of art and history, could have had anything to do with an attempt at destroying the Vatican, it had been agreed upon that should Teabing ever have to leave the relative safety of Knight Clan’s territory, there would be warnings sent out to whoever else’s Clan might be on the receiving end of any or all potential trouble.

But apparently, Knight Clan’s leadership wasn’t giving too much of a crap about the niceties of interClan diplomacy any more.

Which didn’t shock Cadfael all that much, but certainly pissed off Hugh Beringar as Head of Camelot Security.

Doctor Teabing, as it turned out, was on some kind of lecturing tour with a group of people who had a specific interest in all things Illuminati, following on from the events of That Night.  Such a thing was bound to have an impact on the public consciousness, and there had been a massive uptick in curiosity over all manner of conspiracy theories and secret societies.  

Sensing a money making opportunity when it came their way, more people than just Teabing were taking best advantage.  In 2007 alone, the volume of books on the shelves about similar issues, had quadrupled.  And there were films, shows, and tours all over the world, claiming to have some connection to the ‘global terrors’ of secret sects and their power hungry leaders.

Cadfael really wanted someone to try and calculate the odds on him and Hugh dragging one of their oldest friends to a place like Rosslyn Chapel, only to have said friend meet hitherto unknown Mate.

Guimar was, however, not so much concerned with the mathematics as with his inability to see what the problem was.  He’d never heard of Leigh Teabing, even in passing, let alone been aware of the scandal that followed the man like a virulent plague.  But as his Childe sat him down in the car and explained the long history of such matters, it quickly became apparent that there were a few things in which Passion Clan had played no part, and remained blissfully unconcerned.

Which in turn, rather made him feel personally affronted.  If not a little foolish on top of everything else.

“Perhaps I might seduce him, no?”  Guimar had reverted to his native tongue and stayed there, but Cadfael chose not to tell him.  “I am not without resources after all.”  And yet the expression on his dear Childe’s face was not one to fill him with hope.  “You have told me everything?”

“Yes.  But I fear, given the reaction that your mere presence has evoked, that Leigh’s obsession may prove too much to break.  If he had found you sooner…”

It had been an exceptionally long time since last Guimar shed tears, and though he wanted to deny what the Vampire inside him was desperate for, his slightly more rational mind told him Cadfael was probably right.

He could still hear the ranting and railing, never mind that it was being tempered by a woman’s calming, evenly measured tones.

Hicks had said that his wife, Lucy, often acted as Doctor Teabing’s personal secretary.  She certainly sounded like a very nice woman, but Guimar could not tell whether she fully understood the implications in such a moment.

“I should know more of this Robert Langdon person,” he concluded.

“None of this is his fault, or his doing, old friend.”

“I believe you.”  From somewhere de Massard drew a smile before running a hand over the ache that was forming between his brows.  “Nevertheless…”

Cadfael sighed.  “Do not consider him a rival.  Please?”

“Right now, I do not know what to consider.  I am rejected by a Soul I have never yet spoken with, and who in turns seems unable to entertain any though whatever of my existence.”

Around them, cars in the parking lot began moving out, leaving a patchwork of empty spaces.

Cadfael wondered how many were simply done for the day, heading for lunch, or fleeing from Leigh’s unexpected shouting that cast an almost hysterical shadow over so very dignified a place.

He could sense Hugh’s own tightly wound anger start bubbling to the boil, and struggled to send calm reassurance through their Bond so that matters wouldn’t lead to a visit by the local Constabulary.

And their day, that had been meant only as a mildly interesting diversion, was suddenly soured by the brutal reality of an old problem no one had ever really known how to fix.

He wanted to believe that a noble and decent man like Guimar, deserved better than a stubborn old mule like Teabing, but he kept that to himself too.  After all, he and Hugh had hardly been the most perfect couple, and there were many others of his acquaintance who hadn’t exactly met the easy way, or been instantly accepting of one another.

“How many times do I have to tell you people?  My Mate was brainwashed by da Vinci!!  Never in a thousand lifetimes, was I meant to be with anyone but Robert!!”

The screeching got louder as Teabing stalked through the car park from where he’d been yelling at Lucy in the tour bus his group were using.

Guimar glanced away, growling harshly in his throat, and it made Cadfael wince at the kind of memories such a sound could dredge up.  He had visions then of a vicious fight amongst the cars, with horrified but curious tourists capturing it all on their cameras for the evening news.

Arthur having a royal fit.

