Brighton Manor

John had a lot to think about. June, where she was, what Nazrinn had wanted, why she chose him, what he thought of Moira and her Order, what all those windows he dismissed said, and what the future held. His mind would have been lost among these thoughts and more, were he not concentrating on trying not to scream.

He was currently rocketing down the streets of Springfield on a motorcycle. Moira’s motorcycle, to be specific. John had tried indicating to his classmate that she had run through two red lights already, but she either could not hear him or did not care. For such a stern and uptight enforcer of Ashcroft's rules, Moira had shockingly little regard for traffic violations.

In the end, it was all John could do to hold on tight, squeeze his eyes shut, and pray to the Goddess that he would survive.

“No, seriously, what’s a Barrier?” John asked as he followed Moira out of the art studio. He felt a tiny wave of disorientation hit him when he breached the doorway. John stumbled and chalked that up to his near certain concussion. Moira continued to walk regardless, not even turning to answer him this time.

“Turn around,” she said.

“Why? What’s behind us?” John asked. He spun around despite his question, not expecting her to stop.

What he saw was June’s studio exactly as he had found it during class. All of the stools were in place and none of the tables were broken. There was no puddle of conspicuous fluids and the door was firmly back on its hinges. He stopped to take it in, stunned.

“But, wait… what?” John fumbled. “How did you do that?”

When John turned back around to Moira, he saw she had continued her brisk walk towards the main entrance of the Academy. He had to jog to catch up to her before he could repeat his question.

“I didn’t,” she said. “She did.”

“She?” John asked. “Wait, her? But you said she’s gone. How could she do that now? Why would she?”

Moira finally stopped and turned to face John in a huff, impatience and annoyance apparent on her face.

“Newman, Barriers are among the first lessons any new mage will learn. I do not feel like repeating myself, so save your questions for afterwards. We’re already late as is.”

Once more, she did not wait for a response before she continued out the door and towards the parking lot. Exasperated, John shook his head and shut up.

This girl is impossible.

The good news was that enough time had passed that whatever sentries Frank might have posted had given up and gone home. Either that or they saw Moira and decided that tormenting John wasn’t worth it. It would have been GREAT news if his quest had not already been unjustly denied.

The question of how they were getting wherever they were going was answered when Moira stopped at a totally-not-out-of-place-at-all motorcycle. Red, gold, and shiny, it might have been the most expensive vehicle in the lot. Moira unlatched her helmet from some sort of locking mechanism before flipping open the rear compartment and tossing John a spare. Dumbfounded as he was, he only barely managed to catch it.

“You ride… a motorcycle?” John asked, incredulous.

“Yes. And?” Moira caught John’s eyes before lowering her helmet onto her head, visor and all.

“You’re the Student Council President, Rules Enforcer, and Holy Warrior of some divine order of knights… and you ride a motorcycle.” John said.

Moira shook her head and mounted the bike.

“Get on.” Moira’s voice was muffled beneath the helmet. She gestured to the small bit of her seat that was still exposed and waited. It did not seem to John like enough space for another person.

“Um, how?” John asked, strapping on his own helmet. Unlike Moira’s, it was open faced. He couldn’t help but feel like he looked like a dweeb next to her.

“With your legs,” Moira replied.

“Thank you for the obvious, Madame President.” John sighed. “I mean what do I hold on to?”

“Me.”

John stepped back, flabbergasted. Despite having lost his virginity less than an hour ago, he blushed furiously at the thought. Any thoughts that his newfound experience would make him any better at handling contact with girls were soundly crushed.

“A-are you serious?” he stammered. “I can’t do that!”

“You have my permission, so stop wasting time!” Moira flipped her visor up to glare at John properly. Her irritation must have spread to the rest of her face, because there was a flush on what little of Moira’s cheeks John could see. “You pick the strangest things to be timid about.”

“Hey!” John shouted. It was all the argument he could make, however; she was right. Some part of his brain was trying to tell him he was being ridiculous, even if he didn’t listen to it.

