Lover, and Also a Crafter [SI into Lovecraft Mythos multicross with Celestial Gambler

[NeonKnightrider]

---

Aeons ago, mankind shared the Earth. Divinity walked upon the land; This was the Age of the Gods. But this did not last.

The Great Old Ones came from beyond the stars, and their war with the gods of mankind sundered the skies. Both were diminished, left to slumber. But now, something awakens once again…

---

[ ??? ]

Something feels wrong.

It takes a few seconds for my mind to catch up with the feeling. Or rather, the lack of feeling.

I can feel and move my body, but it feels strangely… calm. There's no tinnitus ringing in my ear, no ache in my ankle or itching under my fingernails. All the tiny, little pains and imperfections of a lifetime living in a fleshy body are conspicuous by their absence.

I attempt to open my eyes and sit up. My body responds, seemingly moving by floating into place rather than flexing any muscles. I've never had a lucid dream, but I imagine it would be like this. Only, it feels far too vivid to be a dream.

Around me is nothing. Not simply darkness, but an endless void of non-color, an absence of existence that my eyes ache in trying to comprehend.

And in front of me, the only actual thing in this abyss, the figure of a woman. Young, smiling, with long blonde hair and a simple white dress. Her eyes do not move.

Hello.

Her mouth does not move. She does not speak, so much as the words simply make themselves known within my mind.

"Ah… Hello?" I answer hesitantly. Do I even need to speak or can she read my mind? "Where is this place? Am I dead?" 'Are you God?' I think to myself.

You are not quite dead. This is a place between places. And no. I am 'a' god, but I am not the 'God' you are probably thinking of.

"Oh." I say out loud. 'Then what do you want with me?' I think.

Several seconds pass. It gets awkward.

The longer I stare at her, the more uncanny she becomes. My own body is still moving - breathing, blinking, fingers twitching, my heart pumping blood in my veins. I suspect I don't actually need to breathe (or a heartbeat) to survive in this strange dimension, but a lifetime of human habits dies hard.

But this woman just stares at me. She is fixed, unmoving, like a doll or a statue.

"...Can you not read my mind?"

I could. But it would leave your mind destroyed beyond repair. I merely guessed. Most mortals ask if I am a God upon seeing me.

"Ah, well, alright." I hum. "So, why did you bring me here?"

The humanity within my reality is under grave threat of extinction. I ask of you to save it.

I frown. "If you're a goddess, can't you solve the problem yourself?"

Could you pluck a single molecule from within a man's heart? I almost feel a hint of actual emotion in the mind-voice for the first time, a tinge of frustration. I have the power, but it would cause untold destruction. Humans are… fragile. And should I manifest directly, the others will know my presence. Humanity would not survive their collective attention.

I recall her earlier comment about destroying my mind and slowly nod. "...Yeah, that's fair, I guess. But then why me?"

You are a fortunate exception. 'At the right place and the right time,' as they say. Do you accept this task?

After a moment, I take a deep breath of nonexistent air. I hate the thought of leaving behind my family, and being placed in an unfamiliar world… but if there's an entire planet at risk of destruction and I did nothing when I could have helped, then I'll never be able to sleep again.

"But… am I really meant to do this by myself? I'm nobody special."

You will be granted considerable power. It is not an easy task, but it will be within your abilities.

"Alright… then, I accept. One last thing, though- why, why do you care? About this, about humans in general?"

With a sound like leather squeaking, the woman-doll's face stretches into a facsimile of a smile.

I enjoy watching humans. You are fascinating creatures. I would dislike seeing you go extinct.

"...Right."

Good luck.

---

[???, Earth]

I open my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. The light is dim, the dull fuzz of a sun that still hasn't quite risen, in the small hours of the morning.

I rise up from the bed, feeling the thin mattress laid over a cheap wooden frame. The fact my back isn't sore helps clue me in that I did not actually sleep on that bed last night.

It's hard to make out details in the twilight, but looking around, it's easy to see the arrangement of bed, nightstand, one chair, one closet, an open bathroom door. A Bible on the table. A cheap hotel room, near-identical to dozens of others I've seen over my life. I wonder if they're standardized, like shipping containers.

I wander over to the blinds and pull them open, to reveal a… confusing sight. The river is my first clue something is wrong. The giant, blocky shape of the raised bridge that looms over it is the second. That's… Tower Bridge, right? Which means I am in London.

I did not go to sleep in London. Or Europe, for that matter.

London is good, though. The Clock Tower is right next door, maybe I can ask my teacher about some of the magic shit that's going on.

…Wait, what?
I sit down on the floor, my eyes closed, before my head begins to spin. I think of 'magic', and associations explode within my mind. Ritual circles, Reinforcement, Alteration, hypnosis, Runes, elemental manipulation…

I try to think of the simplest magic I can, and an elemental spell bubbles to mind. Haurir aquam. An ancient incantation for drawing water from the earth. I try to remember how I learned it.

'Attune your vitae to the natural elements of the world. Feel nature under your feet. Let it seep in, do not force it…'

A warm voice. The smell of olives, the sound of the ocean. Nostalgia. Home.

I spend a while sorting through more spells, more impressions - I don't know how long I sit there. An hour, more?

Eventually, I open my eyes again.

I experimentally snap my fingers, and manage to create a glowing green spark within my hand.

Okay, so, that god-lady-thing seems to have stuffed a dead mage's knowledge into my head. Only, it's not pure knowledge, it's… 'dirty', so to speak. She seems to have ripped it out of a person's mind, and minds are a funny thing, a tangled mess of connections and associations. Everything I know is tinged with not-quite-memories, fragments of association, emotional echoes and longing reminiscence. As best as I can tell from the vague impressions, it seems that my unwitting benefactor grew up in Italy, then learned magic in London… and died shortly after completing his magical education after running into some sort of monster.

I recall what that woman… fuck, it's annoying calling her 'that woman.' I'm gonna call her Alice. What Alice told me about reading my mind, and I thank the gods she didn't, having your memories torn out my the roots cannot possibly be a pleasant experience.

…The gods, huh. Should I be praying to those too? It hasn't all sunk in yet.

Well, I have to save the world, apparently. Let's worry about that stuff later.

