Toren Glimpses

[Toren]

Walking back from the bus stop, Wendel Schwarzenberg, known to some as 'Toren', hung his head in discouragement. Not only had he not accomplished what he set out to do today, which was to find new employment, but now he could perceive the vast distance he had yet to go to fulfill his dream. His bald head, shiny, glinted with the light of the setting sun as he sauntered down the carefully laid brick path that led to his home.

Originally his grandfather's, Wendel still hadn't been able to discern the full potential of the structure. It was made decades ago, built by his grandfather and designed by his mentor to be a place of gathering energy. He laughed aloud at the thought of his mentor, if he could even be called that. The rogue Mystagogue, Obsidian, Tamer of Stone. He should be called a rolling stone for how much he traveled. Rarely did Wendel see the mage as of late and when he did it was usually because he needed to tap into the house to replenish his power.

He did teach Wendel how to do it too, but only so he'd be able to redraw the Wards each day that protected this place from prying eyes. But Wendel saw this place as more than just a pit stop or pet project. This Hallow was his grandfather's, a man who was a mason and lover of architecture, the one who inspired him to be an architect in the first place. During Wendel's Awakening his work was the one thing that kept his sanity intact. There was a greater design in the world and he could see it, could appreciate it, and sought to build upon it.

The two-floored traditional country cottage was built in the early 60's and had subtle hints towards art deco in its geometric design. As a modest mid-century residence it had the additional luxury of a cellar where Wendel did most of his training out of sight of sleepy-eyes. Click click, went the latch as he unlocked and opened the front door, striding a few more feet before collapsing on the sofa. He sighed audibly to signal to the world that he was done for today. The world called back and reminded him that he probably would want to eat something soon and that there was precious mana to collect before he could sleep properly.

Wendel sighed again in reply, saying in no subtle terms that the world can mind its own damn business. Still he complied and rose up from the sofa, taking off his jacket and shoes, and heading to the kitchen for nourishment. On the counter were the stack of bills that had been piling up. Late notices. Sure, his grandfather had bequeathed him the house in his will, but he hadn't counted on the upkeep and his unexpected unemployment. He poured himself a glass of milk and drank it down, slamming the butt of the glass on the counter as if it were a shot of whiskey. He would have to do something soon about this. Well, tomorrow was another day. Might as well head to the cellar to prepare.

[Toren]

Stone is incarnation in the Flesh

The words of his Mentor echoed in his mind as he sat in the basement of his grandfather's house. Wendel's brow was beaded with sweat. He had been staring at the blank sheet pinned to his drafting table all evening. Was he waiting for inspiration from the watchtower or simply from his own consciousness? He closed his eyes tightly, beginning to feel fatigued at the late hour. But that's how it was every evening, nothing new there. He waited, his mind as blank as the sheet that stretched before him, a universe unto itself, and him the creator, pen in hand. The sliding ruler fixed into the table rolled along in a whir that snapped to a point on the page. He drew a line from one side of the sheet to the next.

The Craftmason is the Earth, he is the Ground Underfoot, he is the Bedrock, the Foundation for Truth to be Built Upon

The ruler snapped in succession and three more lines appeared, right angles, the most common of shapes, the square, let's mix it up a bit. A protractor appeared and twisted the shape with several more lines that added to the initial form. How would the light fall, he wondered, what would the building see in the dawn, at dusk? He glanced up to take in several reference photos that he had taken of the site in question. A building was all about location, all about placement and perspective. You shape it from the land it sits upon. He made several notations on the page and slapped another transparent sheet atop the first to start again, refining the lines and bringing a solid shape together. Where would the second floor be, where would the stairs lay? A circular staircase, spiraling in classic design, it would likely be rejected, revised, but he didn't care, it fit.

Not only Flesh, but Sensation. Perceive the World as it is. Be Aware of its Subtle Design.

He was caught up in the flow of it now. The pen flicked back and forth in a blur hardly leaving the paper at all. When he had finished the rough concept he slapped a third page down and took out a black marker, thin tipped which he drew out again on the page, the earlier lines showing through behind it. See in layers, see in dimensions, see the true design beneath the framework. There is power and purpose here in these lines. Each room a monument, a message. Tile floor, polished wood, stone hearth, and open kitchen. Finally it connected full circle and now he could see it, he could see what was missing. He laid down the skeletal pieces of plumbing and electric passages, the veins pumping life in and out of the structure. A switch here, outlets here, the furnace and ventilation spreading out like branches along the peripheries. There.