Ultimately, John swallowed his apprehension and climbed on. His body was wracked with nerves as he slipped his arms around Moira’s waist. It was nothing like holding Nazrinn against himself when they had fucked, but even that was anxiety inducing now that he thought of it afterwards. Back then he was caught up in the moment and an **** of pleasurable sensations, there was no time to overthink things. Now he had all the time in the world to ruminate on both the act of holding his body close to Moira’s and how pathetic he was for freaking out about it.

But all in all, it was kinda nice.

It was not nice. It was not nice at all. Riding with Moira was a terrifying experience of high speeds, tight squeezes, and sharp turns. There was nothing even remotely pleasant about being a part of this clearly suicidal girl’s concept of travel.

Mercifully, the ride did not end with crumpled metal and flying bodies. John finally opened his eyes again when they slowed to a stop. Before him was a palatial mansion of preposterous proportion.

“Please let go.”

John’s awe was broken by Moira’s voice. Save for one leg pushing down the kickstand, she was still in driving position, probably because he was still holding on to her for dear life. He let go and leaned back immediately.

“Sorry!” he shouted.

Moira took a long, deep breath and relaxed. She dismounted and removed her helmet in one motion, then turned to John with an unsurprising look of irritation.

“Did you have to grip so tight?” Moira huffed. “I said to hold on, not **** the air out of my lungs.”

“I said sorry,” John griped, following her lead and dismounting. “I’ve never been on a motorcycle before.”

Moira sighed and straightened out the creases John had left around her waist. Miraculously, a light shake of her head was all it took to set Moira’s long hair back in place. John figured it would have been full of knots after whipping around in the wind, but apparently Moira’s high class graces transcended such inconveniences.

“A word of advice for the next time you find yourself riding passenger,” Moira grimaced, “squeeze less.”

“Noted.” John bowed his head and removed his own helmet. As much as he didn’t appreciate the attitude, the lingering fear from the ride and Moira’s intimidating aura had his nerves too shaken to speak up.

“This way,” Moira said. “Leave your helmet with the bike”

John followed Moira a short distance down the driveway to a wide and sprawling stone stairway up to the front doors. Both doors together, which he had to look up to see, were large enough to fit an elephant through. After all he’d seen so far today, John wouldn’t be surprised if someone told him that had actually happened.

The rest of the estate was just as ludicrous. An Elizabethan manor at least three times as wide as John’s house loomed before him. Tall windows lined the walls in symmetrical groupings, all adorned with masterful ornamentation, as were the rooftop spires. Meticulously maintained rose bushes surrounded the manor, broken only by the occasional knightly statue or conical tree. The structure was composed primarily of sturdy, red stone, giving the distinct impression that the luxurious building was as much a fortress as it was a home.

“Jesus Christ, did you pull this place straight out of old timey Europe?” John muttered under his breath.

“In a sense, yes,” Moira replied.

“Don’t tell me you magic’d the whole place through time and space,” John said. Today had him willing to believe a lot of things, but that was pushing it.

“Nothing nearly so arcane. While teleportation has been mastered by some, traveling through time has proven impossible for centuries, despite countless attempts to prove otherwise,” Moira instructed, not breaking her stride.

“How, then?” John asked.

“We shipped it,” Moira answered.

John took a moment to process that.

“You what!?”

“We shipped it,” Moira repeated.

“HOW!?” John asked again.

“Brick by brick,” Moira replied, barely attempting to mask her pride.

“You can do that?” John asked, still stunned.

“Absolutely.” Moira nodded. “Some years ago when my family decided to relocate to Springfield, we moved the Brighton Estate with us. We are far from the only family to move buildings across the ocean, you know. I’ve heard of entire castles being dismantled and reassembled in the same way.”

“I…” John was grateful that Moira continued to look forward, so that she could not see the fascinating mixture of awe, disbelief, and disgust on his face. “How rich ARE you?”

“The Brighton finances are none of your concern,” Moira chided. “And if you’re finished questioning me about my home, I suggest you focus your attention back to the problems at hand, or have you already forgotten your determination to rescue Ms. Summers?”

“I have not!” John stopped, fists clenched. The emotional whiplash was as sobering as it was insulting.
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m a little out of my element here! I’ve had a pretty weird day, so excuse me for asking a couple of questions while you drag me around! Of course I remember, how could I forget?”