And The Bruce demanding whoever’s head got in the way first.

But that it didn’t actually happen at that point, didn’t mean it would never come.

Leigh Teabing Aesthetic

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McFassy Fortnight / Sylum Events4

McFassy Fortnight: McFassy Q&A

Cal sighed as he dropped his messenger bag into an empty seat at the airport. He had thought it was rough getting all the Pirates in one spot, but then again Thomas did bribe them with Rum and it helped that most of them seemed to living either at Sylum or Sanctuary.

Trying to get the ‘Metal Bending’ family into one place was a fucking nightmare.

Actually he never did get the family into one place … instead he ended up traveling around the world just to see most of the assholes.

Only to discover there were more of them, that he had thought and he might kill Dilios for not warning him.

Read more“McFassy Fortnight: McFassy Q&A”

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McFassy Fortnight / Sylum Aesthetics / Sylum Events0

McFassy Fortnight: Callum Lynch

Callum Lynch Aesthetic

(You’re probably wondering … wait why is he also on this day – well you’re just going to have to wait and see *smirks wickedly*)

Hint: Reread – New Orleans Chronicles – Aiden Pearce

Callum woke with a start.

The ceiling wasn’t his home, nor Aguilar’s.  It wasn’t the hotel he had been recently crashed in, after his latest mission.   He had no idea where he was, and could hear Altaïr’s lecture on not being aware, feel Proximo’s twenty mile run in the desert just because he’s an asshole, and Aguilar’s disappointed yet scared expression.

He turned his head to see a woman sitting next to him.

“You’re awake.”

“Where am I?”  He asked casually as one can, when they’ve been kidnapped.

“It’s not important.”

“It is, when I’ve been brought here against my will.”  His instincts wanted to choke the life out of her, but he needed more information.

“You were brought here for your own good.  There was an altercation…”

‘Bullshit’

“…The police figured some downtime would be better than jail time.”

‘Bullshit’

“So you were brought to our facility, to help with your anger management issues.”

“What because I’m Irish I have anger management issues?”  He tilted his head, studying her intently. She was a scientist, or she thought she was.  Her pencil skirt, ivory blouse showed her curves, but it was covered by the labcoat, to make her seem more professional.

She smelled like a Templar.

The small pendant on her necklace showed her to be one.

“Well they are known for their more violent tendencies.  I mean the history of the IRA, and the attacks on innocent citizens,” said in a very European brisk accent, trying not to show she had been educated in Britain.

“I’m not going to get into a political debate with you on Ireland and the oppression of Britain on my mother’s country.”  He sat up and shifted his legs over the edge of the hospital style bed. The room was grey, very institutionalized. He looked down at the grey scrubs and white t-shirt, it would seem they were going for mental institution … though the place lacked the screaming of the insane.  He gently stood, still feeling the drugs run through his veins. He would need to Feed … he looked at her one more time. “I will be leaving.”

“You can’t.”  She moved around the bed to block the door.  “You’ve been committed for treatment.”

“You think you can keep me?”  He used his body to back her against the wall, though never touched her.

“It would be for your own good, Mr. Lynch.”  She swallowed down her fear, then opened the door leading him outside.  “I’m trying to find ways to curtail violent behaviors.”

He snorted.  “By holding me against my will.”

“It’s for your own good.”  She repeated a forced smile on her face.  “If you followed the path you were on, you could’ve ended up in jail or worse … dead.”

‘Already dead luv.’  

“Aye, so ya’ going to study me like a rat?”  He moved around her, voice dropping low. “Inject me with a new kind of drug?  Watch me like a bug, to see how I tick?”

“Actually we’re going to show you a purpose.”

The voice was haughty, annoying, and every inch a Templar.  Callum turned, to face the newcomer, he reseted flexing his hand, wanting nothing but his blade to slide down to shank the bastard.

“I have a purpose.”

“To club crawl and get into bar fights?”  He asked with a disdain only someone who was rich and powerful could pull off.

“It works.”

It dawned on him they had no idea who he was.  They saw him as a punk lowlife who had no focus.  He swallowed the hysterical laughter, that he was standing in front of two Templars, who had no idea he was an Assassin.

“Come with me, Mr. Lynch.”

“Sure why not.”  

He followed him into an huge open chamber.  Everything painted dull grey, to the point it hurt to look at anything.  He could see camera’s and hear equipment running, but wasn’t quite sure what it all was.

He wasn’t the tech Assassin.

That would Nico of late.

