I Never Told You What I Do For A Living

Link to article: I Never Told You What I Do For A Living.

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I NEVER TOLD YOU WHAT I DO FOR A LIVING
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[[[canon-hub|Canon Hub]]] » [[[from-120-s-archives-hub|From 120's Archives Hub]]] » I Never Told You What I Do For A Living
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+ March 26th, 1895
++ Amsterdam, //Koninkrijk der Nederlanden//

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= //Wishing you were here...//
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The Municipal University of Amsterdam unsettled Jonathan, but he couldn't quite explain why. The main building of the university was cold, almost freezing in the spring nighttime. Unlike many places back home -- none the least Jameston Estate -- the staff were yet to have lightbulbs installed, leaving the narrow halls of the old building lit only by the dim glow of gas lamps, swaying faintly above him as his footsteps joined the creaking of the floorboards. It reminded him of his father's old home, back in London, sans the permeation of the stench of cigar smoke and weeks-old fruit. That same polished oak, the red bricks exposed for all inside to see, the lightest of coats of condensation forming on the inside of the windows...

He passed by door after door, each with a plaque of some currently employed academic, or denoting their purpose -- His Dutch was subpar, but he was certain he could piece together what a //toilet// was. -- in bronze. He paid most no mind. Pieter Hermans, Joop Luns, Hendrik Van Dijk... He passed them all in a matter of moments, unlikely to ever hear or think of the names again.

He stopped, eyes locked onto the door he had almost just walked past. It had no plaque, the place where one had evidently sat before visible against its weathered surroundings. A nail had been loosely hammered into the wood, and a small chalkboard had been hung from it with a piece of string. Scrawled in neat chalk writing, the current occupant's name was written.

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++ Professor Abraham Van Helsing
+++ Doctor in Filosofie en Recht (Tussen Anderen)
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Just the man he'd been looking for. He took a deep breath, gathered himself, and knocked on the door. A small commotion from the other side, as the person inside evidently stood hastily and walloped their knees off the table. After a short bout of cursing he wasn't sure he wanted translated, heavy footsteps followed. The door's handle rattled, and swung inward, revealing the professor.

Van Helsing was an impressive man, for someone well into his sixties. What he'd always lacked in height he'd made up for in compactness. Even through the large tweed jacket he had draped over himself, you make out the broadness of his shoulders, the slight shape his arms had to them... The slight rotundness he'd gained as of recent. Had he been a decade or three younger, Jonathan could picture him with a rugby ball in his hands. His head, similarly, was rather boxy, with a rather pronounced jaw and hard features, framed by a receding head of formerly red hair and a pair of round, unframed spectacles. His expression was one of confusion and mild discomfort, but his midnight blue eyes quickly widened and the corners of his mouth rose as he looked at his visitor's face.

//"Mein Gott!"// He exclaimed, his decades in Basel shining through still. "Jonathan Harker! In the flesh, before my eyes!" He stepped aside, beaming as widely as his tight mouth would allow. "Come in, //Herr// Harker. Do come in, I must hear how you've been since we last spoke!"

"Gladly." Jonathan returned the smile, far wider than his former teacher's, and stepped into his office.


+ ☾

Van Helsing's office was a mess. This was, by his own admission, his fault. His recently rediscovered duties as a university professor had left him short on time and energy to properly unpack the belongings he had intended to display here, and the floor was covered with trunks. The only piece of furniture with any sort of display was the desk, which was stacked with books. A small, framed picture of a much younger Van Helsing sat to the left side of the workspace. As Jonathan took a seat, he noticed a paper, in English, had been slid to one side. The large, curved font emblazoned across the top read: SUPRANATURAL CHRONICLER'S PAPER, FOURTY-SIXTH ISSUE. He didn't bother to read on. He knew a Foundation misinformation campaign when he saw one, especially when it was written and published just down the hall from his own office.

Van Helsing sat down heavily into the chair across from Jonathan, its wooden frame creaking under his weight. He ducked down slightly, and pulled a bottle of bourbon and two tumblers from somewhere out of sight. "Will you have some?"

"Oh, gladly." Jonathan placed a hand on a glass as Van Helsing unscrewed the top of the bottle and poured the brown liquid in. "It's been a long while since I've touched alcohol."

"Oh?" Van Helsing raised an eyebrow as he poured himself a glass, before lifting it to his lips and taking a hefty swig. "I would've thought all the time you'd spend //im Gerichtssaal// would make the drink more appealing."

"It did, for a time." Jonathan took a sip of his own drink, trying not to let his face speak to the taste. "But... Well, circumstances change. The money arrives a little less frequently, and I've good reason to not be down in the pub every evening, moaning about clients."

"You've married, then?" Van Helsing waggled his eyebrows at him. "No longer... what was it Seward called you... the rosebud. No longer the rosebud you were in Cambridge, eh? You're here to invite me to your firstborn's christening, then?"

//"To be// married." Jonathan corrected, placing the glass to one side. He could feel the amnestics in his pocket almost burning, ready to be used the second things went pear-shaped. "And... no. Well, you're free to come, whenever we decided on the time and place. I'll write you. But, no. Not why I'm here."

