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Ludwig Altman:
Word gets around, and real recognizes real as they say. Having brushed elbows with Sierra, however briefly, Ludwig resolved himself to finding a way to meet said woman at a future time and in a place where frank discussions might be had away from prying ears and eyes. That prospect, coupled with a free lunch and excellent drinks in an occult library featuring numerous languages, should be enough to secure him that aforementioned lunch meeting.
And, lo. It was successful.
So, upon the appointed hour on the appointed day, Ludwig can be found in one of his many three piece suits, lounging in the library near trays of little sandwiches featuring cucumber, choice meats and cheeses, and absolutely no crusts on that pumpernickel bread. Never one to waste seconds in idleness, Ludwig is content to turn the pages of one of his many books while he waits on Sierra's eventual arrival.
Sierra Roen:
Fifteen years, but it could have been a hundred, and sometimes the feet remember what the mind forgets; Sierra hasn't forgotten her way around. While Radnor had never been inside the boundaries of her stomping her grounds, that lifetime ago when she called Philadelphia home, the SETPA lines are an entirely different matter, and wasn't until the last few minutes of her commute to the Altman Foundation that she finally felt something other than the sensation of new familiarity or familiar novelty that had been following her around the last few weeks.
That was nice.
And that is the idle thread of thought that runs through the back of her mind as she makes her way onto the Foundation's property and to the appointed location in the library with the latent confidence of someone who walks like they've been here before, even if they haven't. Through some confluence of meticulous directions, a Horizoner's intuition, and wolf senses, she finds Ludwig in the library with little trouble, clearing her throat when she's within an audible distance, a developed habit from Irraka-ing up to people so many times through the years, and then having to help clean the spilled stains from the carpet out of guilt.
She is punctual to the minute, dressed in characteristic dark clothing, neither casual nor formal, but both fine and subtle enough for her to suitably blend into the background in the lowest denominator of places.
"Thanks for the invite," she starts, upnodding her head in his direction as she approaches from the thresshold.
Ludwig Altman:
Ludwig actually consults his pocket watch-- a definite antique of Swiss manufacture, at a guess --and confirms what his intuition told him was the case. She's punctual. Already winning points in Ludwig's scorecard, there. He even smiles upon confirming the fact, "Precisely on time, Miss Roen. Commendable. Thank you for coming, and welcome to the Altman Foundation." Ludwig is rising to his feet as he's speaking, and concludes his words with an offer of his extended hand. The Viennese handshake: a critical aspect of Austrian culture, that. Like the American handshake, but with better beer and less penis anxiety.
He has the preoccupied air of most Ithauer. When you see both worlds and hear the whispers of the spirits as a matter of course, it does tend to make one come off just a hair aloof. "Good of you to come. I guessed at what you might be in the mood for, food wise. If nothing is to your liking, I will have something prepared for you. Typically the children come by in the evening and devour anything that's not been ingested in the afternoon." Whoever The Kids might be.
"I could offer you a tour of our facilities if you are curious. We've a variety of beers and wines on offer, and my private stock of Schnapps and brandies are likewise open to you. Or water or juice, if you prefer. It depends upon your mood, I suppose."
Sierra Roen:
A smile tugs the corners of her mouth upwards and she accepts the offered hand, her own handshake with no detectable trace of penis envy -- firm enough to express respect and character but without anything to prove, congenial in both grip and length, but certainly not overly familiar. Dark green eyes look about the library in another sweeping assessment, absorbing open details like the interior design, the arrangement and likely source of the furniture, the apparent taxonomy by titles as they are arranged.
At the offer of having something else prepared, she gives a short shake of her head, the smile widening by faint degrees. "No need; this smells great, thank you," she gestures at the absolutely-crustless pumpernickel bread sandwiches. "I would actually love a tour. This is," she sweeps her gaze around the room again. "Quite a collection. It sets the bar high on the rest, though, fair warning," she offers impishly. "I think it's been a long time since I had an Austrian hefeweizen. If you don't have any here, there might not be any in town at all." Another wide, Cheshire grin, playful without being malicious.
Ludwig Altman:
"Frau Doktor Altman prefers Weihenstephaner-- a product of Bavaria --but I do have some Stiegl Weisse, which is fairly comparable. Allow me." Ludwig steps away from the chair circle and heads behind the bar to fish through the cooler. Because every reputable library has a bar in it, naturally. He uncaps two bottles and carries them back towards Sierra, offering her one of them, and then offering to clink bottlenecks. "Prosst," he offers by way of toast before taking a quick nip.
The library is arranged largely by topic. There's a ghosts section and a spirits section, and within those categories there are subcategories which are not immediately recognizable. However, there are little tablets situated here and there that link in to the local network and offer index and location functionality. Finding a title, or a subject, or an author, is therefore a relatively simple matter if you know how to use a smart phone.