In truth, the shock of the ride and the manor itself had distracted John from his concerns. Part of him still wanted to believe it wasn’t real and was eager for the opportunity to drop it. Life would be so much better, and a lot less confusing, if he was back home and playing Overwatch with Liam.
It would be nice to bury his head in the sand, but June couldn’t afford him taking that luxury.

Moira stopped and turned to meet John’s indignant glare, her own expression neutral.

“I’m glad to hear that. I had to be sure your heart was still in it. My apologies.” She nodded and turned back around to finally reach the top of the stairs.

“Oh. Uh, okay then.” John’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had come. He severely doubted the sincerity of Moira’s apology, but he couldn’t blame her for checking. He had to admit his behavior since leaving school was less than inspiring. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

John had not noticed the aging butler standing sentinel outside the massive front doors until he was only a few feet from him. He stood with the same exceptional posture as Moira, as John expected all the staff of the manor would, dressed in a fine suit of pitch black. He welcomed the two with a warm smile that belied the pervasive sense of unease John felt from the man. It was not altogether different from the feeling he got from Wentworth.

“Welcome home, my Lady, and welcome to you, Mr. Newman,” the butler said, holding a hand to his stomach and bowing.

“Um.” John cleared his throat. “Th-”

“Thank you, Reginald,” Moira cut in. It was the most pleasant tone John had ever heard from her.

“The Lord-Protector is awaiting you in the study.” The butler, Reginald apparently, smiled again and nodded. He stepped aside and, somehow, opened one of the doors with one arm. The hinges did not so much as squeak as the solid mass of wood swung open enough to allow easy passage. “Shall I prepare some tea?”

“That sounds lovely, Reginald. Thank you.” Moira returned her butler’s smile. Until now, it was an expression John was not sure she could form.

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” John said. He had no idea, he never drank tea.

“Come.” Moira gestured back to John, instantly in a demeanor he was more familiar with. “We shouldn’t keep my father waiting.”

“Uh, nice to meet you, Reginald,” John said as he was rushed past the man. He was lying, but it only seemed polite to say.

“The pleasure is mine, Sir,” Reginald replied. His smile seemed to widen a tinge at the acknowledgement, but it did not dismiss John’s discomfort. Distance, however, did.

The interior of Brighton Manor was even more grandiose than the exterior. John’s shoes clicked on the polished stone tiles of the foyer, a room large enough in itself to fit a small house. Dozens of rooms led further in on all three floors he could see, accessible by a sweeping grand staircase covered in red carpeting and lined by an elegant wooden banister. Portraits of what John assumed were Moira’s ancestors lined the walls between candlesticks and suits of armor, but none were nearly so prominent as the one directly above the staircase landing. It was several meters tall and framed in exquisitely carved cherrywood, depicting a beautiful woman with hair just as red and eyes just as green as Moira’s. She stood in a green and gold dress, wearing the most peaceful smile John had ever seen. Her hands rested atop a familiar shield, holding it upright before herself. John shot a glance at the brooch on Moira’s chest.

“Is that your mother?” he asked. Moira’s expression did not change as she continued to walk, and for a moment John thought she had ignored the question.

“Yes,” she said.

“She’s beautiful,” John remarked. Again, Moira did not answer immediately.

“I know.”

John, even bereft of social graces as he was, could tell that this line of conversation would go nowhere. He dropped it but cast one last look at the portrait as they turned down a side corridor. They did not travel far before Moira stopped at a set of double doors, similar to but much smaller than the front doors. She grasped the handle and looked John squarely in the eye.

“Mind your manners, Newman. My father is a busy man, he has no patience for foolish behavior,” she said.

If he’s anything like you, I’m not surprised.

“Of course.” John nodded and put on his game face. Now was not the time to be a smartass.

Moira nodded and opened the door to the study.

The room beyond was nothing compared to the man seated across from the entryway. John did not notice the grand hearth, wall-encompassing bookshelves, plush crimson carpeting, or brilliant windows, nor did he notice the solid mahogany desk at which the man sat. If Moira was intimidating, her father was downright oppressive.