I pat myself down, and quickly realize I seem to be dressed like something out of Peaky Blinders. Brown pants, loafer shoes, a vest, a heavy overcoat. Looking around the room, I notice a briefcase on the chair, and a folded-newspaper on the dresser. I look it over and realize the date reads July 3rd, 1924. My first thought is, well, Jesus fucking Christ I'm a hundred years in the past.

My second thought is trying to remember if the Great Depression is now or not. Hell, maybe it's connected to the end of the world.

…that's probably a stupid line of thought.

I check my pockets. There's a fine leather wallet with a handful of notes - I examine them and see the 'Five pounds' in flowery writing. Plain white-on-black notes look so odd compared to the colored money I'm used to. And some kind of ID card. The name written on it is Gabriel Trambelio De Luca Marini, a natural-born Italian. While the family name is unfamiliar, the first name, and the face in the grainy black-and-white photo, somehow, are identical to mine.

In the briefcase, there's a few changes of clothes similar to the one I have now, all brown and pinstriped and whatnot, and also one finely tailored, jet-black three piece suit with a vest and coat, complete with matching black gloves. It looks… very expensive.

Considering I seem to be in some sort of Italian fake identity, that's probably an Italian suit. Shit, it's gotta be expensive.

Some other odds and ends, toiletries, a pocket knife, a bundle of letters, a notebook, some bundles of cash and… a bar of silver? I thumb through the cash, most of it in neat bundles of 10- and 5-pound notes. Counting them… I think there's something like five thousand pounds sterling in here. Plus the silver. I don't know the conversion rate, but I know that is a lot of money. I don't think I'll have to worry about that for a while.
I lean on my magical knowledge again. I don't have any specially prepared ritual dusts, but blood can substitute in a pinch. Blood is like salt when it comes to magic, you can always add a pinch of it and just about always makes things work better. Of course, you can't make an entire meal out of pure salt either.
Other vital fluids work too- the Clock Tower infamously purchases semen from desperate men for that very purpose.

I take the pocket knife and make a small cut on the side of my arm. Taking the blood on the tip of my finger, I draw a circle on the lid of the briefcase, then a pentagram, and five simple runes. It's a relatively basic seal- most mages would scoff at only having defenses of this level. But, it should do for now. No mundane burglars will be able to snatch my stuff, as the case will only open with the my personal signature. I make an even simpler one on my wallet as well, a single pentagram with no runes.


I rifle through the newspaper- wait, it's a stack of them. The Times is on top, but there's a couple others under them, The Herald and something called The Scoop. The other two talk about what is expected, politics and economics, news about the country… But the Scoop loudly proclaims news about 'Monstrous Murders.'

The magic memories tell me to find other mages in the British Museum, but this feels… relevant.

I was placed here, in this room, with all the stuff in my luggage, and with these specific papers, by some greater force. I'm going to assume, then, that this particular headline is something intentional, a clue to push me in the right direction.

I check the address for the newspapers' office: 21 Fleet Street, 3rd floor. Guess I'll pay them a visit.

I grab a handful of pounds' worth in loose change and walk out the door of the hotel. Down the stairs, to a run-down reception, where I buy a map of the city for sixpence from a bored-looking man on the counter.

I open the map, walking towards the door… and then I have to double back and ask him to point out where exactly we are.

"Dep'ford." He says with a bored drawl and a face that screams 'are you stupid', jabbing a finger to a street south of the Thames.

"Right. And, ah, where would I find Fleet Street?"

"North." He rolls his eyes again.

"Okay. Uh, righty-o, thank you, jolly ol' chap!" I awkwardly respond and walk away, for real this time.

I hear the man grumble 'Bloody foreigners' under his breath before the door closes.

When I finally walk outside, the city I find is not what I remember- I've been to London before, on vacation. Several years ago, or nearly a hundred years in the future, depending on how you look at it.

Regardless, I know what to expect. Men in suits and women in dresses. Cobblestone street sparsely populated with horse-drawn carriages plodding about alongside square, buggy-shaped cars that I vaguely recognize as the Ford Model T. The acrid smell of smoke in the air, and a blanket of grey fog across the sky that makes it almost impossible to tell what hour of the day it is.

Ah, lovely. I grimace and put a handkerchief over my nose and mouth. I don't care if it looks stupid, I don't want to get arsenic poisoning or whatever the fuck there is in this smog.

Note to self, find or create an air purification spell.

I hail a black taxi cab and call for Fleet Street.

I rest my chin in my hand and gaze out the window, watching old London as it goes on by. Call me a blind fool with eyes glued to my own ass, but I can't help but love the style and the atmosphere of the city. I'll always love old European cities, with quaint brick and ancient stonework. Compared to the 'young' cities of sterile concrete and glass rectangles that I grew up knowing in the 21th Century New World, this feels so much more alive, vibrant with character and history.
Shame about the industrial smog, though.

Finally, I arrive at the busy, commercial street and pay the cabbie. The building is more run-down than I was expecting, to be honest. As I enter, the smell goes from industrial smoke to just plain old cigarette smoke. Man, I really need to get an air filter.

I find the sign for The Scoop and knock on the door. The door is opened by a heavyset, red-haired middle-aged man in a wrinkled pinstripe brown suit. "Who're you and whad'ae want?" The man simply grunts, his voice a thick Irish drawl.

I take a moment to collect my thoughts and reorient myself. I make an effort to remember it's a hundred years in the past, try to speak a bit more stiff and formally than I would to hopefully seem normal. "I saw your paper, and I daresay it caught my interest, quite fascinating stuff. You are…?"

"Mahoney." The man grumbles, but extends a hand in greeting. It seems he cares about the paper. "Which story tickled yer fancy?"

"I'm looking for… supernatural forces. I saw something about a monster attack, and I want to track it down." I tell him with no preamble.

Mahoney chuckles. "Gonna have to be a little bit more specific there, fella. I'm up to my armpits in monster stories up in 'ere. And who are you, anyway?"

"Call me Gabriel." I briefly contemplate showing off a little magic to convince him, but… no, probably more trouble than it's worth. "I'm… something of a scholar and dabbling magician myself. I have reason to believe there is something truly nefarious brewing, and I'd like to get to the bottom of it." I dig out the 'Monster Murders' paper and show it to him. "This is the case I saw."

