After finding the man's camp late in the night, Geoffrey stealthily prowled through the darkness towards the Mystic's wagon where he saw the flickering light of a torch. The air was heavy with menace and power. The knight could hear what he thought were whispers on the wind, however the night air was still and stagnant. Time seemed to slow; all sound seemed hushed except the insistent whispering. Drawn to the wagon, Geoffrey rounded the corner to a tableau that froze his blood down to the marrow in his bones.

The mystic, his eyes glazed and vacant, stood swaying to an unheard rhythm, his hair wild and matted with leaves and twigs. A ghoulish mask of mud, soot and blood made his ancient and weathered face seem demonic in the flickering torchlight. In one clawed and gnarled fist the man held a dagger.

As the horrified Geoffrey watched, the mystic approached something trussed and hanging from a nearby tree. The knight watched as the knife raised, its polished blade reflected torch light onto the hanging shape. The figure resolved itself into the trussed form of a frightened little girl about Geoffrey's daughter's age.

As the knife descended, Geoffrey broke free of his paralysis and rushed across the short distance a scream of terror and anguish bursting from his throat.

Jeffrey Duvalle woke with a start, his heart racing with the lingering terror of the dream. Slightly disoriented by the vividness of the dream, the old man glanced quickly around the dimly lit room, so different from the forest clearing he was just in. As the details of the room registered on his awareness, Jeffrey was able to collect his wits and regain his composure. The dim light from the fireplace barely illuminated the study. Floor to ceiling bookcases covered almost every spare inch of wall space. Their packed shelves hidden in the depths of shadows along the walls. The smell of oiled leather and rich wood permeated the room, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere.

The thick drapes were drawn against the night chill, further deepening the shadows in the sparsely furnished room. A large hand-woven area rug covered the floor in the center of the room. The rug's pattern was based on a circular design with a large double ring centered on the rug. In between the rings odd geometric patterns were meticulously woven. The chair that Jeffrey awoke in was a large handcrafted wingback. Its overstuffed leather cushions cradled his body as gently as a mother’s caress. A small ornately carved end table sat to his right in between the executive's chair and its mate a few feet away. On the table sat an ancient book, bound in wood and leather, it's embossed title faded long ago.

The elderly figure stood slowly, remembering his task for the night. The moon was full, and a soft chiming from the hallway outside the room told Jeffrey Duvalle, chairman of the Phoenix Foundation, Founder and Mage of the Order of the Phoenix and former Lord du Vallier, it was time to work. Moving sedately towards the center of the room, the mage gestured casually and four standing candelabras, positioned at the cardinal points around the rug sprang to life.

Jeffrey sat smoothly in the center of the rug, assuming a cross-legged position with well-practiced ease, though his movements were slowed by stiffness and age. The years had begun to advance on him. Softly chanting, the mage focused his mind centering himself and opening himself to the mystical energies being summoned. As the energies intensified, the geometric designs in the rug began to glow softly. Geoffrey began to feel disconnected, his mind drifting in the sea of magical energy being raised. Surrendering himself to the pull of magic, Jeffrey cast his mind to the ethers, focusing on his need, a need to find a new breed of acolyte.

Images began to form most passing away completely before they fully materialized before his senses. Suddenly one figure centered itself and sprang sharply into focus. A young brunette, her hair tied back. She was wearing a smock and name tag from a local shop. Her Aura flared and began to pulse sharply before slowly fading into a dull sickly color that pulsed as if in time with a heartbeat. The aura filled him with foreboding and a sense of recognition. He puzzled over the omens surrounding this particular image but could fathom nothing without warping the intent of his spell. There would be time enough later. Duvalle made a mental note of the name on the tag; E. Downing then cast his senses back into the ether. Letting the ebbs and flows of the magic called forth guide him where it willed.

The images faded, several more shapes formed and faded quickly before the images focused once again, the clarity of the image almost painfully clear. This time the image formed was male, mid thirties, with short blonde hair, seemingly in a state of perpetual disarray. He was hunched over a computer and Duvalle couldn't get a good look at his face. The image lifted his head as if in response to his thoughts, and Duvalle smiled. Startling blue yes and strong features proclaimed his heritage proudly, a Constantine. There could be no mistaking that line. That the magic should bring forth this young scion boded well. The Constantines had always served the order and foundation well. At least this line. He tried not to think about the rogue demon hunter. Duvalle sighed again, casting his mind aloft on etheral wings, at the mercy of the currents.