Notably, the library is in a lot of languages. Primarily German, of course, but many other languages besides. Not all of them living languages. And then there's a section all to itself of black leather bound books with red stripes on the binding and conspicuous swastikas done in white in a red circle on the spines. That collection sticks out like a sore thumb, for certain.
"Fraulein Logan assisted me in the creation of a multimedia collection as well. A portable repository that couples with the library itself, accessible at each of these tablets while within the network's reach. Clever bit, I thought."
Beer in hand, he gestures her back out towards the hallway, "The library is the centerpiece of the Foundation, but we have other facilities as well. Some of them remain in development. Shall we?"
Sierra Roen:
"Prosst," she echoes after tapping the bottles and tilting back the first taste of the cold, crisp beer. The faintly glowing LED screens of the little tablets steal her attention sideways for a moment before she spies the sore thumb section with undisguised curiosity-bordering-on-interest, and she regards it for an extended heartbeat as if she were looking at a painting, trying to decode it or understand it more completely it in some way, and all of this might only be intuited in the elongated timing of that glance.
She makes and stows a mental note to, as they say, circle back, and broadens another white smile at Ludwig, raising the beer bottle a couple of inches in his direction and moving towards the indicated hallway. "And, remind me again, what is the purpose of the Foundation? Not what you really do," she clarifies. "But what they think you do."
Ludwig Altman:
"We are a charitable foundation established to help ensure housing, income, education, and skills training for talented and at risk youth. We actually do provide skills training for employment, educational grants and scholarships, housing, employment, food, and so on to lost cubs and wolfbloods. It's all quite above board for the most part. We simply wheel away the Willigut Collection whenever we entertain the public." He means the Nazi books, no doubt. Which might ring some bells if she's ever delved into Nazi occultism to any degree.
"We have several locations established in Europe. This is our first here in the United States. I would like to get it up and running and fully staffed before I return to Austria again for residency. Though I may be making a return trip relating to Usum of the Bancroft Wound. We'll be following the route of the old Orient Express, more or less. From Paris to Gallipoli and then a train ride to Moscow."
Ludwig explains all of this as he leads her back out into the marble floored and wood paneled hallway, with all of its tasteful brass light fixtures. "This wing has the men's residences on the second floor, along with the men's restrooms and changing rooms and the like. Each room has its own en suite bathroom, but showers and the like are communal. The women's section is on the opposite wing, also second floor. Second floor mezzanine is for our non-gendered housing. Which I have come to learn is an important accommodation."
He pauses at a room, "Laundry." A peek inside is given. A line of over-under washer-dryer combos, folding tables, and flat screen TVs in the corner to kill the time while cleaning and folding. A bit further on, "Kitchen services." He opens this door, likewise, presenting a large professional kitchen suitable for preparing and serving large meals. Think an upscale church kitchen, and you're getting there. Another door down, "Dining hall." (More!)
And finally, "And here's the surgery. We recently purchased a trauma ward, as it was brought to my attention we do not have medical infrastructure for our wolfblooded cousins. Now, we can treat our wounded here and escape the notice of the medical profession. I have yet to find medical staff to use the facilities, but they're there for when the time comes to use them. When Mister Lynch mentioned wanting a trauma center, I stated I would buy him one if he consulted on what we would need here. This is the result." He pauses at the doorway, holding open the door and revealing... well. An emergency room with four beds.
Sierra Roen:
Sierra bobs her chin in slow, casual, active-listening nods as she follows Ludwig through the features and rooms. Even on the marble, her footfalls are muted; not entirely silent, not in shoes and on a floor like this, particularly not to a wolf's senses, but as if cushioned. She doesn't creep. She doesn't slink. She only walks very quietly, and her purpose of stride doesn't suffer a trade-off for that silence.
"I read your research brief, by the way," she mentions as the tour finishes before the medical bay, referencing an early the remark about the Usum and the Wound. "Very impressive. Very helpful." She ticks her head down. "Thank you." She lets it hang for half a measure, a punctuation mark. "Happy hunting back across the pond."
She turns her full attention back on the medical bay and purses her lips, clicks her tongue behind her teeth. "I know someone." Get used to hearing that from her. "They couldn't be here full-time, you'd want to get your own staff in eventually, probably but, in a pinch, when you need them, or for a day of, I don't know, physical exams and check-ups for the kids," she gestures at the rest of the Foundation, indicating the all-of-it-and-themness of it. Her mouth twitches into a faint grin, the kind that preempts a level of impishness. "I know you wouldn't dream of accepting it gratis," she teases his sensibilities. "But let's call it a fair exchange on your time and resources in studying the Wound, and bringing more clarity to a problem that," she catches her bottom lip under a white row of teeth, drags it, "Is less seductive, but equally as pressing as finding the Anshega."