"Ah, that one." He hums in recognition, taking the paper. "Well, I'm 'fraid I dinnae ken too much beyond what yer seeing in this here paper. Story's not mine, got it up from Derbyshire and published it here. Little village called Lesser Edale. But I can tell you what my contact said: They're serious, somethin' out there in the woods at night that's spookin' the folks. Now, my guess would be a rabid dog or maybe a wolf, but the folks up there swear on their mama's soul that it's a werewolf. But I can tell you for certain, it's not just blowing smoke, there's somethin' out there."

I frown. A single creature of some sort hounding a small village can't possibly be what I was summoned here for- not exactly a 'threat to all humanity.' But, maybe I can find something else by studying this. "Alright. I'll definitely look into this." I answer the journalist, giving him a nod.

Mahoney's face breaks into a grin. "Keep me posted, laddie. I'll pay seventy quid if you can bring me a good story."

I pause for a moment. I recall inflation was crazy; isn't one pound sterling of this time worth like, a hundred 21st century dollars? "That's a damn good offer." I observe out loud.

He shrugs. "Spend money to make money. You investigator types seem to have a real knack for digging up the queerest of things." Mahoney pauses and takes a drag of his cigarette. "One more thing. If you haven't already, you should prolly drop by the Penhew Foundation and the Heretic Golden Order or whatever it was- can never remember those names. I hear those two are the bee's knees when it comes to magic."

Surprisingly, the second name strikes a tinge of recognition in both of my sets of memories, but it's the mage one that recalls the correct name. "That's… the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn? Famously home to Aleister Crowley?"
"Right you are, that's the one." He agrees with a nod. "Albeit I've heard mister Crowley himself innit in the country anymore, went off to Arabia or somesuch."

"You seem to know a lot about the occult for a journalist." I note with a hum.

Mahoney snorts. "I dinnae fancy myself no wizard, if that's what you're asking. What I do like is a good story, and the people will lap up anything about magical hoodoo like ye wouldn't believe. It pays to keep an ear to these things."

"Alright." I say, getting up from my seat. "This was quite the fruitful conversation. Thank you for your time, mister Mahoney."

He grins and waves me off. "Thank you, good sir. And remember my offer."

---

[ London, England ]
[ July 3rd, 1924, Thursday ]



I make a mental note to visit the two places that Mahoney mentioned, but I'm definitely heading up to see that werewolf problem, first things first. I'd feel horrible if there's people out there dying to a monster I could have stopped, but didn't because I was faffing about in town asking about magic.

From one of the maps, I was pleasantly surprised to see that the Tube and the railways are actually quite recognizable to what I remember from the modern day. From Fleet Street, it's a short walk to the nearest Tube entrance, and only a few pennies for a ticket on the Northern line.

The vehicles and passengers are obviously different, but it's almost eerie how much it resembles the metro experience I know. The same stairs and even escalators- wooden ones, which is a bit odd - dirty corridors lined with advert posters, tired looking faces and general dingy energy. Like some odd, parallel world where everything simply happens to be vintage-themed but still works the same.

I hop off at St. Pancras station and purchase a ticket up to Derby. With over an hour to kill until the train arrives, I make a visit to the shops that surround the station and purchase two things: A nice scarf, and a blank notebook and pen. Whereupon I turn my mental note to visit the Hermetic Order, into an actual note.

The train is pretty empty, being quite an odd time that I picked, in the middle of the week and not quite the end of the day either. After finding a nice, secluded spot in the corner to sit in, I spend the better part of the journey enchanting my scarf with a simple wind charm, using Formalcraft, a drop of my own blood, and a shaving of silver. Something that, when activated and supplied with mana, will maintain a bubble-shaped barrier around my head, purifying the air of simple contaminants and providing me with sweet, sweet oxygen. It's more of a temporary thing rather than an actual, proper magic item- my Clock Tower memories never got into the details of how to craft a proper Mystic Code. But as long as I take a couple minutes every day to recharge the enchantment, it'll do just fine.

Even then, it's only a part of the trip. It still leaves me with an hour and change to just sit there and think.

I've been ripped out of my life. Maybe I can go back like nothing happened, maybe I can never return. Maybe I'll step out of a portal after a week, and find that a thousand years have passed. I have no idea. Not even the mage's memories in my head have even the faintest clue. Traveling between dimensions is the domain of the Second True Magic. Leagues and miles out of his weight class.

I sigh and sink back into the seat, my eyes closed. I'm going to miss my family. God, mom is going to be inconsolable. I'm going to miss chatting with my friends.

Shit, I'm going to miss my phone. How will my ADHD ass pass the hours now, without being able to connect to the internet and read an entire new fanfiction every day?

-But, at the same time as my mind is bubbling with worries, there's an undercurrent of fire. I have a mission, a purpose. For a long time, I've made note that, if you want your life to really mean something, to leave your mark on the world, you need to dedicate your entire life to one thing. Maybe to mastering a single single. Becoming an unparalleled artist. Maybe to championing a single cause. Maybe working on a single grand project. But that single-minded focus is the crucial part. And I mean, it's not like I have some burning, desperate need to become a great figure who goes down in history. But still, I always felt a little bit lost. Dabbling in dozens of different things, but never really feeling a connection. I never found something that I felt happy to dedicate myself towards.

But now, that's been chosen for me. Save the world. I can't say no, I can't step away. The weight of expectations is crushing, but at the same time, having a clear, explicit goal, something to aim for? It lights a fire inside my heart.

-

After changing lines at Derby, I arrive at the modest town of Greater Edale. I take a minute to appreciate the place. I've always loved these kinds of towns- brick buildings, stone roads, filled with nature. Small enough to be away from the bustle of the urban center, but not quite so small that it's totally rural. Like traveling to something from medieval times… which I suppose is quite ironic to think, when I'm already in the past.

But, enough sightseeing. I take the northern exit and walk the rest of the way to the little village. It's an idyllic, almost fairytale scenery with rolling grassy hills filled with roaming sheep, limestone outcrops criss-crosed by rivers and waterfalls, wooded valleys and frolicking wildlife - even if the feeling of wet grass and mud squelching under my shoes makes me grimace. I make a note in my little notebook to buy some boots when I get back.

The village is… tiny. There's maybe twenty, thirty buildings here in total, only two of them with more than one floor, the inn and the church. The place looks positively medieval. Hell, some of the houses have thatch roofs.