Maybe he should kidnap Clay’s Mate once this done, learn a few things.  He didn’t like be unawares, and if they were going to move this war into the cyber world, he needed to up his skills.

“Do you know where you come from?”  

Callum turned his head slowly, frowning at the question.  “Aye, the green hills of Ireland.”

“No your family.”

“Potato farmers.”  He could see the tick in the Templar’s expression, he was annoying him.  Good. “I didn’t get your name? It’s only polite to introduce yourself, especially as you’ve had me committed to this Institution.”

“Rikken.”  He answered, the nodded to the girl.  “My daughter, Sophia.”

“Pleasure.”  He gave them both a half smirk.  “Cut ta’ the chase, why am I here?”

“To learn about who you are.”  He waved a hand, and suddenly the world changed around him.

He recognized it.

It was a small town outside Madrid.

And if the uniforms on the soldiers were any indication, it was early 16th Century.

“Spain.  1492.”

He looked down at himself, startled to see the Assassin uniform, the one Aguilar mostly wore, though today’s was more updated.  He moved his hands around to see the bracers and blades, touched his waist to feel the bola and red sash.

What the hell was this.

He then saw a young boy being dragged away from his parents, and tossed into a prison wagon.

This wasn’t right – he wasn’t here for this, Aguilar told him about this particular mission.  He was still in Ireland, dealing with a corrupt church official with Il Duce.

Did they think he was Aguilar?

Wrong twin asshole!

“You’re seeing the world of your Ancestor.”

Callum’s head snapped up, he looked around, not seeing Rikken or his daughter.  

Instead there were fellow Assassins on either side of him.  Except Aguilar was one of the few in Spain, outside Maximus.  

Who the hell was the woman.

“This is who you were, and it could be you again.”

He shook his head, this wasn’t real …

He saw one of the soldiers put a gun to the parent’s head …  Instincts kicked in, and before he could think twice, the blade slide down and he jumped from the roof.

 

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McFassy Fortnight / Sylum Aesthetics / Sylum Events0

McFassy Fortnight: Jacob Peter Quill

Jacob Peter Quill Aesthetic

(You’re probably wondering … wait why is he on this day – well you’re just going to have to wait and see *smirks wickedly*)

He was wet, muddy, wet and did he mention muddy?  He bent his knees, and leaned against the makeshift wall, which was getting him wet and muddy.  

Jacob Peter Quill wondered if he would ever see home again.  He left the green hills of Wales, over three years ago, not long after his mother died.  He had volunteered for the army, and was soon shipped out to the Front, where he stayed.

He had seen death and destruction.

Survived battles his friends didn’t.

Yet he hadn’t moved from this spot, or at least it didn’t seem like it.

The armies were in a stalemate, stuck across a mile of No Man’s Land, taking pot shots at each other.  

His tall frame made for good target practice for the Germans.  He’s learned over the years to either walk slumped, or bend his knees more.

A commotion caught his attention, Chief was handing out goodies to some of the soldiers.  They gave him smiles and sincere thanks, it was these small things that made life in the trenches bearable.

“How does a bear like you survive in this small cave?”  Chief smiled at him, handing a small wrapped gift, he could smell the fresh meat.

“Hibernating.”  He answered with a smile.

“I am glad to see you Quill.”  He patted his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.  “I send prayers to the gods that I will see you after this.”

“What brings you back to the Front?”  He asked, seeing Sammy and Charlie coming up the rear.

“Steve has a plan to end the war.”  Sammy leaned forward, with a shrug. “Life isn’t boring with him.”

He was about to answer, when he saw the last member of their party.  A woman, wrapped in furs, looking around in shock, horror, and honest to God righteous anger.  Quill watched as she touched and soothed villagers, speaking in their native language.

The woman turned Steve around, arguing with him, which was a sight to see in itself.  Quill at one point had good hearing, but years at the Front had done damage. He glanced at Chief, then Sammy who both shrugged.

When she dropped the fur coat, stepping up to the ladder, wearing a uniform he had only read about.  It looked a mix of Greek and Roman armour. The metal was nothing like had seen, and the boots were obviously hand crafted.  If he didn’t know better he would say she was a Greek Goddess come to life.

“Diana it’s No Man’s Land.”  Steve tried to stop her.

“I’m no man.”

She moved up the ladder and stepped out onto No Man’s Land.

He was watching history take place, but knew it would never make the books.  

He looked left, then right and with a nod they followed her over the wall.

 

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