Ludwig Altman:
"The disappearance of our siblings is a concern for others. My auspice makes my duties and responsibilities clear. I tend not to weigh things too heavily on a scale of intellectual sexiness," a term that he might not have used prior to this moment but one which is absolutely entering his lexicon as of this very moment. "I am simply highly cognizant of how much time I have left in my life, and attempt to ensure most of my remaining minutes are spent in useful exertion. I am, apparently, one of the few wolves in the region who has any experience with handling a wound. Our efforts in the Prater Wound in Vienna's south side are a matter of record. And I've learned through that exercise that all the rahu in the world won't amount to a scratch on the hide of a wound's ruler without proper intelligence. I tend to work closely with our irraka on that point, as you can imagine."
Ludwig eases the door shut on the surgery and continues along, gesturing to another room along the hallway. "This is the computer lab. It's rudimentary at the moment. I'm intending to build it out with a proper file server and workstations. I may add some CAD software and some 3D printers and the like. Create a more polytechnic approach to the whole thing. Applied computer sciences, I mean to say. Not my forte, but essential for the future workplace, I'm given to understand."
The praise he receives just sort of rolls off his back, overall. He doesn't even say thank you about it. He just moves right along. "I would welcome your lead, yes. Please. Typically, there's someone in the community that can make use of those facilities. But having someone on hand that can put a cork in a bullet wound might just save a life. And thusfar I can say that, truthfully, I wouldn't want anyone I've met to bleed out in my surgery for want of a doctor." He offers a very slight crook of a smile and adds, "But the night is young, neh?"
Sierra Roen:
"I have passed by some, addressed only one. In Syria," she echoes of the Wound. "Where I found Wes." A half-second hang in the air, in which the breadth of an expanse of wayback memories are compressed to the infinitesimal width of a moment, and then she sips from her beer, surveys the computer lab as Ludwig narrates its state and his intentions for it with all of the attendant acknowledgement and enthusiasm of someone who's not exactly what we would call l337 in their tech literacy but is nevertheless very happy for you. Like Bubbeh.
At his quip and accompanying crooked grin, she flashes both back in return. "Mm. Sometimes it doesn't even seem to take a young night." But she nods, carries on. "I'll put you in touch," she finalizes, sipping from the beer again before glancing down the hallway. "Least I can do. I would be more proactive in following up on the Wound, but I have some outstanding obligations first, so," she ticks her head to the side. "I will help as I can, until I can do more."
She looks back over at the computer lab, and then again down the hallway towards what clearly interested her the most, the library itself. "With a little more time to finalize the rite, I could make some modifications." It's in the slightly enunciated way that she says it that indicates this is not going to involve drywall or a school license to AutoCAD. "No mortal guests would notice the difference," she adds, curving her mouth downward in the universally understood no-chance expression. "But," she stops herself, raising a hand. "Before I get ahead of myself," and exhales the sigh of a laborer. "I have to finish it first. I believe I am quite close..." she trails off, attention tugged towards the Hisil's mystery and allure and potency, as it can happen when you have one foot and half your brain so firmly in the other realm.
It's momentary, and her eyes come to a focus again on Ludwig, and she smiles broadly. "Take me back to your intellectually sexy library."
Ludwig Altman:
"Only if you're certain you won't faint on me," Ludwig counters before easing the door closed on the computer lab and gesturing the course back down the hallowed hall towards the library and the dainty little sandwiches with the crusts absent from the pumpernickel. Once back inside he takes a sip of his beer and gestures with his free hand towards the circle of leather clad cushioned seats which form the central conversation circle of the library's core. Another brief consultation of his pocket watch to confirm the hour, and he's smiling back to his guest and searching out a seat for himself.
"Syria, you say? I haven't ventured to Syria in quite some time. Since long before the recent spate of wars. 2006, perhaps?" Ludwig tilts his head back in consideration. "We visit Israel and Palestine with some frequency. I once got shot at escaping Gaza, in fact." Now there's a story. "The focus of my general studies kept me primarily about home. The Danube, the Elbe. Did some digs in northern England. Some in France, some in Spain. One of the lovely aspects of my chosen career is travel, if I'm being honest. All roads lead to Rome at one time, so there's a great many travel options to be had."
Ludwig sets his beer aside for the moment then inquires with polite interest, "Who is Wes? The name doesn't ring any bells for me, that I'm aware of."
Sierra Roen:
"I will make no such promises," she ripostes, raising a hand as if the matter is simply out of hers. "Your library has a forbidden section. Anything's on the table," she banters as she finds herself into one of those cushioned seats.
She nods again to to confirm as she reclines in the leather-draped finery. "Syria. I was there," she narrows her eyes to recall the year. "2011, 2012. Just before the war. I saw Aleppo burn from the Sabkhat al-Jabbul salt flats. And when the smoke cleared," she gestures with her bottle, the conclusion obvious. "The Wound of Aleppo." She drinks to that sobering recollection, and then sloughs free of it. "We'll have to compare maps someday. I don't think I've stayed anywhere longer than a year for the past fifteen or so. I wouldn't be surprised if our tracks crossed more than once."
