The taxi cab rumbles to a stop in the quiet hours of the morning. I pay the driver, tipping him heavily before exiting the car. My spirits are high. It is good to be home. I grab my bags from the trunk and begin making my way up the walkway. I have just spent the last month in southern Tyrol. A small mountain village housed this years Convocation of the Order and my bags are burdened with the spoils of my visit. Its not like you just find Masters of Ars Conjunctionis lying around, so when paths are crossed, it is best to stock up on reading material.

As I approach the front door, I can clearly make out the modest inscrïption marking the threshold:

  Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
  Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

I wipe my feet on the doormat and soundly wrap upon the door, three times. It pays to be polite, even in your own house. After a moments pause, I pull out archaic iron key. The locks here are old but expertly crafted. Sliding it gently in, I turn the key widdershins.

The lock slides smoothly open. The house welcomes me home.  

--Last edited by Philip Rathbone on 2009-01-31 18:29:06 --

Philips house took on an odd dual personality after its awakening. Most people who enter assume Philip has a wife or perhaps his mother lives in one of the rooms. There is just an odd feminine touch to the place and nothing Philip does will ever get rid of it.

Certain people would say just the opposite. They say something about the house feels oppressive and angry. As if it were haunted by an old southern gentleman with some dark secrets or bitterness that didnt die with him.

The house either seems like something aught to be baking, or that you might be shoved down the stairs at a moments notice.

Philip will find the house exactly as he left it. It is pleasantly warm and a few lights come on in silent greeting.

You would not know it, but nearly every unseen square inch of this house is covered in gracefully carved symbols. Under floor boards, behind walls, along crawlspaces and into the very stone foundation of the house, these vigils are inscribed. All of it done to strength the spirit of this place, to solidify it in thought and essence. It look me two years to complete, but compared to other such endeavors, I would consider that rather hastily done.  

I set my luggage down and make my way into the living room. On the mantle rests a small, unadorned shrine, accompanied by a wooden box and mortar. Removing resin from two of the jar located in the box, i begin grinding it with the mortar and a pestle. In my practiced hands it takes but a moment. I light a small coal on the shrine, and speaking a quiet prayer of homage, I pour the powder onto the burning coal. Within seconds, my home is filled with the fragrance of frankincense and myrrh. It always seemed to be Abana's favorite.

Miss me?

I chuckle to myself as I collect my bags. Taking them into the master bedroom, I begin to unpack. The clothes are placed back in their designated arrangements. It may seem complex to other, but to me, it is a simple matter. Everything has its place.

One bag is left untouched. It contains an assortment of books collected whilst gathering with my fellows. Taking it in hand, I head upstairs. The books need to be organized into my library. Not the one in my study, but the one in my attic... my private library.  

--Last edited by Philip Rathbone on 2009-02-01 01:06:21 --

Philip slides his key into the antiquated lock of the attic door. He had purchased the door at auction. It had been salvaged from a ship wreck in the Atlantic. Though the craftsmanship of the door could not be dated, the vessel it was aboard had apparently sunk in 1915, a casualty of the war. Miraculously, the door was in excellent shape for having been at the bottom of the ocean for nearly a century. What it had been doing stored in the cargo hold of a Spanish ship, no one knew.

A breeze, rife with the stale scent of dust, assaults his faculties as he enters the attic, his sanctum. Unlike most such rooms in the neighborhood, his is not filled with old furniture and boxes. A book shelf, writing desk and chair are the only effects present, all situated near the door. A small circle, elegantly carved into the wooden floor boards rests several paces away. The focal point, however, is the massive, elaborately carved unicursal hexagram on the far side of the room. It is easily a dozen paces wide. Strange symbols trace out the names of eldrich powers along its boarders. Philip took the better part of a year carving just the names alone. In these matters, precision is everything. The smallest error would almost certain lead to a most painful death.

Filing the books neatly on the bookshelf, he appraises his sparse collection. It should be triple what it is now, but lack of faith in security had led him to seek the assistance of outside sources. Henk Smit, a fellow Hermetic [and a complete wanker as far as Philip was concerned] had chose not to join his fellows at the latest gathering of the Order. Though it pained him to do so, he had had little option but to leave his beloved tomes in the man's safekeeping.

He was sure they were fine, though. The man did own a antique bookstore. What's the worst that could happen?

With that thought floating through his mind, Philip descends the staircase. Locking up the house, he makes his way to the garage, where dwells his trusty Volvo.

Time to go get his books back.



[move to Smit's Book Store: Verbum Pro Verbo]  

--Last edited by Philip Rathbone on 2009-02-01 01:08:04 --