ch00bakka2

[[include :scp-wiki:theme:3law]]
[[module CSS]]
.rate-box-with-credit-button {
background-color: #222e59!important;
border: 1px solid #0c1121!important;
border-radius: 5px !important;
box-shadow: 1px 1px 3px rgba(0,0,0,.5) !important;
}
.rate-box-with-credit-button .creditButton p a {
border-left-color: #0c1121!important;
}
.rate-box-with-credit-button .page-rate-widget-box .cancel {
border-radius: 0;
}
.rate-box-with-credit-button .page-rate-widget-box .rate-points {
border-left: 0;
}
[[/module]]

⚠️ content warning

Oecumenicus Diomedes Masonbane, AKA Vincenzo Santorini
Oecumenicus Menelaus Mansonbane, AKA Cormac FitzHenry
Oecumenicus Iphegenia Masonbane, AKA Michelle Dahl

Beam Myself Into the Future

rating: 0+x

Cormac FitzHenry, Oecumenicus Volgi of the Ancient and Most Noble Order of Gormogons, sat crosslegged in his scrying circle, awaiting a phone call. The telephone itself was on a marble plinth before him, its bakelite surface inlaid with mystic circuitry in silver and beryllium bronze; it was bright red, as traditional for secret government hotlines, and had been installed in the Grand Occident Wedge of London some four decades ago, when Cormac's predecessor, Vincenzo Santorini, signed the Global Occult Coalition's founding charter. And in a few minutes it would ring, formally starting the fifth meeting of the fortieth session of the Council of 108.

Cormac was dreading it. Since he'd been promoted—when Enzo, after losing half the fingers on his right hand again, had retired to Newfoundland, to live near his wife's family—he'd sat through seventeen of these meetings, each one more mind-numbingly tedious than the last. Only the United Nations could manage to make being the secret world government boring.

He was drifting off when the phone finally rang, startling him into almost falling out of the scrying circle. He lifted it to his ear; an oddly-accented voice chanted a dead language, and the room around Cormac faded to blackness. Points of light formed a circle in the dark, more blinking on each moment until the full complement of a hundred and eight had appeared; then, in the center of the circle, a woman appeared, wearing the face of a young Jackie O. Over her torso floated the words D. C. al Fine, Undersecretary-General of the Global Occult Coalition. "We are all converged," she said, in a voice much older than her face. "I call the fifth meeting of the fortieth session of the Council of 108 to order. Is every member present and accounted for?"

At the beginning of each session, the honor of first place in the roll-call was decided by lot. At the moment, it was held by the Bavarian Illuminati—one of the Coalition's most widespread and powerful sub-conspiracies, fully corrupted by the taint of freemasonry. One of the lights brightened, and D. C. al Fine was replaced by a stocky young woman in a sensible pantsuit. She spoke with a slight German accent. "Eve Weishaupt, High Araeopagite of the Bavarian Illuminati, present."

She vanished, and was replaced by an old Chinese man in fithy, tattered robes. He bowed, and as he spoke, his lips did not match his words. "Xu Chongzhao, Chief of the Beggars' Sect, present." His image disappeared, the next in line flashed, and so on down the row. Cormac dozed off for a moment, waiting for his turn.

"Sophia Sabazios, Prime Archoness of the Gnostic Liberation Army, present." A middle-eastern woman in desert-camo clerical robes faded out, and Cormac felt himself appear at the center of the circle. "Menelaus Masonbane, Oecumenicus Volgi of the Ancient and Most Noble Order of Gormogons, present." The feeling of being watched vanished, and Cormac allowed himself to relax. He gave an assumed name, as did almost all of the other members of the Council; names have power, and giving yours freely to some of the most powerful occultists on earth would be beyond irresponsible.

The roll call continued, and Cormac could once more safely tune it out. He took the time to skim the agenda; nothing of immediate relevance to the Gormogons, thankfully, and nothing proposed by any of the Council's several Masonic organizations that he would be duty-bound to argue against. Eventually, the final delegate, a Central Asian man in an ornate robe and turban, introduced himself as "Basir al-Yettisheri, Teacher and Prophet of the Azmarite Order," and the roll call concluded.

D. C. al Fine nodded, and a copy of the agenda appeared in her hand. "The first item of business is the relocation of Samothracian refugees; normally this would be a matter for the General Assembly, but as Mr. Tekiner of the Jandarma Esrarlı Harekat will explain, there have been some perceptual anomalies that have stalled negotiations…"

Some more nonsense about that thing down in Samothrace; a resolution condemning the [SOMETHING]

"… and finally, the Servants of the Silicon Nornir have put forth a proposal for the establishment of a new pocket-universe as a hub for the paratechnology industry, to combat the spread of Maxwellist theology in the Free City of Three Portlands. Ms. Skuldsdottir?"

One of the lights grew into a young woman in a flowing white robe, a long thread knotted between her fingers. The caption over her chest identified her as Ragnheiður Skuldsdottir, Sacred Voice of the Silicon Nornir. "Thank you, Madame Undersecretary-General." There was a distinct Scandinavian lilt in her voice, mellowing what would otherwise be a robotic monotone. "There has been a Concurrence among the Nornir. The auguries indicate a great peril yet to come, surrounding the City of Portlands. Urðr speaks first."

The Speaker raised her arms, and stared into the center of the tangle of threads. The slight lilt in her voice became a full-on chanting rhythm, as she received a prophecy. "From the broken branch's small splinter sprouted saplings strong. Town-in-triple, steeped in secrets, fertile field for words and wishes of WAN's worshippers. Seiðr-science spread; crafty cunning-carls and Fire-Filcher's flock found faith in myths of Maxwell. Verðandi speaks next."

Still staring through the threads, she held her head higher and pushed her shoulders back, making herself seem taller; when she spoke, her voice was deeper and more commanding, and she still maintained that chant. "Skippers scorn strangeness, whisking away unworldly wonders. Hoover's henchmen mingle with mystics and mortals, cults and clans cause chaos, scoundrels skulk in sailor-saviors' shade. Skuld speaks last."

The Speaker hunched her back, her hands curling into claws; some trick of the light made wrinkles appear across her face, and when she spoke her voice was faint and harsh. "Men make metal legs and limbs, meld their minds with lines of lightning. Green-gold boards birth bitter blasphemies, new Nornir not wrought from runic rites and sacred stones but built by mortal mage-mechanics. To fix these flaws, a city shall be settled, far-flung from Portlands' portals, a fief for fate-seers' servants, wicker-woven with world-tree's twigs. The Nornir have spoken." She lowered the skein of threads, bowed slightly, and let her image fade back into a point of light.

"Lucid as always, Speaker." The next delegate to appear was Grandmaster Jack Mosley of the Order of the Silver Trowel, a distinguished silver-haired Englishman in the amulet and apron of a Master Mason. "But I believe that the Nornir have failed to consider the strategic importance of Three Portlands. It is the most stable Way across the Atlantic by far,

resolution

tags: tale global-occult-coalition broken-god three-portlands

draft 1 feat iphegenia and shibulon
footnotes