"Ah, Wes, yes, that would be Ada Weston, she's a colleague of mine I met in Syria, and she moved here about five or six years ago. Coincidence, really. I reconnected with her when I got back to town. I'll introduce you. Iminir, but not the," she ticks her head to the side in a knowing and telling way. "The sort, you know."
Ludwig Altman:
Ludwig juggles some gender assumptions around and then his bushy eyebrows lift in dawning understanding. "I have not had the pleasure of meeting Fraulein Weston. Perhaps you will do me the favor of an introduction at some point. I should very much like to meet an Iminir that isn't... you know." He, likewise, ticks his head to the side in mimicry of the knowing and telling.
"It's a shame what happened in that country. The people, the infrastructure, yes. But the history. The artifacts. The archaeological sites. UNESCO took it on the chin over all of that. I have friends in the UN in Vienna. I would have gone in to retrieve artifacts, but there was no real governing authority I trusted to deliver them to, and I'm not particularly keen on expatriating finds. I'm not British, after all." British Museum Slam!
"I've never been to an active war zone before. I can't imagine. Been in some shady locations and some tight spots, but I've never been down range of artillery. You're fortunate you made it out, well you know." He reaches for his bottle again and takes another small sip, more to fill an awkward silence than any other thing. His brow furrows with a slight frown. A small shake of the head follows, and he's moving on.
"In any case. Comparing maps might be entertaining. You speak Arabic, I take it?"
Sierra Roen:
She rumbles a chuckle from the back of her throat, low, at the British Museum sideswipe. "I'd be happy to make the introduction," she confirms. "She's a little shy in groups, but I think you will get on well. And of downrange from artillery, I wouldn't add it to the bucket list," Sierra acknowledges, "Though it was no better in Shadow. Everything was happening at once," she says, and possibly it means more, but she, too, lets the topic drift off.
A pivot! She nods. "نعم," she answers in the affirmative -- and in Arabic. "I picked it up over there, and a few others to make myself less of a liability to myself when traveling," she admits with another soft purr of a laugh. She sits up and rights her posture, fortifying herself to the task of cross-referencing. "So it was, Hebrew at, well, Hebrew school, and then in Israel, where I was before I went to Syria, Arabic in Syria, Spanish a bit all over but mostly in Peru, and German because, well, for Europe travel, it was that or French, and," she raises her shoulders. "Come on."
Ludwig Altman:
"Ah, you're Jewish?" Ludwig's eyebrows raise appreciatively. The Nazi books aren't a personal preference, then. "I have both Hebrew and Arabic. Farsi. Russian, Latin, Ancient Greek... and. Ehm. German and English, naturally. First tongue. Most I acquired as a professional skill, and others as a matter of practicality. I lived for a time in Moscow with my late wife. Learned the language in preparation for that; she had a great many Russian associates in Vienna that we would entertain from time to time." Now there's a picture. Ludwig and a bunch of slavic mobsters in some south side Viennese dive bar.
"So you have Spanish and French where I lack them." Clearly that fact has wheels turning in his head. His eyes have narrowed slightly. "No chance you'd be interested in a train tour of central and eastern Europe, parts of Turkey, and western Russia? Starting in Paris. I lack the French, you see. And I imagine, culturally speaking, the Gallipoli visit will be the most difficult. Another Arabic speaker with Turkish cultural awareness would be very useful. And Romania and Hungary are lovely if you ignore all of the fascists."
He sure knows how to talk up Europe, doesn't he.
"It's been a while since I've been on one of these little adventures. And you seem old hat at it, as a matter of practicality. Consider it, in any event."
Sierra Roen:
"Mhm," Sierra confirms as she taps her finger around the neck of the bottle, now more drained than not, and tellingly skipping a glance over at the Willigut Collection. "Out of practice, but always," she remarks with the rote quality of someone who had quipped it before, and many times, though this was more sober than a joke.
She inclines her head out of a moment's respect, but doesn't run through the trite and awkward social ritual of sorry-for-your-losses; Ludwig doesn't pause the chatter, and she matches pace.
She studies the inquiry with a rising and piqued interest, though at the note of fascists, she exhales another huff of a rumbling laugh, expelled through her nose. "Hard for me to resist a trip," she admits, baring her teeth again in a smile. And that is a matter of literal truth, but more on that later. She sets the mostly empty bottle down now and interlaces her fingers, and takes a moment's time to consider. "Yes, I'm interested, I'll consider it," she decides, unlacing her fingers and resting an elbow on the armrest, leaning closer by a few inches in Ludwig's direction. "I'm a pretty decent travel buddy." A Herculean undersell. "How long are you planning to be there?"