The mists parted again quickly, this time revealing the image of a middle-aged man, shorter than average, broad across the shoulder and well-built in the "somewhat overweight" sense rather than the "buff and muscled" way. He wore a dark and crumpled, but clean, suit of decent make and material together with a gaudy, loosely-knotted tie of various colours. H also wore dark leather gloves over strong hands.

He appeared to be a man who had seen too much pain and suffering, his worn and weary face clearly exhibiting those experiences. His light brown hair had pretty much disappeared from the top of his head and only a vague, stubbly beard remained on his chubby face. His shaded eyes gleamed a brilliant, intelligent blue but seem almost hidden under a scowling forehead.

Something about the man's aura unnerved Duvalle, but he didn't have time to judge, and in any case, the magic chose who it chose, he had detached himself from the choice, impressing his need on the magic, but specifying nothing. This was the most dangerous type of magic, allowing it near free reign, but often one must fight fire with fire, and the objects currently working their mischief and evil in the world certainly had their own semblence of intelligence.

Before he could form another thought the image swirled away and was replaced with another. Unlike the other three this image was clouded, the only distinct impression Duvalle received was that the man appeared to be in religious garb, perhaps a vicar. About his wrist he wore a distinct set of rosaryrosary beads, finely wrought of red oak, the cross of tarnished silver.

As before, his senses swirled as the magic again bore him along undulating currents, images appearing and fading as the magic sought the world for those that would fill the need impressed upon it.

After finding the man's camp late in the night, Geoffrey stealthily prowled through the darkness towards the Mystic's wagon where he saw the flickering light of a torch. The air was heavy with menace and power. The knight could hear what he thought were whispers on the wind, however the night air was still and stagnant. Time seemed to slow; all sound seemed hushed except the insistent whispering. Drawn to the wagon, Geoffrey rounded the corner to a tableau that froze his blood down to the marrow in his bones.

The mystic, his eyes glazed and vacant, stood swaying to an unheard rhythm, his hair wild and matted with leaves and twigs. A ghoulish mask of mud, soot and blood made his ancient and weathered face seem demonic in the flickering torchlight. In one clawed and gnarled fist the man held a dagger.

As the horrified Geoffrey watched, the mystic approached something trussed and hanging from a nearby tree. The knight watched as the knife raised, its polished blade reflected torch light onto the hanging shape. The figure resolved itself into the trussed form of a frightened little girl about Geoffrey's daughter's age.

As the knife descended, Geoffrey broke free of his paralysis and rushed across the short distance a scream of terror and anguish bursting from his throat.

Jeffrey Duvalle woke with a start, his heart racing with the lingering terror of the dream. Slightly disoriented by the vividness of the dream, the old man glanced quickly around the dimly lit room, so different from the forest clearing he was just in. As the details of the room registered on his awareness, Jeffrey was able to collect his wits and regain his composure. The dim light from the fireplace barely illuminated the study. Floor to ceiling bookcases covered almost every spare inch of wall space. Their packed shelves hidden in the depths of shadows along the walls. The smell of oiled leather and rich wood permeated the room, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere.

The thick drapes were drawn against the night chill, further deepening the shadows in the sparsely furnished room. A large hand-woven area rug covered the floor in the center of the room. The rug's pattern was based on a circular design with a large double ring centered on the rug. In between the rings odd geometric patterns were meticulously woven. The chair that Jeffrey awoke in was a large handcrafted wingback. Its overstuffed leather cushions cradled his body as gently as a mother’s caress. A small ornately carved end table sat to his right in between the executive's chair and its mate a few feet away. On the table sat an ancient book, bound in wood and leather, it's embossed title faded long ago.

The elderly figure stood slowly, remembering his task for the night. The moon was full, and a soft chiming from the hallway outside the room told Jeffrey Duvalle, chairman of the Phoenix Foundation, Founder and Mage of the Order of the Phoenix and former Lord du Vallier, it was time to work. Moving sedately towards the center of the room, the mage gestured casually and four standing candelabras, positioned at the cardinal points around the rug sprang to life.

Jeffrey sat smoothly in the center of the rug, assuming a cross-legged position with well-practiced ease, though his movements were slowed by stiffness and age. The years had begun to advance on him. Softly chanting, the mage focused his mind centering himself and opening himself to the mystical energies being summoned. As the energies intensified, the geometric designs in the rug began to glow softly. Geoffrey began to feel disconnected, his mind drifting in the sea of magical energy being raised. Surrendering himself to the pull of magic, Jeffrey cast his mind to the ethers, focusing on his need, a need to find a new breed of acolyte.