Like June, the man’s age was impossible to determine, but not for the same reasons. Where June had the statuesque youth of a runway model, he appeared to be at the pinnacle of human health. This was in blatant defiance of the gray creeping into the dulling red of the man’s beard and hair, both immaculately cropped and maintained. Only the faintest of wrinkles traced his face, not presenting the weakness of age, but of well weathered woodwork. His ashen three-piece suit was tailored to perfection, leaving no guesses as to the imposing muscle tone that lay beneath. He finished the look with a brooch similar to Moira’s and a green tie to match his eyes. Eyes that, unless John was mistaken, were boring directly into his soul.

Acting on new instinct, John fidgeted with his ring and Observed.

-
Lord William Brighton
Level 65 Human Duelist
[Lord-Protector of the Golden Rose]
Status: Memory of the Rose [Blessing of Health, Bulging Biceps, Greased Lightning], H-
RP: 0
-

John did not have time to ponder the reason why Lord Brighton’s Observe window cut off in the way it did, as Moira snatched his hand in a painful grip.

“What did you do!?” she snapped, raising both their hands to eye level. “You touched your ring and your Mana Signature disappeared! And after what I just said, what are you up to!”

“I-” John floundered for an explanation that would not make him seem suspicious but could not get far before the lord of the manor himself cut John off.

“It is of no concern, Moira,” Lord Brighton said with a voice made of stone. He lifted a hand, slow and measured, to stay his daughter’s alarm. “A minor scry, nothing more. Uncouth, perhaps, but it is a measure of precaution I can understand from a boy in his position. In that respect, such a breach of etiquette can be easily forgiven.”

Lord Brighton spoke in a manner completely unlike the charming affability of John’s own father, and yet his natural charisma poured forth all the same. His tone was deep and even, with an underlying confidence that made each sentence seem like the delivery of a speech. Even so, the reassuring nature of his words bore the pressing weight of Lord Brighton’s taciturn appraisal.

“But what about his Mana Signature?” Moira still squeezed John’s hand in accusation, waving it around heedless of the fact that he was connected to it.

“Not gone, suppressed,” Lord Brighton said. “Concentrate, it is still there, only hiding amongst the ambient mana around us.”

Moira did not let go but closed her eyes to focus as instructed. John winced. Though he seemed to be out of the frying pan, he felt no further from the fire than before. Moira’s father had perfectly seen through his attempt to find himself an edge to stand on and she herself correctly identified the ring as the culprit. He had every reason to believe they would catch any attempt at using a Skill, leaving him once again bereft of options.

“It is,” Moira whispered. “Faint, but present, like a still pond.”

Finally, she released John’s hand. He hadn’t a clue on how to act as the subject of this little father-daughter lesson in the arcane arts, and so deactivated his ring and shuffled awkwardly. Moira’s eyes snapped open the moment he did so.

“And it’s back, weak as it is,” she said.

Rub it in, why don’t you?

“But why try to hide?” Moira shot John another accusatory glance. “I’ve already told you our mission is to protect you. You haven’t a reason to keep secrets from us unless…”

“Moira, a measure of discretion,” Lord Brighton instructed again. John still could not tell if it was deliberately intended for his benefit or not. “Consider being in an unknown place, among strangers, fully aware you are outclassed. Would it not be prudent to try to glean as much information as possible?”

After a pause, Moira had to nod in acceptance of her father’s words. John took the opportunity to defend himself personally.

“That’s exactly why,” he explained. “I started using the ring after Wentworth caught me using the same skill on her. I thought it might be enough to hide when I did, but I guess not.”

“Indeed, for most mages it would be,” Lord Brighton nodded, addressing John directly for the first time. “However, when one is actively watching another’s mana, its sudden absence is as alarming as its sudden use. You would do well to remember this.”

“Right,” John said. He chided himself internally for not realizing something so simple. He hadn’t considered that they would be deliberately watching him. Stupid. “Um, thank you.”

“I must say it is a useful trinket you have in your possession, extraordinarily so for a Late Bloomer,” Lord Brighton said. “But enough of these examinations, this is an interview, not an interrogation. Come, Mr. Newman, sit.”