Well, the classics are classic for a reason. I enter the inn, finding it a quaint little place. A dozen patrons sitting around by the candle-light, drinking ale.

…Now, while my social skills aren't the greatest, I can recognize that entering and immediately asking about the recent deaths, especially in a small community like this, would be incredibly rude and jarring, likely to make a bad first impression. But… well, what else can I do? That's what I'm here to investigate, and I don't have the ability to make fast friends or naturally ease into it.

With a sigh, I sit at the bar and gesture towards the bartender, a grim look on my face. He seems to pick up on the atmosphere and approaches quietly.

"I'm here to look into the mysterious deaths that have happened here recently."

The bartender grimaces. "I was afraid you were going to say that. You're not the first, you know. Some big-city types have already made the rounds here, held an inquiry, even."

"That so?" I say with an eyebrow raised. "What did you tell them?"

"A feral dog was attacking the people. Constable Tumwell shot that beast, and that's all she wrote."

There's a brief moment of silence, making me realize my little conversation has completely the bar's haze of cozy late-night camaraderie.

One man loudly scoffs. "A dog! I've seen that hells-damned beast. No dog be walkin' round on its paws! No dog has red eyes like hot coals! And no dog has e'er ripped a man into ribbons!"

There's a dark murmur of agreement around the room. It's not a full-throated agreement, but everyone seems to believe that whatever is going on, it's not just a dog.

I turn to the barman again. "Is that true?"

He shrugs. "How would I know? Haven't seen the damned thing." Then he hesitates for a moment. "But… well, there is something. The moon. The deaths all happened on the full moon, or the day after. And there's this infernal howling all night when the moon is full."

I nod slowly. Alright, at this point I'd bet my left foot there's a werewolf afoot. "Thanks for your help… sorry, I never got your name?"

"Bill."

"Thanks, Bill. How much for a room here at the inn?"

"Two shillings and sixpence."

I dig around in my pockets and place three shilling coins on the table. "Keep the change. Is there anyone else who I can ask about this whole sorry situation?"

"Well, there's the constable, of course. Maybe the Reverend Stratton, he's the most learned-man we've got around these parts. Well, maybe 'cept for ol' Arthur." The barkeep thinks, scratching his neck."

"Alright. I'll have to visit the church, then."

—

After a somewhat uncomfortable night's sleep on the inn's thin, wooden bed and a simple breakfast of eggs, I take a short walk to the town's only church. I knock on the door, to no response. Then I notice the small house right next to it, and realize that the man probably doesn't live inside the church and it's mid-morning on a Friday.

Knocking on the correct door, it takes a good thirty or so seconds before I hear the sounds of movement from inside the house. An aged face peeks out from behind the door, opened just a hand's width. "Yes?" He asks sharply.

"Revered Stratton?" I ask, attempting a pleasant smile.

"Yes, yes." He replies.

I briefly consider how much I should share with him. Historically speaking, church rather infamously doesn't get along with witchcraft, so I should probably keep any talk of magic on the down-low around him unless absolutely necessary. I guess the 'scholar' excuse will be my identity for a while.


"My name is Gabriel. I am something of a scholar, currently studying mysterious occurrences, and I heard of what happened in this town. I'd like to offer my assistance in solving this particular riddle, if you'd have me."

The priest blinks and looks me over again, but his expression softens. "Ah. Yes, that's… acceptable. Come on in now." He opens the door fully and waves for me to enter.

"A scholar of what, exactly?" He comments as we walk into the house.

"Well, I mainly studied history, but you know how it is - I can't help but read a little bit of everything, here and there."

Stratton chuckles. "Yes, I do understand." We arrive at a room that seems to be an office or study. It's cozy, with dark wooden chairs and bookshelves, though a bit small. "Take a seat." He gestures towards one of the chairs.


As I sit on the other side from his desk, I can't help but glance at some of the various papers displayed across it. I catch a letter that minions an 'Order of the Golden Druid', an open book that appears to be half English, half Greek which must be a dictionary, and a very old, leather-bound journal of some kind. "You're a man of letters yourself, I see." I comment with a gesture towards the messy table.

"Ah, yes." He smiles, then takes the large book, closing and placing it upon a shelf. "Languages are something of a hobby of mine. Now, what did you wish to learn?"

"I know some Greek, if you'd like help translating that." A handy perk of a lifetime's worth of occult study stuffed into my memories, that. I can read old Greek and Latin nearly as well as English, though I might struggle to actually speak it. "And well, I'd like to know anything you can tell me about these wild attacks."


The priest sighs. "A dreadful thing. I'm afraid I don't know much more than anyone else in town. I only can only hope it's over. For what it's worth, I'd ask you not to go to the families. They've had quite enough for a lifetime."

I give a respectful nod. "Alright. But you must know something- perhaps local folklore?"

I continued talking to Reverend Stratton for a long while. I end up knowing far more than I ever expected about the history of this little town in Derbyshire. The most notable thing around here is the old Plum Castle, home of the Vane family, whose line have held a noble title and lived here for centuries. Other than that, it's just incredibly specific and probably useless snippets, like the castle having been remodeled in 1587 or the existence of lead mines in the area.

I take another, closer look at the Greek journal. "That… says Vane, doesn't it?" I note with some curiosity.

"Ah, yes." The priest notes. "It's an old record from this very church - from another priest centuries before me. If you're willing, I could use a hand in deciphering it."

I chuckle. "Well, I've already taken up enough of your time. It would be remiss of me not to offer something in return."

It takes well over an hour, and a lot of spilled ink, but I get a full translation of the passage in question. Which describes a local legend, of a 'looming hound' said to haunt the lands of Edale. The creature, allegedly, comes from a curse, laid by a witch upon the bloodline of one Lady Evangeline Vane at some point during the 1600's.

"A curse on the Vane line?" I mutter to myself. Glancing at Stratton, I find that the old Reverend seems to have gone white as a sheet. "...Do you know something about this?" I confront him.