Van Helsing nodded. "I see. Then, if I may ask, why are you here?"

"Do you remember the world before the Veil?"

Van Helsing blinked. "Veil?"

Jonathan sighed. "Sixth Occult War. 1864 through 1868. Four years of the most brutal warfare the world may well ever see. Magic and whatnot. Subsequently hidden from the public eye."

"Ah, //ja,// I remember it." The aging man's expression hardened slightly, his brow furrowing. "I remember reading the accounts of what occurred in Berlin... horrible. Although, I will say, I haven't kept up with those parts of the world since the [[[poczatki-normalnosci-i-jej-przyszlosc|Convention]]] in 1868. No need to, I've been too busy."

"Too busy to keep up with current affairs?"

"It's been a long twenty-five years, Jon." Van Helsing took another sip of his drink. "I've taught in universities across the globe. Britain, the States, Switzerland, China... I simply haven't had the personal time to..." He gesticulated vaguely about himself. "...Drop by the [https://wanderers-library.wikidot.com/ Library] or somewhere and ask what exactly I've missed."

The two sat in silence for a moment, before a look of concern crossed Van Helsing's face. "//Warte,// how did--"

"I'm with the Foundation." Jonathan said, hands interlocked on the table. "Surely you remember //that// name."

//"Scheibenkleister."// Van Helsing sighed, and finished what remained of his drink in a single go. "Yes, I'm unfortunately familiar."

"Unfortunately?"

"I have associates in the Hand, as they call themselves. I've wandered the Serpent's stacks myself, many a time." Van Helsing's eyes shot over to Jonathan's almost untouched glass. "So, if you've come to try and drag me into the fold, you can tell them that they can have me the day my soul goes to God and my body's in the earth."

"Harsh." Jonathan murmured.

"Not unnecessarily so." Van Helsing retorted. "I've always been a believer in the freedom of knowledge, have I not?"

"You may have mentioned, back in Cambridge."

"Good, you remember. Then my reasons are self-explanatory. //Du lenhst sie ab."//

Jonathan sat silently for a moment, half looking at the old man. He stared back, any of the warmth in his face when he'd opened the door replaced with a cool neutrality. He'd always wished Van Helsing allowed himself to get angry. At least anger passed in a burst. The man's disappointment was like being crushed under a ton of bricks.

//"Also jetzt,// I believe we have nothing further to discuss on this matter, //Zellkind."// Van Helsing began to rise from his seat with a slight grunt. "If you may, leave my office and ne-"

"You care about the preservation of knowledge too, don't you?"

Van Helsing paused. "I suppose. It's... in the same domain."

"I see. It's good to know you hold those ideals with such little genuine care for them. I can see why you bounce from place to place so often now. If anyone found out..."

Van Helsing's jaw tensed. "Cease this."

"Then listen to what I have to say." Jonathan rose to his feet, looking Van Helsing dead in the eye. "The Foundation knows you're something of a scholar of the occult, alongside everything else you've ever put your mind to. As it stands, we're actively losing touch with a part of it, as we have been for centuries."

"...Necromancy." Van Helsing muttered.

"Correct." A smirk grew on Jonathan's face. "We believe two things. One, we have found a potential source, one with knowledge that could easily preserve the field, and our understanding thereof, for years to come. Two, you may be able to help us access it. Of course, for a healthy sum when all is said and done."

Something in Van Helsing's expression shifted, and his eyes widened slightly, excited by the prospect like a child being told a secret. "...Why me, specifically?"

"You've had... prior experiences with such phenomena, haven't you? Those stories you used to pull out when you went into Seward's English lectures, they were always about it. Zombies in Utrecht, skeletal serpents along the Nile, an encounter with [[[scp-6072|Death Himself]]] in New York... I'd always assumed you just had a rather morbid creative mind, but knowing what I do now..."

"I will say," Van Helsing interjected. "The one about the zombies wasn't entirely true. That was in Charleroi. Horrid place, somehow one of the nicest in Belgium."

Jonathan nodded. "True. But, anyways, you have a... strangely large involvement with undeath at large, however circumstantial those encounters may be."

"Why such an interest in necromancy?" Van Helsing asked, stepping around the table and looking Jonathan directly in the eyes. "Do you not have greater beasts //zu jagen?"//

"On the whole, yes. But we... have our fingers in many pies, so to speak. This happens to be one that's caught our attention as of late."

Van Helsing was silent. His lips narrowed and his gaze seemingly left the room, headed into his own mind. He rested his chin in the space between his fist and thumb, brow furrowed. He remained in that position for an awkward few seconds.

"I can give you the night, if you need it." Jonathan picked up his glass, grimaced, and necked the remainder of its contents. "Of course, I have... other things to attend to, back in England, so--"

"I'll take up your offer, //vielen dank."// Van Helsing removed his hand from his chin and snapped his fingers, pointing at Jonathan. "Under one condition."

"I'm in no position to accept terms, but I can hear it out for you."