After an hour the residence was finished. It wasn't a grand thing, only a dwelling commissioned by a previous coworker who needed a rush job done. He would mail it the next day, like seeing a child off to their first day of school. Would they make it in the world? Would it change them, make them better or worse? Who knew. It was out of his hands once it had been stamped and stored, rolled in its cardboard case.

[Toren]

Toren lay sprawled out on the carpet of his living room surrounded by papers strewn in a haphazard pattern of disorganization. He had been going over his finances for taxes and factoring in the self-employed freelance 1099's. He wondered if he had to take a loan out to cover his property taxes. It didn't seem like something worth worrying about since he had Awakened to his abilities as a mage, but now he was reminded that such an ascension did not discard the mundane and tedious tasks of day-to-day. With dwindling funds he became increasingly worried about being able to keep his grandfather's house bequeathed to him. In addition to being a place of fond sentimeent, it was also the source of the raw power from the supernal.

As he had learned more about the magical society that dwelt around him within Sacramento he realized his puny warding rotes were likely not quite doing the trick. In all likelihood he had only been extremely lucky not to have garnered attention from the other planes of existence. He shut his eyes and tried to relax, letting his mind drift to memories of a time not long ago.

---

"There, you've done it," the deep resonating voice came through clear as day as Wendel opened his eyes and saw before him the ebony skinned man, dressed in slimming black attire. "You and the stone are one."

"Solid and strong in our connection..." rasped Wendel automatically, strangely tired from the ordeal. Despite his lack of understanding of it, the ritual they had just performed was a feat many mages could only achieve through advanced study. Yet had done it all the same, passed his body through solid matter as if it were air. The experience was much like his initial awakening, lucid, terrifying, yet wondrous, his body tingling from either magic or excitement. Still, he scarcely knew what to expect. What if he had failed, would his body become permanently cemented in the masonry of his own construction?

The man, Obsidian, looked much like his namesake, though the gleam of his teeth and bald head substituted the surface's luster. His smile was proud and hopefully yet shadowed behind dark sunglasses. Wendel had seen his eyes before and they were no different, large black pupils, voids within their sockets. Perhaps it was an effect of his nimbus, or a trick of the light but it remained unnerving simply to imagine. As intimidating as he was, Wendel's mentor was friendly and encouraging in his mannerisms.

"You've done well, think of this as a test you were destined to pass. It calls to you, does it not? Just as it called to your father through that the Masonic Order. Though he had not the gift, you shall reap the path he was unable to Awaken to."

Wendel nodded, a weak smile as he shivered, teeth chattering.

"Ah, direct conduction, since stone bodies do not generate heat like ours, except when great pressure is applied. Let us return inside and celebrate your right of passage."

This man, who had come to him suddenly within days of his Awakening, was still a great mystery to him, but he appreciated these lessons and instructions. Yet often he would disappear some mornings without any sign of his having been there. Though he had left a tool for him to use on his rote casting, a lead coin marked with a five-pointed pentagram. "This is the currency of our trade. Spend it wisely." Wendel knew Obsidian was speaking figuratively but wondered all the same what value an appraiser would rate the coin. He couldn't judge how old it was but it was a useful tool for him.

---

Toren opened his eyes again, taking out the coin from his pocket. He fingered it idly in his hand, staring up at the ceiling. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Startled, he dropped the coin which landed squarely on his head. "Ow..." he moaned at the weight of the lead. Getting up with another groan he moved to the door and peeked through the small slit windows on either side for of the door frame.

A black sleeve of smooth fabric adorned the arm of the house caller. Toren tensed in anticipation and confirmed his thoughts as he gazed through the door's peephole. He finally unlatched the portal and opened it to see his mentor standing there. His face was grim and the dark shades still adorned the bridge of his nose. "Hello, Toren," he said in greeting. "I trust you've been well?"