Ludwig Altman:
"I am happy to chat with you in Hebrew whenever you like. I'm from the 'use it or lose it' camp where languages are concerned, so I'm always eager to do more than converse with DuoLingo." Ludwig has himself another sip of his wine as he settles back in his chair to consider her response on the overall. And to the extent that he seems to respond to the handling the news of his wife's passing, he seems quite content with the fact that she just moved right along. Clearly he wasn't fishing for pity there.
"Perhaps a few weeks. Perhaps less. Much depends on how quickly we can make inroads with the locals and convince them to share access to their information. You read out research. We're after some very particular information about a very particular spirit. Once we have it, we can go. Until we have exhausted all avenues, we ought to persist in pursuing it. At least until we're convinced it's been a fool's errand." Ludwig's shoulders twitch upwards slightly, a mild shrug.
"I am still lining up speaking dates. So once I know more, I'll be sure to share it with you."
Sierra Roen:
"Making inroads is not going to be a problem." She rests her hand around the neck of the beer bottle, and she taps the neck again with a finger faintly, some kind of thoughtful tic. She casts her head to the side, the confidence of certainty.
"We will have local connections by the time we arrive. The tradeoff for the better part of two decades going from place to place," she says, glancing around at a nearby section, this one on ghosts, for a lingering moment.
"I don't have many books. Couldn't bring them with me. But I have a lot of friends, associates," she waves a hand, gesturing the et cetera. "From the Horizoners, from others. If you want to crawl the skin of the worlds looking for answers," she clicks her tongue behind her teeth.
"Yeah. I'm up for it. I've got a rough idea of the itinerary. That's all I need." She lifts the beer bottle to offer to clink it against Ludwig's own glass.
Ludwig Altman:
"Fantastic," which is a word that really pops when spoken with a coolly enthusiastic Austrian accent. "Serendipity smiles, as they say. My curiosity about you piqued at our first meeting, and I am genuinely happy to discover my curiosity was well founded. I would have considered myself a cosmopolitan world traveler prior to making your acquaintance." Ludwig's smile is genuine. He's quite pleased to be put to shame on this count, it seems.
"I will cover your travel expenses quite happily. If you wish for any equipment or the like prior to our departure, simply let me know. We're a bit stretched for liquid cash at the moment, so large purchases may be delayed somewhat. But. We will accommodate." Another brief flash of his thin smile.
"Before you go following me on a globe-trotting expedition across a few continents, I feel I owe you an explanation for..." Ludwig's eyes flit over to THE NAZI BOOKS then back to Sierra with a small, apologetic tick of the head. "I could not imagine going along with me as a Jew and having it be otherwise. So. Ask whatever questions you might have and I promise you candor."
Sierra Roen:
Sierra is less unaffected by the praise than Ludwig had been, and a likewise genuine smile creases her features until it narrows her eyes, and she downticks her chin in an acknowledgement as he goes on.
Then she follows his gaze over to that particular collection again, the wide beam not faltering, but certainly ebbing, until her expression is a polite neutral once again, and she weighs the opportunity in silence for a few ticking seconds -- though in abrupt conversational silence, seconds can be quite long.
"The first two would be what and why, though I can appreciate what I believe is the answer to the second," she starts.
Ludwig Altman:
"That," Ludwig begins in a weighty and graveled voice, "is one half of the occult collection of one Karl Maria Wiligut, Oberfuhrer of the SS, a member of Himmler's personal staff, and a rather comprehensive overview of Third Reich era Irminism, Wotanism, Proto-Germanic runes, the Futhark, and the reich's knowledge surrounding spirits, the spirit world, ghosts, the underworld, and so on. The other half which I do not possess consists of tomes of low magic. Thaumaturgy, alchemy, psionics, and so on. A curse was designed to keep the two halves from uniting after Wiligut was booted out of the SS in 1938." Fair enough.
"At one point, I was in need of information regarding the wound in the Prater. The only information I could find locally pointed me back to an old Frau keeping home in Vienna's south side. She was the widow of a prominent Nazi, an associate's of Herr Oberfuhrer Wiligut, and if you will forgive me? A complete and utter cunt. You will be happy to know she is no longer with us." Ludwig does not expound on the how and the why of all of that. Probably doesn't need to, though.
"It provided me a great deal of information that we used to help heal the Prater. But once I was able to truly appreciate the depth of the perversion contained in those pages, and once I became aware of the extent to which Wiligut's studies inform modern white nationalism and neo fascism, I resolved myself to publishing an annotated edition of the library. Sanitizing it. Pointing out where it twists historical realities with pleasant Aryan fictions. Laying bare its agenda, rob it of its mystique, demystify it. Ruin it, in essence, for those who seek it out for want not of its useful knowledge but in search of its blood purity fictions and tales of an Irminist Christ." Ludwig gives the collection another glance, and a small frown.
