When Campanella got back from the failed mission through the Clock, he showered, changed, and crawled into bed. He stayed there for a long time, resting fitfully in an exhausted sleep.

After, he moped about his apartment. He made some calls and buried himself in his work. He ignored the call of the Supernal.

By night he drank. He ran through several bottles of good wine; and a few more of cheap rubbish which, he told himself, he was experimenting with.

He fought against his own better instincts with his daily castings, half expecting the spells to crumble and fail around him.

The Rings (yes, Rings, he conceived of them with capitals) lay where he had put them, ignored like a bad stain or a horrible memory. In some respects they were both: he had fashioned the Rings with every skill he could muster; that they had not been used reflected his own weakness as an Awakened.

He had not prepared - thinking that he would diving into the Astral under the protection of his fellow Awakened. He had understood - intellectually at least - that they would be walking into grave danger. He had not considered what that had meant and had blundered into the past armed with nothing of consequence.

He had failed to lead. They could have trusted the Clock to draw them back. Instead they had dithered while their enemy had fled.

He had studied hard the rote forms. Of low Arcana spells when he should have been focussing on deepening his understanding of the Mystery, of sharpening his personal Gnosis. He had wasted time and his spells had withered under their trial by fire.

He had been completely useless.

There were many lessons to take from this last trip through the clock. But right now, physically, emotionally and mentally drained, he could think of nothing more than hiding away from his duties and wallowing in self pity. There was still plenty of bottles in his wine rack to go.

He reached for another one.