"Whenever we find something, //wenn wir etwas finden,// I want it put into your little academic world below the Veil. To anyone who may find it useful in preventing harm, to the Library for its preservation, to all."

Jonathan sighed. "Freedom of knowledge, yes."

"Does it annoy you, //mein Junge?"//

"No, it doesn't. I'll just... let you discuss that with my superior." He paused. "But, you will come, yes?"

Van Helsing beamed at him. "It's a good thing I haven't unpacked my belongings after all! I'll let the //rector// know I will be needing //ein paar Monate Urlaub,// and I shall gather myself."

"No need for that." Jonathan grinned, and pulled the bag from his pocket. "Take this to the kitchen. Put it in whatever it is they're cooking the staff for breakfast tomorrow. Nobody'll ever remember you were here. The Foundation'll handle any documentation about you, don't worry about that."

Van Helsing nodded. "I suppose I shall pack, then. Could you help, //vielleicht?"//

"Gladly." Jonathan handed the older man the bag of memory-affecting drugs. "Makes the job quicker. Our boat leaves for Dover at dawn, so we have a few hours."

"So we can //brauchen unsere Zeit."// Van Helsing gestured to the remainder of the bottle of bourbon. "I don't think a drink before we leave would be such a bad thing, //ja?"//

"...You know what?" Jonathan handed Van Helsing his empty glass. "A toast."

He smiled, and poured them both another round, offering the brimming glass to Jonathan before raising his own. "To our future collaboration, //mein Freund."//

Jonathan raised his own glass, and clinked it against Van Helsing's, a small drizzle of the contents spilling over the edge and onto his shoes. "Cheers."

"//Zum wohl!//" Van Helsing replied, as they both lifted the glasses to their mouths and drank.

-------

+ March 29th
++ Jameston Estate, United Kingdom

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= //Dieu et mon droit//
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Jameson Estate wasn't the Foundation's. At least, not entirely.

In the years since the folding of HMFSCP and the Commission on Unusual Cargo into the wider body of the Foundation, Britain had been left without a directly answerable agency to serve their interests and keep the average citizen safe from the things that went bump in the night. Fearing the worst, they had made the decision to found one anew. A separate entity from the standard law enforcement of the wider kingdom, Military Intelligence 13 was founded somewhen in the 1880s, and properly made a presence in the core territories of the empire, leaving their larger, more distant holdings, such as Australia and Canada, to their own devices.

To this end, they had facilities all over the isles, covert and clandestine, much like the Foundation. Jameson Estate was one of the more important ones, at least in the latter's eyes. It was the primary site for diplomatic relations between the two, located on an old estate of some lord whose name and legacy had long since been forgotten, about an hour's train ride away from London. They shared the grounds, and split the manor at its heart down the middle. Foundation north, MI13 south. It was a rather agreeable situation, considering the two's cause and effect relationship.

It also happened to be Jonathan's home, four nights of the week. And, as Abraham followed him up the lawn, he couldn't help but voice some concerns.

//"Nicht sehr versteckt,// is it?" He said, feeling the morning sun's heat creep along the back of his neck. "Any ruffian with half a brain is going to be curious about what's going on inside the manor all these rather smart looking people keep coming to and from, //ja?"//

"Hardly matters if they have the brains to not act on their curiosity." Jonathan glanced over his shoulder, smiling faintly. "You'd be surprised by easy it is to make people believe such a grand affair is not more than conversion for government use. And it's not entirely wrong, either."

"You lie to people a lot, then?"

"Professor, I work with the [http://scp-int.wikidot.com/centre-du-dcd Department of Censorship and Disinformation]. Legal side of things, police and court documents, and such. It's my job to lie to them." They crossed the threshold of the lawn, and stepped onto the driveway, the crunch of gravel disturbing the early morning quiet. "Besides, is it really that bad if they aren't supposed to know anyway?"

The tension of disagreement arose in the back of Abraham's mouth, but he bit in back. //Not here. Not now. Speak to him later. Speak to him CIVILLY.//

The two crossed the driveway and climbed the stairs to the front door in silence, the mood growing heavy as they went. The front door was open, and a line of men in police uniforms passed them by, carrying a collection of wooden crates toward a truck they had passed. They murmured their hellos, which Jonathan returned, and they stepped inside.

The main hall of the manor had been stripped bare, devoid of almost any furnishing that wasn't serving a practical use. It felt bare, especially considering the grandiosity of the staircase at the center still had its ornate banisters and carpet. It was slightly sad, like a stag stood in the burnt remains of its home after a raging forest fire. Jonathan paid it no mind, immediately made for the stairs. Abraham followed, glancing around as they went. A quick right, and through a door emblazoned with what he now knew to be the Foundation's logo.

The Foundation's wing of the building was quiet. Not silent, but while you could hear the murmurings of conversation on the other side of every door in the place, it almost seemed adverse to entering the hallways fully. It all quickly died upon the faded, intricate patterns on the decades-old carpeted floor. Light trickled in the windows, illuminating the floating clouds of dust that filled the place. It reminded Abraham of a boarding school he'd been sent to in his youth, sans the Catholic priests and overabundance of religious iconography.