He slowly shakes his head in the negative. "Very little, I'm afraid. I have read mentions of the Curse of the Vanes, but only in passing. You know as much as I do, now."
I put my hands to the table and rise off the chair, feeling more determined than ever. "Well. Can you help me get an invitation to the Vanes' castle? I'm going to get to the bottom of this."
-

The 'plan' - if you can even call it that - is quite simple. I join the little church for their evening sermon, which Lawrence, the young Vane heir, always attends on the Fridays and Sundays. After the service ends, I approach him for small talk and ask if I can visit the castle, playing up my interest in medieval history. I don't have to exaggerate much, I really do find it fascinating. He seems a little hesitant at first, but then Reverend Stratton approaches with a smile and vouches for my good character. The young heir relents and invites me to dinner for the following evening.

---

[ Derbyshire, England ]
[ July 25th, 1924. Saturday. ]



Another night spent at the inn. Now I have to wait until the end of the day to continue my investigation. Not enough time to take a train somewhere else, too much time to just sit around and wait.

I end up taking a page out of a certain Irish battle-mage's book and decide to spend the time enchanting my fancy suit with some runes. Applying enchantments to an existing object makes for a considerably less potent end product when compared to crafting a magical item from scratch, but it also takes a fraction of the effort. When you compare the cost-effectiveness, enchanting wins out by a mile.

Regardless, creating a permanent, effective magic item is not free or easy. It's not a matter of simply slapping a spell and then it's done, you still need physical materials, craftsmanship, and time. (Unless you're a freak of nature named Shirou Emiya).

If I were still the mage of my memories, living in his original dimension, I'd have access to a Clock Tower quality workshop, stocked with a full array of alchemical components, exotic metals, and even the closest possible equivalents to Phantasmal Beast parts. No actual phoenix feathers or kirin horns of course, that kind of ingredient is reserved only for the legends of the distant past. But the specially grown chimeras the freaks at the Zoology Department create, can serve as a half-decent substitute.

Here, all I have to work with is the ingredients in my suitcase. A number of herbs, ground and stored in little vials, a couple kinds of incense, oils, salt, a small selection of animal parts, a bar of silver and a shard of quartz crystal. If this selection is any indication, it seems casters here have to work with entirely mundane ingredients, the poor bastards.

I borrow an empty bowl, a knife, spoon and fork from the kitchen. Bill gives me a funny look.

Back in my room, incense burns as I take the edge of the knife and heat it over an open flame. Partially to make sure it's sterile, but also as part of the ritual.

Setting the bowl on the small table, I cut across my wrist and let the blood spill onto it. I wait for my heart to beat seven times, feeling the pulsing heat in the open wound, before taking a cloth to staunch the cut.

Then I add a generous pinch of rock salt and several shavings of silver to the bowl of blood.

For several long minutes, I stir the mixture counter-clockwise with a spoon while infusing it with my mana. It feels exhausting and far too long, my magic circuits sore and my arms heavy, but the blood-red slowly, gradually fades to a metallic blue-grey.

I take a white feather and dip it into the mix, using it as a quill to write ᛉ, the rune Algiz, the elk's horn of protection.
I repeat the rune in several places across the suit. On the back of the knees, on the shoulders, on either side of the chest, one inside the vest, on the mid-back. I dip the quill and trace the same symbols again, until the ink runs dry.

Over three hours of painstaking work later, and my suit now has some basic warding against evil. It won't protect against a punch, but this is as good as plate armor when it comes to minor curses, ghosts and other purely magical or spiritual effects.

…Fuck, it's not even midday yet.
I need to find a bookstore or something, I'm gonna go insane without something to pass the time.

---

After laying around in my room staring at the wall, alternated with taking walks around the small village for hours-
Finally, finally, the sun begins to dip towards the horizon. As the rolling green fields become tinged with orange, I put on my mildly-enchanted suit, and walk up the path towards Plum Castle.
It's a few hundred meters from the village, overlooking a small little cliff. I use a casual application of wind to create a millimeter-thin barrier, keeping the gravel and dirt from smudging my fine Italian suit. It's frivolous, yes, but also good practice.
Once again, I'm struck by how old everything looks here. That's a medieval castle, a historical site, yet it's also just a place where people still live. It's crazy how England has stuff like this. It feels absolutely wild to my perspective, having grown up in a modern city in the New World, where everything is less than a century old.

An old, stern-faced man in a grey suit greets me at the door. "Lord Arthur will see you now."

The man who I guess must be a butler guides me down a series of stone corridors, up to what he introduces as the Great Hall. Once again, I'm impressed, this whole place really looks like I've stepped centuries into the past into the court of a medieval Lord. Ancient-looking tapestries, ornately carved wooden walls, and even a silver-plated chandelier. Though, I guess Vane is an actual Lord.

At the head of the table is Arthur Vane, an old man, his bushy, white mustache quite glorious to behold. He reminds me of my grandpa. Despite his age, the man holds himself with a stately bearing, back ramrod straight, eyes gleaming with a cunning shine. To the side is Lawrence, whom I've already met.

"Why, hello!" Arthur greets me, lifting a cup of wine. His eyes give me a once-over, and he nods, seemingly satisfied with what he sees. "The noble house of Vane extends its hospitality to you, our honored guest."

I nod my head towards him before taking a seat opposite Lawrence. "You humble me with your praise. I am a simple scholar, and the honour is mine, to be invited into a castle as grand as this, a living, breathing part of this country's storied history."

Arthur chuckles mirthfully. "You are too kind, too kind."

"Fine suit, never seen one like it before." Notes Lawrence with some curiosity.

"Ah, it's Italian." I demurely accept.

There's not much time to make small talk, as soon the butler arrives again, carrying a tray of food. We dine on a luxurious five-course meal, from a hors d'oeuvres of patê, a selection of cheeses, a side of trout, a course of steak, and a dessert of plum pudding. So much food, there's barely any time to speak.
When the butler asked me how I liked my steak- medium rare - I couldn't help but notice both the Vanes asked for it very rare.

After that veritable feast, I feel content and nicely stuffed, leaning back on my chair. "Whew. My compliments to the chef, I've never had anything quite like that trout."

Arthur chuckles. "She'll be happy to hear it."

The butler passes by again, offering a tray of… cigars. What the hell? Why would you want to ruin the aftertaste with ash and smoke in your mouth?
"Ah, no thanks." I refuse, raising my hand. "I don't smoke."

