Divine Handing-Over

This log is from my point of view.

-----

The Divine voice of Severn echoes in your head, "What did you wish to discuss,
Director?"

You tell Severn, the Manipulator, "Good evening, Lord Severn."

You tell Severn, the Manipulator, "It is the uneasy subject of.. well. I wanted to know if You had
other plans, or if You were still keen and able to oversee the Syndicate as Patron. You gave birth
to this guild, and that is a bond that can never be divorced, but as times change, and I do not
pretend to understand Your goals or agendas.. I wanted to know if perhaps You had other matters to
tend to that would have You less able to pay as much attenion as before."

You tell Severn, the Manipulator, "If Your reply is 'yes', then by all means, I would have more to
discuss with You. Otherwise, I hope You will grant us the mercy and leave to find Another who is
willing to oversee us."

The Divine voice of Severn echoes in your head, "You have My permission to seek out another patron,
for the conflicts upon the Shadow Plane that draw the majority of My attention will not be resolved
for some years yet. The Syssin are My children, however, never forget that."

You tell Severn, the Manipulator, "Duly noted, Lord. If there is anything You need of us, we are at
Your call. Thank You for Your time, and I look forward to the day when we, the guild, and Yourself,
its Father, will be reunited once more. Until then."

A beautiful melody wafts across the heavens, lifting each of the Syssin with the divine blessing of
Severn, the Manipulator.

(Syssin): You say, "To the Lord Father of the Syssin - Thank You."

The Divine voice of Severn echoes in your head, "A parting gift. Until then, Director, do not let
the guild falter."

(Syssin): Ferrik says, "Thank you, Lord Investor. Mister Artifice."

----

(Spinesreach): Luna says, "Comrades."

(Spinesreach): Arthas says, "Hail Chair."

(Spinesreach): Xemnas says, "Chair."

(Spinesreach): Maghak says, "Chairwoman."

(Spinesreach): Luna says, "Sovereign."

(Spinesreach): Maghak says, "A pleasant night, with the promise of dawn snow. New beginnings, to wax
poetic."

You tell Maghak, the Sovereign, "Lord Sovereign- a good evening to You as well."

The Divine voice of Maghak echoes in your head, "I trust it finds you well, Director."

You tell Maghak, the Sovereign, "Yes, Lord. I should update you- that I have spoken to Your Brother,
and He has confirmed His preoccupation with other matters. With that, we have His blessing, and
leave, to seek a more active and able Patron."

You tell Maghak, the Sovereign, "While it will likely be uneasy for some in the guild - as change
always is - I would like, if You are still willing, to take over. Be our Patron. Oversee us. Aid us,
help us bring the Syndicate - mortal strength and Divine - to greater heights."

The Divine voice of Maghak echoes in your head, "You work swiftly, Director."

You tell Maghak, the Sovereign, "Not everyone appreciates efficiency."

look
Chamber of the Champion. (Spinesreach.)
Though the room itself seems bathed in pure darkness, you find yourself inexplicably able to discern
even the most minute details of your surroundings. The floor beneath your feet is hard and paneled,
oaken planks carefully fitted together to form a solid surface. The walls surrounding you are
covered in a number of small mirrors, though they seem to serve no purpose in this shadowy place.
Also covering the walls are a number of ceremonial weapons, from ancestral katars to elegantly
crafted krisses. A portrait has been hung behind the desk as well, but one can
discern no features of the man portrayed. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is
on the ground. A black flag rides the air, bearing a glaring, golden boar. A handsome blackwood desk
is here, a black, high-backed leather chair and 2 comfy, black leather chairs have been placed at it.
 A blackwood kawhe table trimmed with silver is here, a low-cut dress of draping black silk and a
pale yellow dress edged with white atop it. 3 cushy brown armchairs have been placed at it. A pike
with the decapitated head of Raeche has been erected here.
You see a single exit leading south (closed pine door).

Seating Himself on the edge of the desk, His weight sufficient to make it creak, Maghak, the
Sovereign says, "Efficiency is a vastly underrated thing in the mortal sphere. Depressingly so, I
have come to feel."

ql
Chamber of the Champion. (Spinesreach.)
A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. A black flag rides the air,
bearing a glaring, golden boar. A handsome blackwood desk is here, a black, high-backed leather
chair and 2 comfy, black leather chairs have been placed at it. A blackwood kawhe table trimmed with
silver is here, a low-cut dress of draping black silk and a pale yellow dress edged with white atop
it. 3 cushy brown armchairs have been placed at it. A pike with the decapitated head of Raeche has
been erected here. Wild, forceful currents of air leap and cavort about the towering form of Maghak,
the Sovereign.

Maghak brings a sullenly burning cigar to His lips and takes a long drag.

You have emoted: A cloaked figure swallows, the only reaction that she allows herself. Looking up
from a pile of paperwork, stacked evily before her, she smiles slowly, politely - a mask of
confidence. "Evening again, Lord Sovereign. It is good to see You in physical form."

Abruptly, and through a cloud of writhing smoke, Maghak, the Sovereign says, "My Brother has treated
your organization unkindly. Would you agree, Director?"

You have emoted: There is no mistaking that a cloaked figure knows Maghak can see her through her
hood. Nonetheless, she lowers it, perhaps out of courtesy, perhaps of slight nervousness from
Maghak's imposing presence.

You deftly lower the hood of a hooded cloak of midnight black, revealing your identity.

Maghak acknowledges this show of respect with a brief, slight nod in return, His burning gaze fixed
on you and the barest white trace of a smile creasing His scarred lips.