"Watch your step. The floor's a little bit lumpy underneath." Jonathan said, reaching for the handle of a door, a plaque below its glass panes labelled "DCD." He entered, and Abraham followed. Inside, a small crowd of people were huddled around a table at the center of the vast room, desks by the walls left unattended. Jonathan made his way over to them and joined the circle, while Abraham hovered behind him. "Morning, everyone."

"Back from your little jaunt over to Holland, sir?" One of the men in the circle jabbed an elbow into Jonathan. "How did it go?"

"Look for yourself, Holmwood." He nodded his head toward Abraham, and the man he'd been speaking to looked over his shoulder. He gave Abraham a small //hmm,// and went back to murmuring to the people around him. A few moments, Jonathan extracted himself from the circle and came back to the professor.

"What's all the //Theater// about?" Abraham tried to peek at the table, curious as to its contents.

"Nothing much. Just a small incident with a cult of Mekhanites up in Jarrow."

"...What are either of those things?"

"None of your concern." Jonathan tapped the side of his nose. "You're currently in the headquarters of the Foundation's censorship efforts. At least, for now. They're talking about moving the Department to somewhere in Dahomey. Just know that asking questions of most of the people here isn't going to get you many straight answers."

//Good to know you won't be the only one feeding me nonsense.// Abraham thought, as Jonathan gestured for him to follow him, as he moved to leave. //Let's see how far that'll get them.//

He followed Jonathan, and the two left the room, making for a nearby stairwell. They began their ascent, side by side, before almost colliding with a pair of women where it turned a hundred and eighty degrees before continuing up.

"Bloody ha--" He paused, looking at the two women. They were both of average height, and one was much thinner than the other, almost gaunt. The more healthy-looking of the pair was blonde, with a strong jaw pale blue eyes. She smiled at Jonathan, whose face softened slightly as he returned it. "Ah, sorry, dear. Didn't see you coming."

"Oh, no, that's fine. It's my bad." She raised her hands sheepishly. She had a rather strong accent, one Abraham recognized. Somewhere between Bavarian and Welsh. He knew where she got the former from. A look of recognition crossed her face as she looks to him, but she said nothing. He remained silent, in kind. "I presume this is the professor?"
 
He nodded, turning to look at him. "Professor, this is my fiancé. Wilhelmina Murray."

"Just 'Mina is fine." She gestured to her companion. "And this is--"

"Carmilla." The thin woman said, deadpan, with a twang of what he recognized as Austrian. "Carmilla de Ville."

Abraham could've sworn he heard Mina sigh, but her mouth didn't move. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet both of you //junge Damen.// Are you also with the D-C-D?" He pronounced each letter separate and deliberate.

"No." Carmilla replied. She looked almost bored, her pale face seemingly locked into a perpetual frown. "I am an agent, observational. I usually work overseas, back in my home in Graz. On occasion, I am required to make a visit to some site or another for reports, but I am never away for too long."

Mina shook her head. "I think I'm more... asset, than member? At least, now I am."

"Curious." Abraham cocked his head ever so slightly. "Why so?"

"I, uh, developed some sort of..." Mina trailed off for a moment. "Psychic abilities? I think that's what they've said it is. A few years ago, after a bit of a... bad fever." Jonathan nodded. "Aye, psychic. Must've been latent until recently, which is apparently unusual." Abraham glanced at Carmilla, who avoided his gaze.

"A psychic, you say?" Abraham returned his attention and curiosity to Mina. "Exciting. A tad dangerous, too, if memory serves correct. I knew one once. A Manchu fellow, from Harbin, went by Chyi. I learned a great deal about the mind from him, I'd be more than willing to share."

"Only if I don't know what I'm doing." Mina shot Jonathan what Abraham assumed to be a glare. "Which I think I do, by and large. But... thank you for the offer. I'll keep it in mind."

Abraham and Carmilla watched the pair stroll off in silence, before the young woman turned to him and started, in German. "You were a former teacher of Jonathan's, I presume?"

"Correct." He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, and turned to resume his walk back up the stairs. "And you, a friend of Mina's?"

She was silent for a moment. "Yes. I think that's the best word. Coworker is a bit too distant. She seems to know of you as well. Have you met previously?"

Abraham grimaced. "Yes, albeit I doubt Jonathan's entirely aware of that, and I'd much rather not share the details of our meeting. Her father was a good friend of mine, and I'd rather not break a promise to a dead man."

Carmilla nodded. "Honorable. A rare thing to find in people, these days."

"This line of work especially." Abraham grumbled. "Can't wholly believe a word that would come out of most of these people's mouths. Oh, and if I may ask, where is the Director's office? I'm meant to be meeting with them soon."

"Up these stairs. Hallway should take you to the right. Final door at the end, although I think he's a bit busy at the moment. Stay, talk a bit more. You seem an interesting man."

"Why, thank you." He smiled at her, a gesture she didn't return. "I'd much rather be seen as interesting than a simple intellectual, as I think most would."

