Fire crackled. Darkness pressed in. The forest was light but he was far enough away from any roads that he still felt the unease of isolation in nature. Of all the places he could have possibly taken instruction, having to take a weekend away camping came as a surprise. Campanella was a man of objects and books. The other side of the Mysterium came as a shock to the system.

"What is it you seek?" The man with the pony tail and the chunky, travel stained coat, asked abruptly.

Had Campanella been staring off into the darkened trees again?

"What?"

"What is it you seek?"

"To see beyond sight? To see the mark of death and to know it; to stare into the depths of the earth and the very stones, and see within the glimmer of the Supernal."

"But you can do so already with an act of Will."

Campanella sniffed. The scent of woodsmoke tickled his nose and he felt the dampness of the earth seeping into his pants where he sat. The rains had been welcome. Camping in a still sodden wilderness... less so.

"Yes. I can weave a simple Imago. I also expose my auric fingerprint to anyone with even a small amount of skill. And lets forget about the skill involved in casting. Anyone who has Awakened can pull down the Supernal, yes? Its a simple matter of crafting an Imago in one's mind and using it to frame the Supernal energies one simply yanks down from the the heavens beyond the Abyss. Its crude and inefficient. Lacking in subtlety. And often times the working is fragile and easily torn down."

He looked the other man in the eye.

"A rote spell is tried and true; a work honed over centuries. To use it is an act of devotion as well as discretion. It is a tool worn smooth with the passage of time; a path that has worn itself into the groove of this Fallen World so as not to attract the Abyssal spark. It is Wisdom, Knowledge and Power given form. Is that not enough?"

Seriously? The Order had not murmured when he had asked for further instruction in the Arcanum of Matter; but the moment he had enquired about expanding his understanding of the Sight, they had gone all secret initiation on him.

"Brother, you have been asking for a lot of training. And you aren't part of our school."

Had he been listening in with some Mind cantrip? It was possible. Both men had a Shield up at least. Campanella could feel the goose bumps on his flesh and he knew it wasn't because of the mild weather.

"Yes." Campanella admitted at last. "I am the servant of another Athenaeum in the territory of another Consilium. I am not a total fool, I have heard about the... politics." The River City Consilium stood on the ashes of the Sacrament Consilium, which was an unruly distaff branch of the Golden Consilium of San Francisco; there was a lot of water under that bridge, including political stand-off, moles and coups; as incestuous as a family of Renaissance merchant princes or powerful nations playing with the successor states in their border marches - and just as deadly.

The pair lapsed into watchful silence. The Moros, idly, began to wonder if he was even going to receive the lesson's he had petitioned for. Then: -

"She's here. Follow her. Pay all due respect for she who will guide you." The other man bobbed his head.

Campanella followed the other man's gaze. There, through the trees, stood an anachronism: a feminine figure dressed in a cloak with a deep hood concealing all but a sliver of her face. The Moros couldn't see the spells she had woven about her, such was the cunning of her Art, but he could sense them. This time it wasn't goose bumps but the cloying scent of incense that clogged his nose.

"And my price?"

"My guess is she will tell you. And only you." The man with the pony tail responded, his tone brooking no further questions.

Campanella rose and left without another word.