Choosing words carefully, you say to Maghak, "To treat us unkindly would require attention, Lord. I
do not particularly fault Him if there are matters to tend to- matters that we do not comprehend.
"

Maghak's answering snort sends curls of freezing air rattling through the chamber. "Diplomatic." He
growls, His smile widening. "Barbed. My Brother has many things to occupy His mind. Perhaps, hm, We
can add another, in time."

You have emoted: Raeche trembles slightly, perhaps from the cold, perhaps from controlled fear. "Is
that Your intention, Lord Sovereign?" she asks, head canted to one side. "I have heard countless
stories of Divine conflict, each vying with one another for power, for dominance." Continuing, with
measured words, but hint of honesty "..I, on the other hand, look out for this guild. It is my ward.
I am less interested in getting caught in the middle of conflict and war than I am bringing this
organisation to the next level."

Grin widening into something approaching a leer, Maghak retorts, "There is always conflict, Managing
Director. There is always war, and violence. Among My kin, perhaps, it is somewhat more abstract
than among mortals." He pauses for a handful of moments, champing industriously at His cigar.

l maghak
He is an Immortal of vast stature, standing seven feet tall and measuring at least three across the
shoulders, with swarthy, scarred skin and sunken eyes. Trollish blood is clearly written in the long
lines of His face and form, mingled with the unearthly power of the Divine that shines in His yellow,
 slit-pupiled eyes and causes the air around Him to ebb and flow chaotically. His heavy, long-
fingered hands are rough and calloused, His nails sharp and hoary, and a long braid of coarse, black
hair dangles from the rear of His skull. A multitude of scars crease the gaunt lines of His face,
bisecting His left eye and curling the corner of His mouth. Should He smile or grimace, His lips
pull back over slablike teeth, revealing that His lower canines are large and wickedly sharp. He is
wearing:
a slate-grey pinstripe waistcoat
pressed slate-grey pinstripe trousers
a crisp white long-sleeved shirt
a long-tailed pinstripe coat
a slate-grey pinstripe hat
a pair of gleaming wingtip shoes

Thoughtfully, Maghak, the Sovereign says, "I will not damn your followers, or set them against their
Father. Do not fear on that account."

Maghak turns His attention back to you, His gaze heavy and perhaps a trace malevolent. "Think of Me
perhaps as a kindly Uncle." He suggests, toothily. "Brother to that which gave you purpose.
"

You have emoted: Raeche stares at Maghak for a while, then nods. "Now, let me be clear, Lord
Sovereign," this time a hint of a smile crossing hers - not slowly warming to Maghak - but as if she
were never afraid. ".. -that- was my take regarding this organisation and You." She pauses, for
effect, then continues- "For -me-, however. You have my fullest attention for whatever plans You
have. I look out for the Syndicate - but that does not mean I need to neglect myself." With those
last words, the hint of smile breaks fully, reminiscent of the leer that Maghak had just given.

Maghak cants His head to the side, watching you with clear and growing amusement. He accedes
wordlessly, a nod of His head setting His wild hair writhing like a nest of snakes in His aura. The
floor creaks as He stands, the desk squeaking in chorus as the weight is removed.

Rolling His shoulders, His voice low and deceptively smooth, Maghak, the Sovereign says, "I feel
that We can perhaps do business."

You have emoted: Raeche sits up, palms pushing against the armrest of her chair as she makes to rise,
 out of habit and respect. How could she remain seated, after all, if Maghak stood? Though tall for
a mortal lady, she is dwarfed by the God, even at full height. Her knuckles fall to her hips, arms
akimbo as she considers Maghak's words. "Of course," she states simply, as if it were a given.

Maghak looms - the only appropriate verb - as He ambles a step forward, lifting His hand and rather
casually sinking His teeth into His own flesh. Snapping arcs of lightning accompany a swell of dark,
almost black fluid, cold as ice, and He shoves His bloodied hand rather roughly, expectantly, at you.
 "Our Compact."

You have emoted: Raeche lifts her own hand, dark-skinned, feminine and demure. A half smirk appears
on the corner of her lips, clearly pleased and approving, like the God had been what she had hoped
Him to be. A moment of surprise, as their hands make contact - shock from the cold - but it closes
fully into a firm handshake of mutual respect. "Our compact," she replies affirmatively.

It feels a lot as though you are shaking hands with an electrical storm, albeit only briefly,
setting your teeth on edge and causing hair to stand on end. The Storm-God leers, giving your hand a
brief, crushing squeeze before He releases it.

Smearing His blood across His coat but leaving no visible mark, Maghak, the Sovereign says,
"Approach your guild and My oversight of it as you see fit. We will discuss.. specifics at another
time, mm?"

You have emoted: Raeche lets her hand dropped to her side, shaking it a couple of times on her own
to make sure blood returns to it. ".. yes, of course, Lord," she murmurs, ".. I will have a proposal
prepared for You. Something for Your eyes, and for You to mull over if You need to."

Maghak's teeth are bared in answer, His smile sharp and bright. The air in the chamber begins to
stir as He replies, with a courteous half-bow, "I will await it with bated breath, Director. Until
then."

The shifting currents of air around Maghak abruptly intensify, and without fanfare He dissipates
into them and vanishes in a heartbeat.

You have emoted: Raeche exhales sharply with relief. But along with it, a pleased smile across her
features. "Very good.. Very, very good," she mutters to herself, returning to her seat behind the
handsome blackwood desk.