"Undoubtedly," She continued. "Although, I will say, you seem somewhat familiar. By any chance, were you in Rome... maybe, five, six years ago? July, it was. Near the Vatican."

"I... was, yes. Summer of 1888." He nodded. "What brought you to Rome? It's not as far from Styria as, say, Moscow, but still something of a trek."

She hesitated before speaking, casting a wary look behind him. "An uncle of mine is a member of the Swiss Guard. Used to be, I suppose. He's still quite the man of God, but... he's grown a bit old for the position in his age. He lives there, now. Owns a little bakery in Ostia."

Abraham nodded. "Swiss Guard, eh? Quite the position. I believe I almost qualified, in my younger years. Never did train with the army, though. War never seemed appealing to me."

"//Guerre est enfer,// he used to say. Never partook, but it always did weigh on his mind." She turned back toward the stairs, and looked to him. "Shall I walk you to the Director's office?"

"Lead the way, madam." He gestured for her to do so, and began to follow as she climbed the remainder of the stairs. The rest of the walk was rather silent, save for the mumbled greetings of people as they passed them by. Before long, they'd arrived at a oak door, a series of ornately carved vines and flowers set into the surface. A pair of armed guards stood at either side of the entrance, staring at Abraham. "Who might you be?" One of them asked, in a thick Cockney accent.

"Abraham Van Helsing." He extended a hand to the guard, who ignored it. He smiled, brushing it off. "I believe I have a meeting with your leader. The Overseer, as it were." The two guards exchanged a look, and the other spoke. "He'll be with you in a moment. He and Sargent Dawson are discussing other matters prior to whatever yours may be."

"I suppose I should take my leave." Carmilla said, eyeing the door with something close to nervousness. "I do wonder what goes on behind these doors, sometimes."

"Much bureaucracy, occasional conversations of interest, and more headaches than any part of the position ought to be worth." Abraham muttered. "But, who knows? Maybe you'll find yourself in one like it, some day."

"Oh, I'd sooner die than involve myself in the administrative processes of this organization. A fate far worse than death, that." She smiled at him, and for but a moment, he could've sworn her teeth were far more pointed than the average human's had any right to be. But, before he could say a word, she turned away. "I'll take my leave. A pleasure to meet you, Doctor Van Helsing." And just like that, she was gone. Back down the hall from where they'd came. He frowned, and leaned himself against the wall opposite the door. The two guards kept their eyes trained on him, hands close by their revolvers. Nobody made any moves, save the darting of eyes between the three.

Finally, after almost a minute of silence, the door of the office cracked open, and a man emerged from behind the dark oak. He smiled and nodded to Abraham, and extended a hand. "Hello, Doctor Van Helsing. I don't believe we've met. My name is John Hadfield. It's a pleasure."

+ ☾

The Director's office was rather bare, compared to Abraham's own. It was a wide, beige room, with a large window overlooking the lawn they'd approached from, sun filtering in through the glass. A desk sat, facing away from the glare, largely undecorated beyond a simple nameplate with Mister Hadfield's title on it. O5-4. "The Annalist," too, apparently.

Hadfield himself reminded Abraham of a much younger, leaner version of himself. While the Overseer's hair was much browner than his own, and he'd never been particularly gifted with facial hair, much less a beard as full as his, it almost felt like looking in a mirror. Of course, his fashion sense was much less refined than Abraham's had been, but nobody could be perfect. Joining them was a rather elderly woman, with long-since greyed hair and a surprisingly unwrinkled face. She was sat across from where the Overseer had seated himself, beside an empty chair Abraham assumed his to take. He quickly made his way over, and nodded to the woman, smiling.

"Mister Van Helsing, this is Dame Leah Dawson." Hadfield gestured to her with an open hand. "She is the member of the MI13 responsible for oversight of all activity here in the estate, Foundation or otherwise, and in the surrounding county of Kent."

"I'm also the head of most of the technological research this organization does, but most of that isn't for your ears." She returned Abraham's smile, her voice much younger than the rest of her looked, and extended a hand, which he shook. "I take it you're Doctor Van Helsing, then?"

"That would be me, yes," He returned his gaze to Hadfield. "I take she's to be assisting us?"

"No," Hadfield paused, thinking. "Well, yes. But, no, not directly. Not... well, not physically."

"I think it's best you try and explain what's going on, John." Dawson placed her elbows on the desk, her bones cracking slightly as she moved. "For his sake, and both of our dignity."

"Very well then." Hadfield took a deep breath, and rose from his seat as he began to speak. "Doctor Helsing, I want you to think back to the 1st Century BC. More specifically, 48 through 30 BC. The start of the last great conflicts known to make use of necromancy, the Third Occult War, and the civil war it helped spiral the Roman Republic into, that being the War of Actium."

"Does he always talk about such things like he's telling a story to children?" Abraham whispered to Dawson, the Overseer too enraptured in the history flowing from his mind and mouth to take notice.

"Yes." She replied bluntly. "Humor him. He has a rather vested interest in 'parahistory,' as he calls it."