Toren stared, his eyebrows raised far more than they should have been able to go. "Fine. Yep. Been fine. How've you been, Obsidian?"

"May I come in?" he asked, dodging the question.

"Sure, of course, please do," replied Toren in earnest, moving out of the way as his mentor strode in and stood in the foray. Toren shut the door behind him. "So, um, what brings you back to Sacramento?" he asked innocently.

"What makes you think I ever left?" asked Obsidian with a knowing smile as he turned to his pupil once again. "Please sit with me, I've some things to tell you and some things to ask."

They sat in the living room, the papers on the floor ignored by the both of them. Obsidian was the first to speak. "I understand you've made contact with the Consilium."

"Err, yes, I mean I didn't have much to go on exactly. You sort of left me in the dark about that. Actually it was quite by chance that I stumbled upon them. They have this quaint little coffee shop down the..."

"Yes I'm well aware. And how do you find them?"

"Find them? Well they're very nice. A bit odd, well no more odd then myself. Actually they've been very helpful. I've started learning some High Speech and..."

"Good," Obsidian barked, "good. I'm glad you haven't been slacking in your studies. I had been sure you would seek growth on your own. Like a seed amid the stony cracks you carve yourself a wedge." He folded his hands before himself, his expression satisfactory. "And what now, what are your plans?"

"Um, well of course I want to continue architecture. I want to learn more of course, whatever I can to achieve my goals."

"And what are those goals, exactly?" coaxed Obsidian.

"To...to erect a building of my own. A living structure of power and purpose..."

"What purpose?"

"I don't know...I..."

"You know, but you don't. Inside you is the answer and fate will lead you to its resolution. Forget the whys and hows, just continue down the Path. Let your soul lead you."

Toren nodded, all seriousness now. Obsidian nodded as well, approvingly, "I have some things to show you, some new things you might find interesting. It will take some time but I trust the rewards will assist you in fulfilling the purpose the Path has given you."

[Toren]

It was a road that stretched from here to infinity in both directions. It was cut from solid stone, a flat black plane that disappeared into the dark edges of the horizon. Toren felt heavy here, like he was made from stone or metal. He knew he wasn't really in Stygia, but the feeling was the same, like gazing into the reflection of a memory.

As his body drew the mapping of another architectural blueprint his mind was experiencing each line as a road in an endless grid. The scope was daunting. To walk each line felt as though it would take an eternity. Normally Toren felt light-hearted and carefree, mostly because he had few stresses to weigh him down. His parents were alive and in good health. He himself was in good health and even had a prospects at becoming a great architect. However...

As he felt himself journey down the leaden path, sluggishly moving through the moment, he could see a house before him as if built right upon the road itself. It was his grandfather's house, the house his body had been living in since his death. As he approached the front door, however, he felt the ground quake beneath him. The house shook violently, its frame twisting as if someone had put a jackhammer to it. He felt the horror as the building started to disintegrate before him. He covered his face with his arm as if bracing against the shock. When he looked again a light streamed from where it had stood.

It was the essence of the magical nexus, he could tell. It resonated with raw power, providing the Hallow that he drew upon daily. What was the purpose of this vision? Was it a message of his subconscious or from beyond the material realm? He concentrated on the path, sluggishly moving foward into the nexus.

Toren blinked, his eyes teary from having remained opened for so long. He had been staring hard at his blueprint, the ritual task he gave himself everytime he replenished his mana, the raw energy of the supernal. He sighed dismally. He had so little understanding of all of it. The teachings of his mentor had always rested soley in the material, the manipulation of the material, the relationship of material things. But Toren wanted to know more about his grandfather's house, about what connected it to the higher realms and what his grandfather had to do with it. He blew on the ink imbedded in the paper to dry it and then leaned back in his chair. He fingered the magical tool in his pocket, the lead coin, a gift from his mentor. He never could get the man to answer his questions plainly...

[Toren]

With all that had been happening lately, Toren needed a much needed energy boost. He had just finished watching Sketches of Frank Gehry, a documentary on a well-known contemporary architect who had won the Pritzker Prize. He had seen it before, one of many in his collection, but it had been long enough where he could enjoy it again while he flipped through some building photography books. It was a relaxing, natural, normal evening. But it was getting late, getting to be that time.