"I keep it because it's a weapon I am learning how to defuse. And possession of it brings the very worst of modern fascism to me and saves me the bus fare in having to hunt it down."
Sierra Roen:
Sierra listens attentively as Ludwig explains, occasionally worrying at her lip as she does, and instinctively mirroring the Ithaeur's glances over at the collection. "Knowledge is a sword with a blade for a hilt, too," she finally answers in her own way of understanding.
"Your reason is more than I suspected, but in the same framework. You use the tool against the creator, against the throngs of wannabes," she is digesting it in her own time, but she nods. "I can appreciate it, in its utilitarian capacity," she says. "And I'll extend some of the same candor."
Sierra lets out a long, thin stream of a breath and passes her palm over the bottom of her face, gripping her chin and squeezing down it to a point.
"Everyone, Jew or gentile, should revile those symbols, but my own personal context is this," she starts, and she glances about as if for inspiration, as a professor might when looking for a pen to sketch out a formula, a drawing, jot down a name.
She flickers her eyes at Ludwig. "I'm going to secure your perception to this timeline, just for this moment," she tells him. "Don't worry, it sounds like more of a commitment than it is," she adds, and burns away tiny wisps of Essence. Ludwig would feel nothing. "Now you'll be able to know what I know, when it happens. Don't worry," she says again, worryingly.
She decides on her tool, the beer bottle, and she holds it up in between the two of them, drawing Ludwig's eye to it. "As I've traveled, and Hunted, I have found spirits who were able to impart on me some of their power. And among them, none are more alien than the Time umia. Watch," she ticks her eyes at the beer bottle.
For Ludwig, the effect is instantaneous. The beer isn't a beer bottle anymore; it's a mostly finished glass of wine. The sandwiches on the plate are half eaten. Someone has obnoxiously written "Sierra was here 2021" on a bit of stationary. But Ludwig remembers that Sierra hadn't eaten yet. He remembers that she had beer, instead of wine. He does not remember her writing any note. Inventory would check out. No, she hadn't changed those things; she had undone, and re-done them. The beer was still in the fridge. The wine was missing from the bottle.
For Sierra, the experience is somewhat more tedious. She re-shaped Time and bent it back to the moment she'd been asked for her drink, and made only that and a few other nominal, unimportant choices differently: to drink wine, to eat, to write the note. A timer goes off on her phone: another change she must have made. "Oh, there we go," she says, giving Ludwig another knowing nod of her head.
"And now it's changed for you," she illustrates, lifting the glass of wine and then setting it down again. But it was beer? "This is a parlor trick," she waves it off. "This is showing off. But this," she gestures at the wine glass where it is on the stand, at the now half-eaten sandwiches. She looks at him and for a second it very nearly seems like she's trying to forego the hard work of explaining and beam the thought right into his brain. "We always think what if I could go back in time?" She bites her lip again and shakes her head. "I can't go that far back. But you think about it. You can even obsess about it, too, if you're not careful." She ticks her head again at the collection. "It's an itch you just die to scratch. I can touch the hands of this world's clock, but not that much. And when I see that symbol, it frustrates me. It's outside my reach," She raises her shoulders. "This could be childish, or ambitious, or emotional," she preempts the possibilities, unaffected by their likeliness. "But if you can reach it through your books," she gestures at them again. "That's enough for me. That's better than me."
Ludwig Altman:
Ludwig is pretty darn unflappable, for the most part. A nazi hunting werewolf archaeologist polyglot philanthropist, you know? He's seen some shit. But this does bring his eyebrows creeping up his forehead. Particularly when he reaches for his beer and discovers it's a wine. Because naturally he poured himself whatever she was having as a point of hospitality. So he lifts his wine glass to her and nods his head appreciatively, "That trick would have come in handy in my life. Quite a bit. Impressive."
He sets his wine glass back down and regards the collection once more, if only briefly. "I had a similar issue regarding my inevitable demise. I have never been particularly gifted as werewolves go. A very human fellow, me. Or so I've been told. I never saw the sense in blood and talon combat outside of the hunt. Other Uratha enjoyed proving themselves through violence, and were not shy about threatening violence if I spoke out of turn. Vienna is an old city. A close-in city. And a very active one. To me, it was a certainty that I was going to die sooner rather than later. I was paralyzed by indecision about which projects to focus on, which ones to let go of, which ambitions to pursue, which to set aside. The Lodge of Death answered that question for me, and gave me the liberty to pursue ... not necessarily what I would have wanted to pursue, but those things I feel capable of achieving in the time I have. Which is quite a bit more than I bargained for, as it happens." Given the salt and pepper in his hair, that's clearly true.