Images began to form most passing away completely before they fully materialized before his senses. Suddenly one figure centered itself and sprang sharply into focus. A young brunette, her hair tied back. She was wearing a smock and name tag from a local shop. Her Aura flared and began to pulse sharply before slowly fading into a dull sickly color that pulsed as if in time with a heartbeat. The aura filled him with foreboding and a sense of recognition. He puzzled over the omens surrounding this particular image but could fathom nothing without warping the intent of his spell. There would be time enough later. Duvalle made a mental note of the name on the tag; E. Downing then cast his senses back into the ether. Letting the ebbs and flows of the magic called forth guide him where it willed.

The images faded, several more shapes formed and faded quickly before the images focused once again, the clarity of the image almost painfully clear. This time the image formed was male, mid thirties, with short blonde hair, seemingly in a state of perpetual disarray. He was hunched over a computer and Duvalle couldn't get a good look at his face. The image lifted his head as if in response to his thoughts, and Duvalle smiled. Startling blue yes and strong features proclaimed his heritage proudly, a Constantine. There could be no mistaking that line. That the magic should bring forth this young scion boded well. The Constantines had always served the order and foundation well. At least this line. He tried not to think about the rogue demon hunter. Duvalle sighed again, casting his mind aloft on etheral wings, at the mercy of the currents.

The mists parted again quickly, this time revealing the image of a middle-aged man, shorter than average, broad across the shoulder and well-built in the "somewhat overweight" sense rather than the "buff and muscled" way. He wore a dark and crumpled, but clean, suit of decent make and material together with a gaudy, loosely-knotted tie of various colours. H also wore dark leather gloves over strong hands.

He appeared to be a man who had seen too much pain and suffering, his worn and weary face clearly exhibiting those experiences. His light brown hair had pretty much disappeared from the top of his head and only a vague, stubbly beard remained on his chubby face. His shaded eyes gleamed a brilliant, intelligent blue but seem almost hidden under a scowling forehead.

Something about the man's aura unnerved Duvalle, but he didn't have time to judge, and in any case, the magic chose who it chose, he had detached himself from the choice, impressing his need on the magic, but specifying nothing. This was the most dangerous type of magic, allowing it near free reign, but often one must fight fire with fire, and the objects currently working their mischief and evil in the world certainly had their own semblence of intelligence.

Before he could form another thought the image swirled away and was replaced with another. Unlike the other three this image was clouded, the only distinct impression Duvalle received was that the man appeared to be in religious garb, perhaps a vicar. About his wrist he wore a distinct set of rosaryrosary beads, finely wrought of red oak, the cross of tarnished silver.

As before, his senses swirled as the magic again bore him along undulating currents, images appearing and fading as the magic sought the world for those that would fill the need impressed upon it.

The Mists parted again, this time revealing a young man of obvious Italian descent, his olive complexion, dark hair and strong features spoke of strength of character, despite his apparent youth. He was clad in modern clothes, jeans, a t-shirt and a hooded sweatshirt however oddly enough a quilt wrapped the figure, as if he was huddling in it to retain warmth.  The quilts border was embroidered with obviously arcane sybmols, indistinct enough that Duvalle didn't recognize them immediately. The body of the quilt was made of squares, embroidered with intricate geometric designs, some of which also appeared vaguely like arcane symbols. As Duvalle registered the youth's appearance, the figure morphed, grew older, his modern clothing faded and shifted becoming armor, armor that was ancient when Duvalle was young. An Ornate breast plate gilded with rearing horses covered his torso, and the man's pants faded to skin, a short leather skirt protecting his loins. Strapped around his strong muscular legs were leather sandals, the straps rising to his knee.

A short Roman Gladius was held aloft, a circlet of laurel leaves crowned his head, holding curly black hair out of his eyes,  and a bright red loak billowed from his shoulders as the figure turned and marched resolutely into a yawning chasm. The chasm appeared to close behind him. As the earth welded itself shut, the mists swirled again, obscuring the view and Duvalle's mind teemed with questions, concern threatening the tight level of concentration required to maintain the spell as the magic worked it's will.

The mists parted soon after, showing a mature gentlemen moving quietly and adroitly through stacks of books. The man's fingers were deft and dextrous as he paged through several volumes, and his form, though obviously past prime, still showed strength and agility. His eyes shown with keen intelligence and seemed to miss little of his surroundings, another man entered the picture, holding a book gingerly in his hands, and as the original figure turned towards him, the mists swirled again, hiding him from view.