"Ever since the end of those wars, since Egypt fell under Rome's control, since the burning of Alexandria and the sacking of Crocodilopolis, the art has been in decline. Now, not without good reason. Most all the Middle East and eastern Roman provinces saw the horrors the risen dead could bring to the lands of the living. However, this aversion spread, and the Catholic Church would quickly come to frown upon the practice. Even though it was almost certainly a result of the [[[scp-pl-259|Second Fae Empire]]] attempting to push into Europe, the Iron Crusade had a secondary goal which was almost certainly to see as many necromancers and materials related to the field sent to the bonfire."

He paused to breath, glancing at Dawson and Abraham to make sure they were still paying attention, before he continued. "Even after, it was an ideology they spread across the world, and one many chose to adopt. Valencia, Cangzhou, Mainpuri, all saw thousands of documents consigned to oblivion." He spread his arms, and Abraham rolled his eyes. "Now, almost two millennia later, we find ourselves understanding the arts of undeath close to as poorly as we do the stars above, or the depths of the sea below. Is that not a tragedy, Doctor?"

"Agreed." Abraham nodded. "A grave failure of the Old World, I must admit."

"Oh, undoubtedly." Hadfield's voice was heavy with a rather genuine frustration. Not at anyone in particular, but similar to that of a student who would much rather their education end already. "We do not even //have// records of necromancy in the Americas, or in Australia, beyond anything their mythologies may tell us. Of course, their failure to document their own histories is by and large outside of our control, but I digress." He waved a hand. "Whereabouts was I?"

"How we lost most of our knowledge of necromancy, and things to that effect." Abraham sighed. "Interesting as it is, I'd much like if we got to the point now. Although I would like to talk history more sometime, just... more casually, as it were."

Hadfield nodded. "I believe I could make the space in my schedule for such an arrangement. As for the rest, well... I feel Miss Dawson is best equipped to explain the situation."

Dawson cleared her throat, and continued. "Thank you, sir. Now, I will preface, I am a necromantic construct myself. An //Effro-celain,// 'waking corpse.' Though most formal folk than I prefer the term 'lich' these days. I digress. Soul tied to a body that should've died a long time ago. Now, I've been around since the... 10th Century. In and out of the general public, as needed, and I've managed to collect a good few sources of general magical lore, some of it based around necromancy. Now, obviously, it's mostly written in the various forms of English that have been spoken on this island, and the various languages we've pushed aside to replace with it, but there's always one key element among them. A name."

Abraham felt his stomach turn as she described her condition. He wasn't fond of undeath, much less those who'd twisted it for their own benefit, however polite they seemed to be. However, he was in good company, and elected to ignore the sense of disgust growing in his gut for the time being. "Do all the grimoires bear the same title, or am I mistaken?"

"No, although many //do// lack one entirely." Dawson straightened herself in her seat. "But most of the necromancy detailed is attributed, usually by no more than two degrees of separation, to someone by the name of 'Bladud.' Sometimes 'Blaiddyd,' if the text is in a Celtic tongue, as they ought to be."

Abraham sat silently for a moment, his memory churning what it could toward the surface before answering. "The //Historia Regum Britanniae.// That Bladud? The supposed "mage-king" of the Britons?"

"The very same." Dawson nodded in approval of his recognition. "Of course, this makes the assumption it //is// him, and not some other ancient scholar writing under a pseudonym. It also assumes he existed at all."

"We do have somewhat solid evidence to suggest he did." Hadfield interjected. "Written records from Athens, his name in Ogham across the eastern coast of Ireland, even a painting matching his description in Cairo."

"Thank you, John." She continued. "Obviously, with what little we know, we're eager to find any way we can learn more--"

"You want me to go hunt after some ancient Celt, who may or may not exist, or ever still be alive if he did, to try and... extort his esoteric wisdom from him?" Abraham squinted. "Am I correct?" Dawson and Hadfield shot each other a look, and nodded. He sighed. "Look, as much as I appreciate a nice jaunt to and fro about the country, I... Well, I'm not Blackwood, God rest the poor fool's soul. I don't //do// adventure."

"I prefer the term 'investigation' here." Hadfield interrupted. "And I think this is a little bit more... well, Blackwood did what he did for fun. There is a reason here."

Abraham paused, and shrugged. "True. But, still, I'd rather not end up with it all being for naught, //ja?// No matter how much you offer to pay me."

"Well..." Hadfield frowned. "We cannot quite guarantee that there //will// be returns on our efforts here, as much as it pains me. We're dealing with a rather heavy hypothetical here, and while I have my hopes, I believe it's best to keep the expectations of others realistic in this regard."

"My point stands. I'd be parading about the countryside, looking for something or someone who may not even exist." Abraham crossed his arms, frowning. "You have to offer //etwas für mich.// Unless, you'd rather look elsewhere for somebody qualified, that is?"

Hadfield was silent for a moment, and looked to Dawson. She shrugged, and he sighed. "Consider, what if he //is// real? Or was, assuming the works he created survived longer than he has. What if you're not the one to uncover it? What then?" Abraham's eyes narrowed. "What did Jonathan tell you about me?"