"The itch of the out of reach ambition is one I know only too well. One I burned myself alive to scratch. So I am nothing if not sympathetic." Ludwig pulls his gaze away from the books, back to Sierra herself. "It doesn't particularly matter in the grand scheme of things, but I always thought we might be Jewish. Going back, I mean. Whatever cultural practice that might entail has been lost to us for generations if true. But a great many truths were rewritten in my Grandfather's time. Perhaps this is all my own personal walk back to Sinai. Perhaps it's nothing more than the repentance of a grandson for the sins of his grandparents and their peers. It's simply that I know this wretchedness persists, that the Thule Society's diseased beliefs continue to pollute occult society, and that so long as I possess the Wiligut collection, they will continue to come for me. Sending white supremacists occultists up the flue of the funeral home is a public service I am only too happy to perform from time to time."
Sierra Roen:
"It's a life-saver for faux pas at dinner parties," she quips, expelling another gust of breath and leaning back, relaxing into the leather-clad cushioning of the seat, melting a bit more into it. Such a trick was not without effort, and she sags there against the back support of the plush chair as Ludwig goes on.
This is the second time that the Austrian has mentioned knowing the hour of his demise and it had piqued her curiosity the first time around as much as the second, but she seems to at least know better than to prod at that further, or at least than to prod at the inevitable and inevitably tempting question of, well, the inevitable: when? Though, it might flicker across her face. But she asks something else instead.
"So people are really still after what's in there..." she trails off, summarizing and re-visiting the obvious. "You said you wrote a book on them?" The next part didn't even need to be voiced. Clearly, she wants that book.
Ludwig Altman:
"I've written two books on the subject. One on the Thule Society, and one on Irminism more generally, with a focus on early Third Reich occultism. There is a misconception among people today that the Nazi party was somehow essentially Christian, if not Catholic. That may have been true for some, but the core of the SS were Irminists. And Irminism-- a twisted version of it --informed the ascent of the Nazi Party, much of its aesthetics, rituals, iconography, and so on. And certainly all of their fatherland, one land, one folk nonsense." Ludwig sets his wine glass aside and rolls from his seat, heading over to the shelves to pluck out his books on the topic. There are others he's published, no doubt, on other topics. He carries them over and offers them out to her, though he assumes a squat before her chair to do so, such that he is on eye level with her.
"Presently I am working on the annotated version of the collection. Where I contextualize all their nonsense and rip it apart with lots of footnotes. You may have a proof copy once I'm done with initial edits and such. I could use a professional eye with regard to feedback. You can imagine it's somewhat difficult to find that sort of thing, considering the topic."
Sierra Roen:
Sierra reaches for the offered books, collecting them into her lap and leaning forward to glance directly down at the cover of the one on top, slender fingers curving around the firm edges of the tome's stiff binding, and then looks back up into Ludwig's now eye-level face. "Thank you, I will." A pause.
"We're no strangers to wading through those things which disgusts us divesting power through information from reviled beings, but," she clicks her tongue behind her teeth. The we she's referring to might be Uratha, or perhaps more specifically Bone Shadows. She tilts the stack in her lap just so to glance at the titles on the spine before she makes eye contact again. "These are deeper waters than most."
A thousand little questions bubbles to the surface of her mind, and she tightens her jaw nigh-imperceptibly to clamp them back down. Better to read the books first than ask what might already be answered. "And I can't say that I am a professional on Nazi Occultism," she allows, sweeping her gaze down over his features in a subtle and subconscious assessment. "But if you're looking for a more seeing eye than a mortal editor," she winks one of her vibrant green eyes at him. "I can do that."
The first book is entitled rather innocuously: The Thule Society. The less innocuous subtitle: The Lie at the Center of the Third Reich. The second book is titled more provocatively: The Perversion of Irminism. Its kick to the balls of a subtitle: How Himmler Stole a Religion to Rule the World. His author photos are suitably erudite and broody. Byronic, even, if one likes that sort of thing. Black and white, tasteful. Hardcovers, of course. With cover jackets in tact. He's no philistine.
He watches her watching him, remaining crouched before her as his hands slowly fold together between his knees. He tosses some hair from his eyes and makes a dismissive little moue with his mouth. "History is deep, indeed. But worth an accurate accounting. I'm an Historian and an Archaeologist. The cultures of the tribes of Germania, the history of the peoples of those lands, they're very important to me. And have been since my youth. I suppose I don't view this work with the same trepidation as others. My battlefields span the centuries, and history is only what's written down, in the end. Making sure what's written down is true is certainly a struggle worthy of my time, I like to think. If, of all my accomplishments, I am remembered in a century's time for nothing more than setting the record straight on Nazi occultism, then that will be a worthwhile legacy for me."
Her wink conjures a brief, lopsided grin. He's managed tight lipped smiles prior to now, but a grin is clearly an accomplishment. A proverbial loosening of his collar button and tie, that. "Your expertise in spiritual matters will be valuable, even if you don't study Third Reich occultism. As you say, proof readers for such a publication will be in short supply."