He shut off the tv, stood, and stretched, dressed in sweat pants and a white t-shirt. He smoothed his hands over his scalp and went upstairs to change. He always wanted to give it his all in his rituals, that too felt natural, so he wore his formal mage attire, simple suit pants and a white buttoned up shirt and tie.

Toren sat at his work bench in the basement where he constructed his blueprints. But as soon as he did he stood up again. He decided to try something new to help with the experience. He went to his portable stereo and turned on a jazz track he enjoyed.

He did a little swaying dance in place as he rubbed his hands together purposefully before sitting back down. Taking a pencil in hand he sketched out what jumped into his head. A swirl of scribbles twisted around themselves on the paper, making rudimentary shapes in light granite, darkening the more they overlapped. The shape was almost like a crumpled piece of paper. He decided that's what it should be and hurredly moved onto another sheet.

An office building, with long plastered walls, but more organic, like the Guggenheim Museum in Manhattan. Layered like a cake, like building blocks separate but whole. Twisting glass brick pillars that gave the illusion of immense space. And as his brain clicked into place, so did the pattern of his being.

He could feel the energy pull in, into the building he constructed in his mind. He imagined himself walking through the front doors, the light passing through the glass and filling the rooms. A large atrium lobby that went up to the top. Each layer expanding out just enough to give a sense of swelling. Concrete that rebounds sound waves along a curved path so it travelled as though you could speak to a person ten stories above you. Geometric perfection. The building considered the feeling of the occupant, empowered them and their senses. It lifted their feelings, their souls, and either elevated them or narrowed their focus. It was like walking into a painting of shapes instead of colors, though colors were just as important, fabrics just as important as the stonework. Seated at the center he felt all of these aspects dwell inside him, his pattern strengthed.
Once complete he stretched again, much like he did in his living room. "Ugh, too much sitting," he complained to no one in particular. He needed to start moving around more, maybe take a jog tomorrow morning. He yawned, thinking about it.

[Toren]

His grandfather's home was older than Toren was, certainly. And as such it became more and more in need of repairs. Mold and mildew, drywall cracks, and some corrosion on the pipe plumbing were some concerns that Toren had taken care of before. He often saved these tasks during the special hour at night that the house emitted its supernal essence. It also made him feel a little closer to his grandfather, getting to know the house from plank to nail and cement to shingle.

Tonight's project was cleaning the air conditioning unit. Now that Spring was here it was time to prepare for the warmer weather. It meant lower cooling bills and an extended lifespan for the conditioner. He sized up the outside condenser unit, wearing a miner's helmet with a light attached to the front. The first thing he did was unplug it from the house power port. He inspected the copper tubes fed from the house into the coil. Some remnants of last fall's leaves were vaguely caked onto the plastic framing. His tool was a vacuum cleaner with a bristled attachment. Toren began cleaning the outside of the condenser, the soft whir of the vacuum seemingly louder in the night air.

When Toren opened the condenser up he focused on the motor, a belt-driven device that spun the fan. He made sure the belt hadn't worn through and then began lubricating the oil ports. After checking for any leakages he determined that it was still in good condition. He put the fan and grille back in place atop it and then plugged the power back in.

Returning inside Toren marched down into the basement again where the evaporator coil sat fixed against the wall. After switching off power from the electrical panel he changed the filter, so the dust wouldn't get exposed to the evaporator fins. He used the same vacuum to clean up any lingering dust around the compartment and then he went about checking the tubes.

The Mystagogue finally sat back and reflected on the tasks he performed, the ritual maintanence, connections created through labor. Taking care of a building was as important as building it in the first place, but some buildings were just easier to fix when they started out well-built. It would last many years to come as well. Satisfied, he yawned widely and headed upstairs to rest as the night progressed steadily.

[Toren]

Earlier that week Toren had been to the Museum again, trying to find inspiration for his blueprint for the evening. After some careful thought and planning a spark of creativity hit him in the form of another mage he had met while traversing the halls. Conflict Breeds Creation was the theme that came to mind. Not so much duality, not so much chaos, but forces pitted against one another, just like intense pressures from deep within the earth that give birth to a crystallized geode.