All three of the men give me odd looks, as the two Vanes puff away. Oh, this is one of those things, right? Smoking was way more common in this day and age.

"It's a health condition." I awkwardly try to add. "Not good for my lungs."

"A damn shame." The elder Vane tuts, shaking his head.

"So…" I try to probe a little bit. "Have you heard the stories about a… werewolf problem in the village?"

Both of them burst into laughter. I stare at them. It's clear to see the laughing is fake. It's far too forced, too explosive, and immediately started the moment I spoke. They just, both of them started cackling outright as if it was a pre-arranged signal.

"Oh, no, there's nothing of the sort, here." Lawrence says with a wooden smile. "It's just a sleepy little town."

I drum my fingers on the table. I don't like being this blunt, but well… social skills are not my forté.

"I'll be blunt." I begin, getting out of my chair to stand up over the table. "I know your family is cursed. I don't know the specifics of it, but I'd like to help."

Arthur's endless well of good manners seems to have run dry as he fixes me with a glare and explodes into a sudden rage, his head going red as a tomato as he shouts at me. "You insolent scum! You barge into my home, eat my food, and still have the audacity to question the state of MY family? How dare you!"

I raise my hand again to gesture for him to stop - he doesn't, of course - and then, with a snap of my fingers, I conjure an orb of spinning, glowing energy that floats over my hand. It kinda looks like a Rasengan. Huh, maybe I can reverse-engineer that… thoughts for later. "I am something of a wandering wizard. You know, like Merlin. I have experience in solving supernatural problems. I heard of a situation here involving a monster and came to investigate, as it seemed like a case suited for my particular talents."
The elder Vane's face wavers, and his explosive anger takes a step back, he doesn't seem entirely convinced. "You… you will not fool me with parlour tricks and mirrors! You are a charlatan after my fortune!"

"-Please!" Shouts Lawrence, his eyes wide and his knuckles white as he holds a death-grip on the chair's armrests. "Please help us!"
I lower my hands back down, dismissing the orb of light, and look towards Lawrence. "What do you need help with?"

Lawrence takes a deep breath. He's still shaky, still a little desperate, but there's iron in his gaze. "You… you can't tell anyone about any of this, alright?"

I nod and put a hand to my heart. "You have my word."

"It's my sister, Eloise." Lawrence begins, his hands shaking. "On the full moon, she turns… she's transformed into a horrible beast. She loses her mind, and becomes a monster that attacks anything in sight. It used to be short, but it's gotten worse and worse. The last few months, she's been an animal for the entire night. At this rate, I'm afraid we'll lose her forever."

The table sits in silence. Arthur stares down, his hands balled into fists, his mustache quivers.

"Is this true?" I ask, softly.

"Yes." Arthur bluntly states. "We've gone through the family history. We know about the curse. It's been written down for centuries, but seems to not have happened before in living memory. Like it was almost gone, then… came back. Nobody was expecting it."
"Is Eloise here?"

Lawrence hesitates, but nods. "Yes. In her room, on the second floor."

"May I examine her?" I ask, and the two men stare at me with suspicion. "Like a doctor's visit. You can stay in the room to watch and make sure I won't do anything foul to her."

Arthur releases a deep, deep sigh, slouching forward. "I… fine. Even if you reveal yourself to be a malicious warlock, I doubt you could possibly make the situation any worse. What would you do, curse our family again?" He laughs, a hoarse, hollow sound, laced with pain.

Lawrence gets up from the table and gestures for me to follow.

We reach the sister's spacious room on the second floor. It's luxuriously furnished, but all of it is covered in enormous gashes, bite and claw marks sized for a tiger.

"Oh, hello." Eloise greets us with wide eyes. She's a slender, demure young woman, dressed in a simple white shift. She has long, messy raven-black hair, but the most striking feature is her skin, a paleness nearly bordering on completely white. "I… wasn't expecting visitors."

"Hello there, Eloise." I try to give her a reassuring smile. "I'm a physician, here to examine your… unique condition."

She glances over at her brother, who nods.

"Fine." She speaks curtly, with a deep sigh.

I direct her to sit sideways on the bed, then place my hands on her back, over her dress. Closing my eyes, I direct Structural Analysis to scan her in as much depth as I can, causing blue glowing blue veins to run down her body, like plant spreading it's roots. I hear Lawrence gasp, but tune him out.

Analysing a human being is never easy. So many squishy bits, so many organs, not to even mention the spiritual dimension. Peering in there, I note that Eloise doesn't have any magic circuits, open or closed - which, to be fair, is normal, most people don't have those. I also immediately notice that, in the place where those circuits would be located, there is what I can only describe as a spiritual tumor. An angry, roiling mass of dark energy that's latched onto her soul like a parasite. As I watch, the thing pulsates, forcibly draining the energy from the soul around it. It couldn't be more obvious that this is the problem if there was a giant glowing sign.

I open my eyes and take a deep breath. "I have good news, bad news, and good news."

The family turns to look at me expectantly, with an odd look on their face. Hm, I guess that turn of phrase isn't in common circulation yet. I continue: "I've identified the problem. Now, while unfortunately I cannot cure it completely, I might be able to do something about it." I raise a hand to forestall them, before they speak. "Again, to be clear, maybe. Perhaps nothing will change. And even if I succeed, this won't be a complete cure to her condition."
"Now, when is the next full moon?" I ask.

The siblings share a glance at each other. "It's… tonight."

I pinch my nose.


[ Feat Accomplished: Discover the Secret of Lesser Edale! ]

[ Bronze Ticket Awarded ]

Spoiler: ROLL

Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean
50 CP
A paper bag filled with jelly beans enchanted to have one random flavor. ANY flavor and your packet is endless.
Chronomancer
200 CP
Time is an illusion, and you're a master of illusions. You can manipulate time freely within a small radius of yourself. This allows you to do things such as rewind time for a few minutes, slow it down, speed it up and several other such tricks. Keep in mind that the more you try to do with time, the greater the strain. Jumping backwards a few seconds to avoid a critical hit? Easy as pie. Trudging back a whole half-hour, because you absolutely need to correct a horrible mistake after the fact? Expect to need bed rest afterwards.

