[ The Chantry's witch-queen fears him, as well she should.
He needs no more confirmation of her fear than this; the imperceptible chains binding him to this stiff chair, invisible magic that seared cold against his skin. The smooth, featureless room that has become his pen, somewhere in the basement of this hallowed and prestigious university, a secret hive for Clan Tremere operations since time immemorial. The ticking seconds to minutes to hours of empty silence.
The flat-faced muzzle to silence his stream of murmured prayer.
Tertiary Gwilym spoke his Word still, in the hot and stifling confines of this mask. Each word clouding his face with warmth. Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and perpetual light shine upon them, and may they rest in peace - these words, and the tiny, finely wrought crucifix of silver and gold chained to his neck and resting upon his chest, were the only defenses they had not been able to take from him completely. His flask of holy water, his gun, his bag holding ten stakes and a hand-held crucifix - these were swiftly discovered and confiscated. They could not touch his cross, and they could not remove the words from his lips; they could only stop them from reaching Kindred ears.
With each repetition, he tests his arms against the burning cold, and finds new slack in his invisible bonds. They will not hold him long.
The Broken Clan knows this - there is precious little they do not know, and less still they know of more than the limits of their own magic. This is no battle of attrition. He is being made to wait for something.
Godfrey sits in his seat, wrists chained and arms bound, face muzzled, pale-gold waves swept from the back of his neck and neatly tied. He keeps his back straight and his shoulders squared.
And, from his side of that expanse of white plastic before him, he watches the door.
He awaits the face of the coward who started it all. ]
no subject
He needs no more confirmation of her fear than this; the imperceptible chains binding him to this stiff chair, invisible magic that seared cold against his skin. The smooth, featureless room that has become his pen, somewhere in the basement of this hallowed and prestigious university, a secret hive for Clan Tremere operations since time immemorial. The ticking seconds to minutes to hours of empty silence.
The flat-faced muzzle to silence his stream of murmured prayer.
Tertiary Gwilym spoke his Word still, in the hot and stifling confines of this mask. Each word clouding his face with warmth. Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and perpetual light shine upon them, and may they rest in peace - these words, and the tiny, finely wrought crucifix of silver and gold chained to his neck and resting upon his chest, were the only defenses they had not been able to take from him completely. His flask of holy water, his gun, his bag holding ten stakes and a hand-held crucifix - these were swiftly discovered and confiscated. They could not touch his cross, and they could not remove the words from his lips; they could only stop them from reaching Kindred ears.
With each repetition, he tests his arms against the burning cold, and finds new slack in his invisible bonds. They will not hold him long.
The Broken Clan knows this - there is precious little they do not know, and less still they know of more than the limits of their own magic. This is no battle of attrition. He is being made to wait for something.
Godfrey sits in his seat, wrists chained and arms bound, face muzzled, pale-gold waves swept from the back of his neck and neatly tied. He keeps his back straight and his shoulders squared.
And, from his side of that expanse of white plastic before him, he watches the door.
He awaits the face of the coward who started it all. ]