He pulled out some open sheets onto his drafting table and started to work right away. There would have to be a strong foundation and a large deposit of stone, limestone probably, or even better Terrazzo, something common that could provide the base material. The building would have to be a place where conflict brought forth progress, where forces collided to produce a positive result. A government building perhaps, a place of legislature. Yes, there were many such buildings that made use of limestone, even the US Capitol! Much sturdier than sandstone. The building's weight will bring pressure and now for the turmoil of forces.

The entryway must have a narrowing affect, a slightly smaller frame in the Antechamber, the neo-classical wall fixtures should push up and outward, intricate and dynamic. But there must be a likewise pushing out of the rotunda centerpiece, the wooden pedestals and podiums surrounding descending layers of tiered debate floor so much like an amphitheater. Carpet or tile, I wonder, hell why not both! There must be an excitement of color, but a simple decor, each piece must radiate with presence.

Toren leaned back, something was missing to this formula. There was too much yang. There needed to be something to bring more focus to the scene. Potted plants? A fountain? Lighting, of course, there needed to be soft lighting. The lighting fixtures needed lightguards to dissolve the intensity, maybe floor lighting too...

An hour later Toren had finished his preliminary sketches and looked back satisfied. "This aught to make for an interesting piece if I ever need it," he said to himself as he filed it away with the others. So many ideas out there, so many energies to be captured and formed into his structures. Soon he would be ready to build, soon he would capture the attention of those who appreciated his talents.

[Toren]

After long last the Moros Architect known as Toren has secured for himself the thing he has been working towards for years now. He has officially been granted his professional license! Oh sure, technically he was an intern architect during his time at Borgnine & Gable working under real licensed architects. It was a required learning period for him to gain experience and eligability for the Architect Registration Examination. Even after months of waiting he hadn't been sure he made the cut. With his fall into freelance he hadn't even thought about it lately, too worried about paying off bills with his blueprints and designs. But once he had gotten the news he signed up for the exam immediately and had engrossed himself in study till the destined day.

Waiting for the results had been mind-numbingly tedious. Everything hindged on this, his propulsion into the realm of professionalism depended on it. Finally, weeks later he received the envelope to which he opened reverently, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before reading its content. He had passed. He leapt for joy in his achievement, skipping about his grandfather's house with glee. He even went to the cemetary where the old Mason had been buried to show him the results. Toren imagined his spirit smiling proudly. But as he tired himself from fits of merriment, Toren realized there was still so much to do. Now that he had been given wings he needed to exercise them, soar to new heights. He needed to build something. He sorted through his stacks of blueprints. Perhaps now these unborn children could take shape and form within the world. The possibilities...

Yet even if he were a professional he still wasn't a part of a firm. A firm meant resources, notoriety. He could go with Joshua's plan and strike a deal with a construction company. But would they agree to such a proposal? Only one way to find out. Toren rummaged in his hallway drawer for the phone book and flipped to the construction company category and began dialing the number of the first listing.

[Toren]

Toren unloaded the bundle onto a large folding banquet table he had brought down into the basement. When he pulled away the cloth an assortment of balsa wood chunks spilled out. He smiled in anticipation and headed over to a cabinet with an assortment of tools. He selected a whittling knife, sandpaper, and some small chistles and hammer and set them on the table as well.

It was not the only things Toren had with him. He unscrolled a large map on the table. There was also a folder stuffed with pictures, each labeled with a caption describing the subject matter. They were all of buildings, and to an observant eye buildings specific to Sacramento. Wells Fargo, Capital Mall, Renaissance Tower, Riverview Plaza, and dozens of others. Toren set them out in front of him. He then took in hand the whittling knife and balsa wood and began to carve shavings off the side of the block. Glancing between the photos and the wood it slowly but surely began to take shape. His sense of geometry grew to a new dimension, opening up his pattern in the simple process of crafting.

As he finished one, completing its basic shape he eventually moved onto another one, and then another, facing each one a loving patience. He set them in place above the map. They weren't complete, just bare wood, but he had hopes to continue this hobby for a time. It would be good practice for his hands, shaping the city and building on it. It might lead to more creative uses later on.