Vishnu Baja
200 CP
The great gallery of weapons that the hero Rama was granted by the Sage Vishwamitra. Stored in a dimensional pocket connecting to your being, you have access to dozens of powerful divine weapons with a variety of magical effects, mostly focused on anti-divine and anti-demon combat. They're easy to wield for you, feeling natural in your hands, and this only improves the greater your divinity becomes. Those with the blood of a demigod could easily wield multiple of these weapons at once, floating through the air around you as if through telekinesis. A full god could bring out even greater power from each weapon and potentially have the two dozen or more tools all attacking at once! While there are many legendary weapons held within, some appear as inferior copies, such as the tools of Shiva himself. Vishnu Baja contains powerful tools but individually they would be more along the power held by the Agni Gandiva or Sudarshan Chakra.

-Oh, it turns out that I didn't just get a Clock Tower education when I got dumped in here. I've got a full on protagonist cheat.

On one hand, I get an array of awesome powers that can grow potentially without limit. That is dope. On the other hand, Alice had said I was going to need power to deal with whatever is wrong with this world, which is… worrying.

I turn to my three choices. Well, it's really only two choices, the beans are worthless.

Chronomancy does sound dope. To keep up the Nasuverse comparisons, I would basically be Kiritsugu Emiya with that. Even outside of the obvious combat uses, being able to rewind to correct mistakes, for example in a ritual, would be an incredible trick.

Or, I could emulate his son instead, with summoning a bunch of swords. Oh, this perk is literally from Fate too, how appropriate.

Two things convince me to pick Vishnu Baja. First, Chronomancy, in combat, only acts as a power multiplier. Right now, even with Reinforcement at full blast, I'm not really stronger than an ordinary human. Against, say, a big evil monster, I would still get destroyed even if I'm moving three times as fast, meanwhile a powerful magic sword could actually deal some real damage.

Secondly, the anti-divine and anti-demon properties. Conceptual weakness are always a seriously useful thing, and might be able to help me punch up above my weight class. I'm still not sure what exactly is the deal with this world, but those two categories cover a lot of ground.

---

I have a rushed discussion, bordering on an interrogation, of the countryside with Arthur to see if I can learn anything about the local ley lines. Luckily, he tells me about the Nine Ladies, a circle of ancient Celtic standing-stones, not too far away from here. I'd bet my fingers that it's built along ley lines - and even if not, the construction itself would hold considerable mystical weight.

I grab anything that might be useful from the kitchen - a bowl, knife, and some spices that could substitute for mystical herbs in a pinch, mostly.

We rush to saddle the horses and set away towards the Nine Ladies at a gallop. There are only two horses ready on the estate, so Eloise rides alongside her brother, while I sprint next to them, pumping my legs with Reinforcement.

The sky is already dark. As soon as we arrive at the stones, I begin to prepare, taking the silver dinner knife to my palm and pouring ounces of blood onto the bowl. I'm starting to get dizzy here.

I wildly gesture to the Vanes to come. "Give me some of your blood."

Arthur grimaces. "What?!"

"It doesn't have to be this much." I reassure them with a gesture towards the bowl. "Just a few drops will do. Kin's-blood, freely given. It will make the ritual much smoother. Blood ties are a powerful thing."

Lawrence does it eagerly. He seems more desperate about all of this than Eloise herself. She hesitates for a second, then takes the knife. Arthur looks like he bit into a lemon, but he eventually goes through anyways.

From there, it's the same mixture I used for the runes on my suit.

I begin to chant as I add the ingredients. "Silver of purity, ward off the unholy. Salt of the earth, bind the inhuman."

It's not some ancient, mystical spell. I'm making up the words. But every little bit helps. …Probably.

Something about this is definitely helping. Maybe the full moon overhead, the circle of stones, or the ley lines in the location. The mixing goes smoother, taking less effort, and is finished much faster, compared to tomorrow.

I dip a finger into the bowl, and write the rune Dagaz on Eloise's forehead. ᛞ - Purification. I repeat the motion two more times.

Then, with the remaining blood-ink, I write the rune Berkano onto each of the standing stones, connecting them to the symbol of purification and anchoring the ritual to the imposing monoliths, drawing upon the meaning of the holy site.

Eloise is laid down and chained to a large, flat stone in the center of the circle. The two older Vanes stand several paces behind, watching.

Then we wait.

And wait.

I'm not sure how long we stand there for. In reality, it can't possibly be more than an hour. But the tension of it makes the minutes stretch like days. I can't help but recall the descriptions of soldiers recalling the tension before a battle, the phase of 'hurry up and wait.'

Finally, when it finally happens, it's shockingly fast. It's not some tortuous, drawn-out scene like a werewolf movie- Eloise convulses, and then in mere seconds, transforms completely. Her muscles twist and bunch into desiccated cords, her skin becomes a sickly greyish-black, mangy fur covers her frame, her hands grow into elongated, spindly things, capped by brutally oversized, serrated fangs. Immediately the creature begins to trash and howl. It's incredibly loud, and the clattering of the chains is thunderous enough that I'm worried it'll break out.

I dash to the stone and immediately Reinforce the chains. The spell won't hold for too long without me keeping it up, but hopefully it should be enough.
"Hold it down!" I shout to Lawrence, handing him the chains. He struggles with all his might, with the fury of a drowning man clinging to the only solid thing in sight.

My left hand rests on top of the beast's chest, using Structural Analysis. With my right hand, I place it against her head and push down, forcing it back against the rock.

Out of all the many kinds of magecraft that are taught in the Clock Tower, perhaps the most difficult is the field of Spiritual Surgery. I mean, no shit, it's like brain surgery but with souls. A single mistake usually means death or a permanent injury to the spiritual vessel.

An untrained amateur performing spiritual surgery is almost always an absolutely horrible idea. Luckily, what I'm performing is about the equivalent of amputating a gangrened foot. You don't need a doctorate for that, you just need a cleaver.

To my structural analysis, the 'tumor' seems to have undergone a startling transformation. It's bulging like a balloon, many times larger than it was before, to such an extent that it seems to 'jut out' from the rest of Eloise's soul - which is weak and dim by comparison.

The monstrous state actually makes my job much easier.
I manifest a demon-slayer's dagger from Vishnu's panoply and start hacking and cutting away at the spiritual tumor. In physical space, my hands move slightly above her diaphragm.