"Nothing I think you wouldn't want me to know." He raised a hand. "He did, however, tell me of your little condition to your agreement. Complete freedom of the knowledge acquired." Dawson's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing as he continued. "While I am not in a position to offer it with a complete guarantee, I can certainly raise some form of the idea with the rest of the Council, and I can see if it holds any water there. Oh, and the attachment of your name to the recovery, for as long as possible. That much I can guarantee if all else goes well."

Abraham sat silently, pondering the sudden offer. His name, going down in scholarly history for his efforts... If there was something there to be found, anything, it would be another addition to the stack of his bibliography, in a way. One more important than yet another response to Nietzsche, or another paper on metaphysics nobody would read. It could all be for naught, yes, but at the same time...

"I think we may have some sort of a deal, then." He rose from his seat, and extended a hand to Hadfield. "I'll do it."

Hadfield smiled widely, and took his hand, shaking it firmly. For but a moment, Abraham could've sworn he saw a form shift just below the bottom of the window. A large, black shape, almost in the shape of a bat's wing. Likely just the leaves of a bush, poorly visible with the sun streaming in from behind them, but he did wonder.  "I thank you, Professor. I believe this may be the beginning of a fruitful, and potentially long, partnership."

-------

+ April 2nd
++ //Castelul Bran, Regatul Ungariei//

[[div class="blockquote"]]
@@ @@
[[image https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/0a/Haltern_am_See%2C_Hohe_Mark%2C_Naturschutzgebiet_%22Hohemarkenbusch%22_--_2021_--_6548_%28bw%29.jpg]]
@@ @@
[[=]]
//Wir satteln nur um Mitternacht.//
//Weit ritt ich her von Böhmen.//
//Ich habe spät mich aufgemacht,//
//Und will dich mit mir nehmen.//
[[/=]]
[[/div]]

[[div class="estrella-paper weathered"]]
##black|My dearest nephew,##

##black|I apologize for the long gap in my communications with you. I'm sure you understand, being embedded in a organization such as this Foundation makes it rather hard to find a telegram machine left unattended for long enough to be covert. Troublesome, but far from the worst situation I've found myself in. I will also assure you that this is not being sent purely to waste paper, ink and time.##

##black|I believe I've found information that could help with that "miracle" you so desperately seek to prove your worth with. While I've provided a more in-depth run-down of the information I've gathered in further messages, which you should receive shortly after this one, the basics are as such: somewhere within the southern region of the United Kingdom, most likely toward the western side of England, the Foundation and the British MI13 believe there to be some sort of tomb or similar structure, housing the remains and works of an ancient necromancer king of the island. Perhaps, they say, he could even live to this day, slumbering in a stupor of undeath. The exact location is unclear, but they have begun searches for anywhere he may lie.##

##black|Inform my mother and her //friend// Orlock that I will be remaining in Britain for the foreseeable future. I will attempt contact again when I can either locate a more secure line of communications, or you arrive and happen to meet with me. Lastly, do not let the Church know the purpose of your trip. I'm sure you're well familiar with their dislike of how you seek to gain their favor, but if they were to ever find out, I can assure you that your centuries of dedication will be worth naught in the mortal realm.##

##black|I must go. That girl of whom I informed you wishes for my presence.##

##black|Safe travels, and salutations,##
##black|Carmilla Karnstein##

##black|(P.S. Do NOT appear to Wilhelmina again. While I am quite sure she is aware that lawyer is not worth her time, she does not need you invading her dreams to encourage her to abandon him. Do better, you miscreant.)##
[[/div]]

Dorian de Ville's eyes ran down the page one more time. Crossifica stood over him, her usual forced smile the only part of her face visible in the dying light of the fire. He, on the other hand, frowned rather strongly.

"Were she not my own blood, I would fly to England this instant and throw her into the Thames." He grumbled. "Daring to call me a miscreant for attempting to help."

"I'm sure she's simply anxious for your arrival, sir." Crossifica leaned forward, bringing the rest of her face into view, her skin the same shade of brown it had been the day he'd met her in the light. "Nerves do grip one's thoughts and actions like a vice, after all. Well, most. I have no doubt you have your--"

"Yes, yes, thank you." He brushed her off, and set the first page aside, perusing the contents of the rather official looking document that followed absently. "Have you heard from the Archbishop about my appeal for an audience? Anything?"

"He's... dead, sir." She faltered slightly. "His successor hasn't been raised to the rank yet. Not until after his funeral... tomorrow, I think it is."

"Hmmm." Dorian rose from his seat, setting the stack of papers on the table beside his armchair. From beside it, he picked up his glass and a small cube of meat from a tray. He held the cube above the glass, and crushed it, watching as a stream of red liquid trickled from his fist into the glass. A quick shake of the hand to get rid of excess droplets, and he raised the half-full glass to his mouth, feeling the taste wash over his tongue. It reminded him of caramel, almost, but the buzz it gave was much closer to his old favorite: whiskey. "He can wait, then. I've certainly done so for long enough."

"You sent the letter a week before the poor man died, //signor de Ville.//" Another woman called from the far side of the room, on a couch closer to the fire. "I doubt he had the time to read it before his heart gave out."