[Toren]

It was about seven o'clock in the afternoon. The mage, Toren, sat on his poarch in the home that was once his grandfather's. He sat in an old rocking chair of wicker and wood, a chair that he often saw his grandfather in when his parents brought them to visit the old man. Toren often wondered, given his studies into the Occult, whether he would sense the ghost of his grandfather lingering about. That had been one of the reasons he had bothered with learning the Death Arcana. Yet he'd never encountered the spirit and so never pushed for it. When he had asked his Mentor about it he was told that...

And strangely enough as Toren's thoughts drifted to his Mentor, he was there. Standing at the edge of his front lawn, Obsidian, an ebony skinned man, dressed in slimming black attire. He held in his hand a wide-brimmed hat allowing his smooth bald head to gleam in the dimming daylight. As always he held an amused look on his face, completely at ease.

"Craftmason Obsidian," starts Toren, getting up from the chair respectfully. "I didn't expect you."

The Mage that had been his teacher walked up the brick path to the poarch. "No, dear Toren, I suspected you wouldn't," he replied in a deep steady baritone, his voice smooth and eloquent. His white teeth gleamed as he spoke, forming into a smile. "It is better that I do not leave clues of my comings and goings here, lest I attract the wrong sort of attention to you. In any case I have much to speak to you about, shall we go inside or do you have company?"

Toren moved to the door to open it, "Oh yes, of course, please come in. I haven't got any guests today so we can speak openly." The more experienced Mage allowed himself to be ushered inside. He put his hat on the coat hook and Toren took his coat, hanging it up as well. Toren made some tea while Obsidian made himself comfortable in the living room. Finally when they had both sipped at their tea did Toren raise his question.

"Err, so what was it you wanted to talk about?"

"First, there are questions, then there are answers," he said cryptically, seemingly amused by his own response. "First I must gauge your experiences, I mean. Tell me, how best can a man move a mountain?"

Toren widened his eyes and blinked several times, a little befuddled by the question. "Well, umm, I guess you would have to...well you'd have to hire a team of diggers or uhh, miners, maybe surveyors to dig it all up. You'd have to ship it so you'd need..."

"That is fine," interrupted Obsidian. "A man moves mountains by first moving men. He knows that he is connected to the world which is connected to others. Allow yourself to depend on the common man and know that you were also once a common man," explains Obsidian before taking another slow draw on the teacup.

Toren nods at this, understanding its wisdom, "Ah, kind of like how I'm an architect but I have construction workers do the actual building."

Obsidian returns the nod with his own. "That is it exactly. Good. Now, how does a man obtain immortality?"

Toren takes more time to ponder this. He hadn't learned anything about elixers of life or cheating death. "I don't think a man can obtain it for himself. I mean, I've always thought that creating an ideal or a legacy to leave behind was a form of immortality. Like a building, a building made from the heart, built with meaning, leaving behind the result of hard work and toil. Or...or a swordsmith spending his life on a finely crafted blade. A life's work is lasting immortality."

Obsidian sets down the cup and folds his hands in front of him. "That's a good answer. I would have also accepted eating right and exercising," he says before laughing a resonating chuckle. "Just kidding. You are right. Man's flesh cannot be sustained, instead it becomes one with the earth and from the earth it rises again. Stone, however, is lasting. The shape it takes is the shape of the soul. Though I'll admit it was a trick question. To be honest, nothing is truly immortal, nothing is forever. Even stone weathers in time. But it is said there are some who etch their souls so deep in the world that they reach a state much like immortality. Maybe someday you will do the same."

Toren is a bit awestruck by this and slurps his tea excitedly.

"Now, a third question and that will be all for questions, at least for now. What is your role in this city?"

The mage Toren rubbed his chin and set his teacup down as well. He didn't expect such a specific question, since the other two were so broad. This was a question he had been pondering for some time now since he introduced himself to the other mages of the city. "Well..." he trailed off, stalling for time. He didn't really have an answer, not one he was confident in anyways. So he just spoke honestly, "I'm not really sure what my role is. I mean I've tried to be helpful. I've gotten to know a lot of very nice Awakened and I even did a favor for the Mysterium Order finding their lost Atheneaum. I want to do good for the city and I want to build onto the city. But...I'm not sure if that's what I'm supposed to do or not..." his shaken confidence was apparent in his words.