The bloated state of the tumor helps me, as I can attack it directly, without needing to worry about damaging her soul in the process. With each blow, the beast howls and thrashes like it's in horrible pain, making utterly inhuman noises that would have left a person's vocal cords shredded and bleeding.

After a few good blows, the bulging mass has been reduced to a seething 'stump'. There are still some tendrils remaining, but the only parts left are buried too deep into her soul for me to continue without risking serious damage to her.

So I stop cutting, and channel all the mana I have left into the runes.

The standing stones glow with silvery moonlight. Like a whirlpool, it washes inward and floods towards Eloise, forming a pillar of illumination that rises dozens of feet into the air before dissipating into motes of fairy light.

Under my spiritual sight, I see the vestiges of rot being washed away, splitting into clumps and dissipating like dust in the wind.

Soon enough, Eloise transforms again, shedding away the dark fur, and lays there, unconscious, her clothes half-torn, her skin covered in sweat where it's not bruised or cut, but alive and fully human.

I open my eyes and smile. "It's even better than I hoped for. It's all gone. Your daughter is well and truly cured."

The only reason I was able to pull that off is because the 'curse' seemingly was some kind of 'unholy' infection, making it conceptually vulnerable to purification and exorcism, from both the anti-demon property of the divine weapon, and the silver-blessed purification ritual. If it had been the result of more traditional magecraft, then fully removing it would have required actual spirit surgery, and I'd be shit out of luck.
Of course, I'm not going to actually say out loud that it's a good thing that she had some kind of fucked up demon AIDS, that would be terribly crass.

Arthur and Lawrence look more relieved than I've ever seen a person be.

"I don't know how I can ever repay you." Arthur turns to me with his mustache quivering. "If there is anything I can do, anything at all, just say the word."

I pause for a moment. "The two of you must have spent a great deal of time looking into your daughter's condition, yes? Trying to find a cure?"

"Well, yes, of course. Unfortunately, the greatest majority of so-called mystics seem to be nothing but charlatans and thieves." He spits onto the ground. "Scum. Alas, even the ones that seemed to have some measure of true knowledge on the topic told us there was no cure. The Church said to put my darling out of her misery, can you believe it!" Arthur roars, growing more incensed.

I hold up my hands placatingly. "Yes, well- these ones that seemed to actually know something, which were they?"

"Hrmph." He grunts, pausing for a moment and stroking his mustache with one hand. "Well… the Catholic Church clearly knows something. I traded a number of letters with an antiquarian by the name of Grieve, and he pointed me to a scholar from Cambridge, who…"

After a bit of a rambling aside, I get three solid leads to visit. The 'Friends of Mrs. Attwood,' the Society for Psychical Research, and the antiquarian Leander Grieve. Also the Catholic Church, apparently, but that one's… a bit harder to deal with.

"Alright, in that case- could you write me letters of introduction for these three? I think they might point me towards what I'm looking for."

"Yes, of course, of course!" Arthur happily agrees. "What are you looking for, if I might be so bold as to ask?"

I sigh heavily and run my hands through my hair in frustration. "I wish I knew too. All I have is a… prophecy, of sorts. Some kind of catastrophic threat to humanity is coming, and supernatural events in Britain are connected to it in some way. All I can do is chase after news headlines and hope to find a thread I can pull to unravel this mystery."

The Vanes share a concerned look. "I see…"

---

[July 26th, Sunday]

After returning to the castle, the grateful family allows me to stay in the guest room - where I collapse unconscious with exhaustion.




[ Feat Accomplished: Fully Cure Eloise's ghoul curse! ]

[ Silver Ticket Awarded ]

Spoiler: ROLL

Dragon's Mail
400 CP
A heavy set of armor that bears the scales of a once-legendary dragon, now slain and forged into this enchanted equipment. It fits your form perfectly regardless of your size once donned, and cannot be removed from your body until it or you is destroyed or if you seek to take it off. As a bonus, it gives you considerable resistance to both physical damage and elemental (fire, thunder, ice, etc.) damage from magic. A fatal blow will be more of a frustrating scratch. Just mind the gaps in said armor.


Diadem of the Savant
200 CP
This golden circlet is gifted to anyone who is able to complete Shalidor's Maze, and overcome the trials within. It greatly decreases the amount of magicka your spells would otherwise cost, as well as allowing you to have ten times more summons active at once than you could before. Anything summoned while wearing this will be stronger, faster, and more durable than they otherwise would have been.

Protective Magic
300 CP
You are versed in sigils, wards and other rituals of protection. This can defend against physical and magical assault. Requires mana.

The dragon armor sounds really, really good, but I think I'm going to choose Protective Magic instead. It's a lot more versatile, and, hopefully, should provide me with the same protection in the end.

Not to mention, wearing a heavy suit of armor around would get me a lot of weird looks.





I join the family for a hearty english breakfast. They're all beaming with happiness, Eloise especially.


"I'm going with you." Eloise declares in the middle of the meal, staring right up at me.

"Absolutely not!" Arthur roars, his mustache quivering. "Young woman, you must say home and recover. You are in no condition to go gallivanting off across the world!"

"I have been stuck in this godsforsaken castle for months!" Eloise screams back. "I haven't even seen London since last year! I have had enough of being treated like a caged bird! I want to live, damn you!"

"She has a point, father." Lawrence mutters in a low voice.

"You stay out of this, lad!" The father snipes back furious. His face is getting a dangerous red tinge to it.

"The man here's a bloody wizard!" Lawrence responds. "Surely he can keep her safe!"

Eloise rises from her seat, resting her hands on the table. "I can decide for myself, thank you very much! And I am going!"
I silently make my way out of the table to avoid the family screaming match.

---

Later, when I'm getting ready to leave, Arthur hands me a package. Inside are the letters I asked for… and a pouch with five hundred pounds sterling.

I give him a look, pushing the envelope back into his hands. "I'm thankful, really, but I told you, you didn't need to. This is a lot of money."

The man chuckles. "If my daughter had a disease- not even some horrible curse, but an ordinary, serious malady, this could be only a mere fraction of the price of her treatment, in doctors and medicines. Let me give you at least this much, lad. You deserve it. Just… promise me that you will keep my daughter safe." He says, sounding more resigned than anything.

I nod. "Yes, I promise."

It seems like Eloise ended up leaving after all.