He then considers her leaning position and general demeanor and notes, "If you need to rest, you're welcome to use one of the rooms above. Or if you would prefer to retire for the evening, I will understand. You seem to have spent your last coin with a tab at the bar."
Sierra Roen:
Sierra absorbs those little details from the volumes. "A historian and an archaeologist," she repeats the words, though the information is not new, and tilts her head back to eye the ceiling like something could be written up there and she's admiring it. And it's not far-fetched; she would have had the time. But there's nothing, and she looks back across the short distance between herself and Ludwig.
"Indiana Jones fought Nazis, too," she chirps, faintly amused by her own quip, and she goes quiet again while she reviews, once more, the little flares and intricacies of the book on top, The Thule Society before she gives Ludwig an appreciative smile at the offer. "I appreciate that. It ebbs in moments," she assures, and then she taps the book cover again.
"So, last question, SparkNotes version," she prefaces, apparently unable to wait, and taps the cover. "How much of it did they know? Did they get anything right? In the entire sordid vastness of the Third Reich, I always figured that they must have had someone, or someones..." another trail-off. "Who knew something." She ticks her head to the side, the punctuation mark at the end of the question.
Ludwig Altman:
"Wiligut was a minor talent for low magic, yes. As were others. There's a remarkable bit of truth tied in with all of their fantasy. But it's all rather ... Allegory of the Cave, if you'll forgive my reference. Shadows of the truth cast on a cave wall. They're able to describe the coat of paint on the car, but not the engine. They know it moves, how to steer it, but nothing of the rack and pinion. The core of the Thule Society today are similar minor talents, and in at least one case seem to have dabbled in demon summoning. It's not really my forte, I admit, but-- have you ever seen Doctor Horrible's Sing-a-Long Blog? There's a minor villain that keeps trying to make Dr. Horrible his nemesis, but Dr. Horrible isn't interested and honestly has better things to do? It's rather like that. But."
Ludwig opens his folded hands and gestures with them helplessly, "Am I not going to murder nazis? I try not to let it distract me from the work of the People. But. Nazis." Can you really blame him?
Sierra Roen:
Sierra gives him a pair of successive nods when he meanders from a Platonic reference to an NPH one, and she strokes a hand over the top book's cover again.
"It's a mistake, when people assume that the Hisil can only affect the Gurihal, and not the other way around, too. I'm sure that you will know better than me that there's a collection of scars, still raw, across the Hisil from the Third Reich." And all of this is to say, of course, and she does: "There are no distractions."
With that, she makes all the attendant pre-gestures one does before they are about to stand up, such that she might not collide with the professor when she does, tucking the pair of books under her arm. "Let me know once you've firmed up the itinerary and are ready to depart. I'll talk to my people abroad, and make sure that whatever connections we need once we arrive, will be waiting for us," she says in preface of a more formal goodbye.
Ludwig Altman:
Ludwig doesn't need much prompting at all to rise and retreat back to a polite distance as reckoned by Austrians. Which is quite distant, indeed. He monitors her rise from her seat as though suspecting she might stumble or become light headed from rising too quickly, but remains where he's standing, hands politely laced behind his back. "You're very kind, Miss Roen." His mind suddenly rewinds a step or two, "They called me Vienna Altman. Back home. After the mishap in Palestine. Because I'm a Nazi hunting Archaeologist." He makes a vague whip-crack gesture, half-heartedly, and then refolds his hands at his back. "I have no fear of snakes, however. And a very much in tact chin. Otherwise, the comparison is favorable."
That all rattled off while she rises, he eventually extends out his hand again, "Thank you for your time this evening, Miss Roen."
Sierra Roen:
Sierra doesn't stumble, though there are a few more ounces of lethargy in her movements. After all, she had experienced most of the evening twice. "A fear of snakes would be a very unhandy thing to have right about now," she returns. "With what's lurking in Bancroft these days."
She wrinkles her nose in disdain at the thought of it, and then brushes it away, shifting the books from under her right arm to her left, and meeting the offered handshake. "Thank you for the hospitality, Doctor Altman. Vienna Altman," she adds. "I can find my way out, and I hope to see you again soon."
Ludwig Altman:
"That would please me greatly, Miss Roen." Ludwig might be considered foolish for trusting an irraka to just leave without poking around once out of his sight, but he's either a fool or too polite to countermand her declaration that she can see herself out. He's content to watch her depart with that polite, pleasant, tight-lipped half smile that seems to form his default expression most of the time.
"Have a pleasant night," he calls after her retreating back. He indulges himself in remaining still to watch her until she is out of view, and then returns almost immediately to his unending list of tasks, settling down in his chair and reaching for his padfolio to resume the ticking of his clock.
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