At last, the Athenaeum is complete. Now, at that the octagonal chamber needs is things to fill it. The Moros Campanella stands in the middle of the room and allows himself a smile of satisfaction.

He stands alone, aloof. Dressed in ritual robes of his own, passed onto him from the hands of his own Order. Before him is a table, dressed in rich drapery to cover its poverty. He has had to improvise, but thanks to his contacts among the art dealers, he has found objects worthy of ritual purpose. Plate, bowl, goblet, polished petty gems of appropriate colour, runes crafted by his own hand for this, the dedication of a new Athenaeum.

The light is poor. Ambient light from the street and pollution from the nearby city is all that there is to complement the feeble candlelight. The chamber is a yawning gulf of darkness. The arrangement on the floor around him the only source of light. He is one with the shadow. Smoke, smelling of sage, frankincense and other aromatic herbs, fills the air thickly. His contacts had found a censor for him and he uses the object now: polished golden brass catches in the light, metal tinkles in the darkness as he works his cleansing ritual. He marks out a shape of power within the candlelight - a stuttering, formal figure in his robes; each gesture is so formalised he could be a stop motion figure in a bizarre play.

His chant is all High Speech. Here. In this place. He will utter the ancient language of magic unhindered by fear or the needs of the Fallen World. In this Athenaeum; in this Sanctuary of the Awakened; the Supernal World ruled.

Blessed Be!

Rumour spoke of an Athenaeum buried under the Filliard Goldman museum. A pity, if true. He had no contacts there and doubtless the place was sealed tight. Assuming if rumour was true and the whole place was not another shattered fragment of a ruptured time-line. With no resources but his own, the Mystogogue had focussed on what he could do. The Circle of Creation was a copy of the great abbey at Westminster; he had claimed the octagonal chapter house for the new Athenaeum. Security was simple - an imposing lock for the door, security grills upon the windows; things he could pay for. The Moros was not versed in the Arcane of Space, so could not provide protective Wards; with only an Apprentice's grasp of Matter he could not work his Art upon the very walls of the chamber - not yet.

But it was a start.