"The Philosopher’s Stone is a term used by Cabalists to denote the Supreme Wisdom, the union of the divine consciousness or omniscient Solar Principle in man with the lower consciousness or personality, which union has been the goal of Initiates of all ages. Exoterically, the Philosopher’s Stone is the secret of the transmutation of the baser metals into gold.”, Comte de Gabalis, by the Abbe N. de Montfaucon de Villars, Paris, 1670;

35: Forgotten

There are a lot of dangers inherent to being a Numerologist. Especially of the kind that, on occasion, mucks around with the stuff of the mind. The boys and I, we definitely have a more detailed understanding of the landscape of each others’ minds than a lot of couples, I can say that much- but it’s not without risk. There have been times where connections were imperfect- rushed, slipshod, or- well, at times I couldn’t even begin to describe what had happened, but it seems that the structures of the mind- or at least mine, are particularly susceptible to being shaken loose.

The first time, I was just disoriented. I couldn’t tell what was happening around me, but it soon wore off, though the headache lingered for a while after. The second time, it was so jarring that I lost what some words were in common Aetolian. Small things had shaken loose, but things I never thought would- for an hour or two, until I realised and he told me again, I’d forgotten his name. We’d been together some fifteen, twenty years at that point? You don’t forget something like that without help.

The third time, it was on purpose- I wanted to forget, and he wanted to help me. That one fouled for different reasons, and I was stuck for a few years and laid up for several after that- the body atrophies if you don’t use it for a while, and I found that out the hard way.

I am not entirely sure if there was really a fourth time- the circumstances of that are something I have forgotten as well, and it escapes me how to even begin trying to figure out what went wrong, or why. I have the inkling that I might have enacted it myself, and I’m aware that I forgot… almost everything. He helped me find it again, in the mists and sands of the back of my mind, but it was not complete- even now, I will reach for a word and realise that I have completely forgotten the word for coccyx. I’m lucky, I suppose, that it just seem like old age when I do it, and someone nearby happily supplies the word I want, but sometimes I wonder just how much is gone- I’d never know, when it comes down to it. And that’s somewhat terrifying.

11: 33%

Thirty-three per cent, that sounds like a decent figure for it. Almost one in three. I was never good with the numbers- well, that’s a lie. The numbers, I understand. The figures? A headache at best.

But one in three is about the rate of survival, you know. For young Cabalists. Folk always scoff when they hear about that, but if you’d seen the things I’ve seen… well, one in three might be generous.

That third counts the complete failures, actually. Them that try and completely, utterly fail to ‘get it’. When it comes down to it, they might be the lucky ones. They’re the ones that sigh and turn away from the halls and slouch back to their plough, their sickle, their future in the Republic’s militia and a quiet little farmhouse afterward, unfortunate raids and mishaps in the catacombs notwithstanding.

The other two-thirds are the partial successes- ‘partial’ being a good descriptor in more ways than I care to think about. Some get it just enough to do themselves an injury. If they’re lucky, they survive it and get to go home like the have-nots after a few weeks in traction. If they’re less lucky… well. Have you ever stood beneath the inner gate and looked straight up? We never could get that stain off, and let me tell you that plenty of shirts were ruined that day.

There’s the ones you see, you hear about, and then there’s the ones that just… vanish. Now and then you come across something like all the teeth from a grown man’s head, lined up in a straight-edge row along the cobbles, and you realise what it is you’re staring at. What kind of failure must have happened to make this the mark left behind.

People would often wonder why there weren’t many young ones in the Cabal- and, well, that would be why. There were plenty- fleetingly. The ones you got to have a conversation with just happened to last longer than the rest of them. Thirty-three percent feels conservative when it’s been fifty years of counting them off, but that’s about the figure I managed to extract.

 an hp next gen small group

Y o u ’ v e  b e e n  t a p p e d. }

Inexplicable murders, mysterious and cabalistic professors, whisperings of an ancient secret society—oh Merlin, it must be another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Skull & Bones is a 8x8 to 10x10 (depending upon application count) small group RP with an intense focus on character development and plot propulsion. We’re looking for dedicated writers and well-developed characters, and we’d love for you to join us! Additional information under the cut.

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This is more than the story of an American girl on a one-way ticket to merry/sinister old Vienna who becomes embroiled in an intrigue to uncover buried Nazi plunder. Rather, this film advances the shadowy Expressionism of Tav Falco’s earlier oeuvre. It is a filmic poem infused with metaphor, mood and Stimmung, where the past overtakes the present, and the present overtakes the past. The film flickers with the fateful caprice of tarot cards fingered in the salon of a Viennese bordello. It is a motion picture that represents the inverted neo-romanticism of a timeless American underground adrift in Europe. Falco’s films emerge as corporeal fables and offer cabalistic hygiene for a vital elegance.