Sometimes one has to try something new. Campanella had never had recourse to Pattern Scouring: not during his deadly cat-and-mouse games in Washington D.C.; and by some fluke, never during his long flight from that Consilium. He had hoarded his precious stores of mana and it had only been once he settled in Sacramento that he began to burn through the shards of the Supernal that were his life blood. Yet still, he had managed to avoid the fate of many who are thrown upon their own resources - he had founded one Cabal and joined another.

Sometimes, one has to try something new. The Moros decided that he would try Pattern Scourging. His personal training regimen had always been focussed outward: to fostering his Arcanum and expanding his Sophiad. His inner journeys had always been though book learning, not direct experience.

Until now.

Campanella stood before the altar in his ceremonial robes. Candles glittered in the gloom of his Athenaeum Sanctum and incense from a censor caressed the still air. He finished the preparation with a set of highly stylised movements, poured the crushed contents from the mortar into a chalice and added a measure of water from a richly decorated ewer.


A chant, muttered quickly cut across his lips. With a flourish he downed the concoction, steeling himself for the jolt of cramp to come.


He had not prepared himself enough for this. The pain jolted him; it burned him from the insides as his belly turned to liquid fire. A lancing feeling of discomfort raced up his spine. Sweat blistered his face. He fell to one knee heavily, tottered like a crumbling tower, and was forced to fling out an arm to hold himself upright.


He quivered like a leaf in a gale.


A moan burst from him as surely as the mana being leached from his Pattern. He coughed, dry throat in agony. He gasped, fell throated, in ecstasy as he felt the precious mana freed within him, pulsing with his own Resonance. Mana now refined and ready to use.


It took him a while to rise again. His hands shook and he had no grip. He felt curiously light and his muscles were as water. The Moros grimaced and steadied himself on the alter. He had known that there would be a price for scourging one’s Pattern for mana; he had known intellectually without considering the actual lived experience.


As he tottered, feebly, from the alter, the Mystogogue decided that this would be one experience he would not be having again.

For reference, if needed:
Campy will drain 1 dot of Strength and gain 3 Mana.