"Beatrice, could you not be so brazen about the man's death? It's tragic, and I doubt his soul wo--" She started, before the other woman sat up and raised a hand to silence her. "Don't go on about his soul, and resting, and all that. I, for one, hope the bastard's rotting in hell."  She ignored the indignant noise Crossifica made. "Don't act like he doesn't deserve it. He killed those men. He got that boy hanged. Doubt he stopped there. Straight into the Styx with him."

Dorian nodded his approval. "Quite fair. But still, not ideal." He glanced around the room, his eyes lingering on every shadow, searching for another presence. "Where is Assunta? I could've sworn she was here when you both entered."

"She was 'feeling hungry.' She left to get something to eat." Beatrice strolled over toward the pair, leaning against Crossifica as she placed her arm around her shoulder. "Went toward the pantry."

Dorian sighed. "Lord give me strength." He winced slightly as the words left his mouth, the utterance of the holy name leaving his mouth alongside the faintest hissing sound as his tongue burned. He let it pass, and raised his voice to a roar, which almost anyone inside the nigh-empty castle would've been able to hear. "ASSUNTA! GET BACK HERE!" The sound of crashing footsteps from the floor above them came almost at once, and quickly made their way down and around toward the door of the study, before it was thrown open and the light from the hallway spilled into the room.

Beatrice and Crossifica had always looked rather similar. Brown hair, green eyes, both on the taller side, towering over Dorian by almost a solid ten inches. Had it not been that Beatrice was much paler than Crossifica by nature, one almost could've mistaken them for sisters. Crossfica's mother had come from somewhere in Egypt, according to the Sister Superior of the convent he'd found the three girls in, while the former couldn't have been any more Venetian unless she'd crawled out of a canal as a newborn and offered a trade deal to the nearest shopkeeper. Assunta, on the other hand, had been moved to the convent from somewhere in Rome. Largely, the elderly nun had said, for the good of the diocese's name.

As she stood there, hunched slightly, blonde hair framing her face, blue eyes above a mouth stained red with blood, one hand on the door and the other holding the remains of an uncooked chicken with its head bitten clean off, he was reminded of why that was.

"For Christ's sake, Assunta, that was a fresh carcass! Unwashed!" He threw his hands up, grimacing. "Do you have any idea what sorts of diseases that thing could have? And how in God's name did you get BLOOD on you? That thing was bled before I bought it!"

"Won't kill me, will they?" She panted, the blood from her face dripping down from her chin onto the hardwood floor. "Also, the steaks are good. Very nice quality."

"I won't even ask how many of them you ate, and your biology, blessed as you seem to be, won't stop salmonella from making you want to remove your intestines with a hacksaw for the next week. And-- " He flicked a hand, index finger extended, and the chicken and blood vanished. " --Stop walking about the place like some sort of deranged member of the peasantry."

"I wasn't done with that." She growled, as she straightened herself. He turned away, shooting her a dirty look from the corner of his eye. "You are now. Now, please, do join us for a moment."

Assunta opened her mouth, possibly to make some snide comment about how she'd rather not, before closing it again and falling into line beside Beatrice, pouting slightly. "Excellent." Dorian clapped his hands together, and smiled at the three women, his slightly pointed teeth giving him more of the appearance of a hungry animal than a pleased man. "I encourage you all to gather any important belongings by daybreak. We must take a longer visit abroad than usual, and will likely not be returning for a time. Weapons, in-progress works, the like."

"To England, I assume? As Lady Carmilla said in her message?" Crossifica interjected. Assunta's eyes lit up at the name, and she turned to look at her fellow attendant, smiling. "Carmie's in England?"

"Yes, she is, and yes, we are." He sighed. "The fetid cancer upon this world that the island of Britain is, I believe it may hold the key to what I've sought, and thus... Well, you understand the importance I place on such things." The three women nodded. "Now, I shan't bother you further. Go, collect yourselves."

Assunta was out of the room before he'd even finished his sentence. Beatrice and Crossifica sauntered out at a much more leisurely pace, muttering to one another about what they'd do once they got to the United Kingdom. Always wanted to see London, Dorian made out, just before the door slammed shut behind them. Dorian settled back into his seat, crushing another cube into his glass, and picked back up the initial message.

//Abraham. Van. Helsing.// That name had been stuck in his head for the better part of a decade, and every time it shifted in his mind, it brought the sting of the old wound back. He could almost see it again. Saint Peter's Basilica, the light of the setting sun casting long shadows down its steps. A small crowd of bishops and Swiss guardsmen, their eyes bearing down on him as he walked toward the threshold back to Rome. And that fat Dutch bastard, watching from behind them all. The blood hit his throat, but he almost couldn't make out the taste as he rolled the name over and over in his head.

If nothing else came of the trip, Dorian swore to make sure of two things. The first was that Van Helsing remembered the name he'd known him by for the rest of his days. Dracula, wedged into the doctor's mind as his had been in Dorian's.

The second was that he was going to make sure the old man died screaming.

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