2089/Visit from the Devil

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Visit from the Devil
Date of Scene: 21 August 2017
Location: Unknown
Synopsis: Summary needed
Cast of Characters: Athenaeum, Lucifer




Athenaeum has posed:
The city of Marseille. Port, gateway... And originally settled by the Greeks. That's not why she has a home here though, or at least it's not the /only/ reason she does. Any port town sees a lot of trade sooner or later, and books come from many places. Not to mention sometimes it's just nice to get away from the hustle and bustle of the bigger Western Cities without removing oneself completely from humanity.

On this lazy summer evening, with the sun lowering towards the horizon the young looking magician is sitting in the small cobblestone veranda out the front of her terrace town-house on the Old Port. Idly, she remembers when it was just called 'The Port' as she stirs honey and lemon into a cup of Lady Grey, the orange already in the tea adding to the citrus notes.

Dressed in a light, pale green cotton summer dress that still sits high on the collarbones and covers to her ankles. The only other adornment on the woman is a pair of brown sandals that criss-cross up her hidden calves. Even her make up is muted, a barest pink on cheeks and lips to give her some form of depth. Now and then a local passes, giving the odd woman a wave - the sight of her long ago having become the norm. And if she'd averted a storm or two from the fisherman's ships... Well, that was just being a friendly neighbour.

Lucifer has posed:
Summer in the ancient southern city of France has a special quality of light. Certainly it beguiled the artists drawn here in droves over the centuries, culminating in some of the late 19th and early 20th century masters who command ridiculously high prices in the art market.

Naturally it's one of those interesting niche markets that officially drew Lucifer here in the first . Through the usual channels, he heard of some event where the exchange of forgotten and missing pieces welcomes certain well-heeled buyers. He may count in the top echelon, smiling indulgently upon oil sheikhs and robber oligarchs when it comes time to examine the wares. But that's not for another few hours, and he takes the opportunity for that //secondary// business at hand. One which involves strolling down a winding route lined in baskets of late flowering lavender and the occasional jacaranda or wisteria plant to add sparks of another kind of purple to the landscape. Hands tucked into his pockets, the black-haired man resembles nigh any other who might find Marseille a gracious diversion from business and other ugly necessities of life. His loafers tread the stones underfoot, learning their memories of Crusaders and Romans, Berber pirates and Napoleonic forces.

The latter interrupts him for a moment. Not much more, but the spike of memory percolating up catches a vision of those bluecoat gentlemen hovering here to await their great expedition to Egypt. He blinks twice to clear his vision. That foray rattles around in his brain and leaves him briefly parallel to the lady on her veranda. Just a fellow stopping.

Just a psychometric vision crackling up in immediate response to him, where no doubt hundreds of thousands of pedestrians passed in two centuries without a response. Friendly neighbours indeed.

Athenaeum has posed:
With many years in a place, comes the time to set up all sorts of wardings and tapestries of protection and detection. The fact he'd just set off one that she'd never expected to actually go off, well he is a rather singular individual anyway. But since she'd started meeting deities and demons, the magus had had to up her game a little.

"Memory is a funny thing..." She comments gently, a small smile on her lips as she sips her tea. Just a woman, idly talking to the individual. "I do remember a rather interesting conversation I had once, with a gentleman quite a bit like yourself." Those gem-like eyes rest on him easily as she carefully places cup and saucer on a small white-painted cast iron table.

"I suppose the question here is, if I offer you a cup of tea..." She doesn't stand just yet, doesn't really move other than to rest her hands in her lap, her posture of course already perfect. "Do I have your word that you will come in peace and leave in the same way?" At this point it doesn't matter so much if she has the right of /who/ the dark haired gentleman is, as what he set off.

Lucifer has posed:
Visions of men in their smart coats headed down to the wooden ships moored in the harbour still assault Lucifer from the corners of snarled time. He could reach out and follow the stray threads back and forth, possibly even smooth them, but that distracts from the matter in the present. For all intents and purposes, he's just another man straightening his cuffs smartly and raising his head to assess the woman speaking to them.

Mages tend to taste of the magic they prefer. Oh, it's a subtle effect but their fingerprints lie all over their casting, and once he has the better of an imprint laid down, the knowledge lies deep in the mental library of such things. He inclines his head politely, giving Ysabelle a smile carefully crafted as not to be too familiar and focused where not called for. "Good evening to you, madame," he offers in pitch-perfect French. The Marseillais dialect carries its whisper of Provencal through every musical tone. "How fine a time to be out and enjoying the best hour."

He meets her gaze briefly. The only telltale something is off, beyond what the spell implies, might be in the intense blue shade of his eyes. "Isn't it the nature of time to change from second to second? Even if I could make the promise to cause no harm, I could not leave you exactly the same as the arrival. Even small details change, don't they?"

Athenaeum has posed:
"Details change constantly." She agrees with a softly knowing smile, she should have realised it would never be that simple with the Master of Lies. "But peace can be between two people when they meet, and when they leave each other again remain hale and at peace with one another." She answers him in the same language, her own dialect shifting between the local and the more Northern climes of Calais, with it's slightly harsher constonants.

"Ah, how rude of me." Nothing happens outwardly other than her hand moves in her lap, hidden from view by the table. Those with the Sight to see however, will note the the softly glowing rune on the cobblestone as it unravels like a dandelion clock before the wind. The last motes vanishing in a purple blaze. And like the run, the visions of a memory (her memory perhaps?) start to slowly fade from his minds eye. "How remiss of me." She adds with that same knowing smile.

Lucifer has posed:
Lucifer says, "I'd be good for RP tonight. Hanging around Lux if anyone wants, unless you've a better idea. Good ideas are welcome. ;)"