Obsidian sighed and lowered his gaze to the teacups. "That has always been your problem, my friend. You think because you have the gift of an Awakened mind that your path is with the Awakened."

"Huh? What?" Toren replies, his thoughts stumbling about his skull. "But who else would I be trying to help?"

"The world is full of Sleepers too, their numbers far more than Awakened. You should be trying to help everybody. Your actions should not be so focused. An architect, as that is what you are trying to be, should build the city into a place where all are safe and secure. Do you not wish your mark on the world to be one with a positive affect on everyone? If you break yourself from an portion of it then your workings will lose their depth."

Toren's hand drifted to his scalp, a sign of distress for him. Was he being too focused on only helping the Mages of the city? Should he be finding ways to help the Sleepers too?

Obsidian could see the conflict in his expression and soothed his worry, "Relax, my student. I can see that some truths take time to sink in. Do you not wonder why I am so absent in your life? It is not only to protect you, but also so that you come to these terms on your own accord. The world itself is your teacher, and I am but a guiding hand of experience. When I found you, you were like a blank slate, your soul pure, your head clear like a crystal."

The architect quirked an eyebrow, wondering if having a crystal for a head was a good thing. "I mean you were free from distraction, clear-headed," explained Obsidian, recognizing the look. "A stone under pressure can fracture if pushed too hard or too quickly. Over time, however, like with carbon, a stone can transform into something precious and unbreakable. And so I've cultured your soul with tempered teachings. And now I think you are ready to take a step forward on your path."

"You mean?" said Toren, his expression brightening.

"Yes, as a Tamer of Stone, not simply a student. And so I have much to tell you of our ways and the state of our Legacy. But first I shall reinforce these Wards and secure this house of magical tresspass, for what I am about to say is secret to all outsiders."

After the two men raised their Sight they did some chanting in High Speech and the wards were made strong, Obsidian mixing his Occultation into the pattern to make it more obscure. Once this was so Obsidian turned to his student once more.

"Toren. Legend says that long ago there was the Isle of Atlantis where the origins of Awakened Society was founded..."

"But Craftmason," interjected Toren, "I know that already. That story is common among the other..."

"Hush. Do not interrupt, there is more to it than that. Did you think that Atlantis was the only place for Mages to gather, that there was no others awakening in the world? The Tamers were the first to bring it forth from the natural world. The Tamers of Stone were the first to lend their strength to humanity opening the doors to much art and commerce leading by example the methods of hard work. All those ancient temples of the past likely had some hand in it by Tamers. They domesticated the land, learned to hear its voice, gave it instruction. And they did it all on their own, without Atlantean rule. That is why I keep myself hidden, because we are considered outsiders by many. Our cause does not coincide with the major Orders. And that is why I inducted you into the Mysterium, because they are neutral in this political view." He waved his hands in a flourish of expressive gestures as he spoke.

Toren listened, wide-eyed, letting this knowledge pour into him.

"I thought it might have been Destiny, what with you being an Awakened. Your grandfather had spirit. We were friends long ago, him and I. Though I could not show him the Awakened world we still held such a strong bond. Part of our Legacy is a willingness to work alongside of Sleepers, to demonstrate by example than through willworkings that the world has great riches to offer. I see that same strength of spirit in you, Toren. You are like him in a lot of ways. And because of that I feel his mark has truly been etched on you, allowing him to live on."

Toren cracked a smile, though he felt he might have been fighting back tears, hearing his grandfather mentioned in such a loving way.

"I know you've been avoiding your studies in Death. Maybe you're afraid of seeing what's become of him, afraid it will hurt your view of the man who inspired you on your journey. But just consider pursuing it a little further. I'm sure in time you will be glad for it."

"I see..." replied Toren slowly, looking away for a moment in thought. "Could you tell me a little more about him? When he was younger?" he asked, his curiousity getting the better of him.

"Of course, my friend. We can talk as long as you like tonight."

~In Loving Memory of my Grandpa (b.1922-d.2012)~