Lord Brighton gestured to the two chairs positioned before his desk. John approached and, attempting to be gentlemanly, waited for Moira to sit first. He reluctantly corrected that mistake when she did not. Only then did she take a seat for herself, followed almost instantly by the timely arrival of Reginald. He crossed the room without a word and set down a tray on which sat a small ceramic teapot and a trio of cups and saucers. He poured the three and distributed them before standing aside, waiting to be dismissed.

“Thank you, Reginald,” said both Brightons in uncanny unison.

“Thanks,” John added.

“By your leave,” Reginald smiled, bowed, and exited as swiftly as he had come.

The room remained in a heavy silence as both Moira and her father rose their teacups to drink. John watched for an uncertain moment, then followed suit.

“Where did you find that ring anyway?” Moira asked the moment John’s cup met his lips.

What are the odds she did that on purpose?

More than a little annoyed at being bossed around so much today, John took a long, stubborn sip before answering. He was not ready for it to be nearly as strong or scalding as it was, but with effort, he was able to wince his way through it.

“I don’t know, really,” he said after setting his cup down. “It just sort of… showed up. Kinda like my powers, totally out of nowhere.”

He didn’t really feel like explaining what achievements were.

“Magic items don’t simply appear from thin air.” Moira frowned. “Someone had to have made it and gifted it to you, whether you were aware of it or not.”

For once, Moira did not completely disbelieve everything John said. It was a welcome change.

“This is true, which could be a cause for concern, especially in consideration of your inexperience with the Abyss.” Lord Brighton’s expression hardened. “May I see that ring? There may be more to it than you are aware.”

John fully appreciated that, despite coming in the form of a request, Lord Brighton’s words were anything but. He removed the ring and placed it on the desk in front of him.

“For what it’s worth, that ‘scry’ ability I used before works on objects too,” John said. “It didn’t mention anything else besides the hidey part.”

“Even so,” Lord Brighton replied, with a heavy stare. He reached to an intercom on the desk and pressed a button. “Cornelius? Your services are required in the Study.”

“Of course, Lord-Protector,” Came a surprised but attentive reply from the other end. A moment passed before the intercom buzzed again. “Erm, Sir, the East or West study?”

“East,” Lord Brighton answered, flat.

“Of course, very good.” The voice cleared its throat. “On my way, Lord-Protector.”

A few minutes passed while the three quietly sipped their tea, making no attempts at conversation whatsoever. It gave John the time to try and grow accustomed to the taste, as well as to try and figure out the purpose of having more than one study in one house.

Eventually, the doors opened a crack, barely enough for an elderly man to push his way through. It was clear that this man made an effort to maintain a professional and noble appearance, but unike Lord Brighton or Reginald, age had gotten the better of him. The well worn elbows of his suit, bony figure, and wisps of white hair gave him an appearance more akin to a fragile grandfather than a refined gentleman. John felt himself reaching for the mental trigger to Observe him but, with a glance back to Lord Brighton, held himself back.

“Cornelius, thank you.” Lord Brighton nodded, gesturing for the old man to approach.

“I await your command, as ever, Lord-Protector.” Cornelius smiled as he stepped to his liege’s side. “How may I be of assistance?”

“This ring,” Lord Brighton said, pointing to the item in question. “I would like you to inspect and identify it for me, if you would.”

“It would be my pleasure, Lord-Protector.” Cornelius nodded eagerly. He lifted the ring and held it inches from his face, squinting. After licking his dry lips, the main withdrew a monocle from his breast pocket and held it to his left eye. John shook his head.

I need to stop being surprised when magic people pull out old-fashioned crap.

“Let’s see now…” Cornelius muttered. He rotated his monocle slightly as he peered at the ring. The lens let off a pale blue glow, barely bright enough to catch in the well lit room. “A mana suppression enchantment, it seems. Minor, but enough to conceal the true strength of a Mana Signature. Yes… very efficient in the cost of the effect as well. All in all I would have to say it is to work of an expert craftsman.”

“Are there any other enchantments?” Lord Brighton asked.

“None so far as I can tell, Lord-Protector,” Cornelius replied. To be certain of his words, he took another look at the item.

“And its creator,” Lord Brighton continued, “can you determine their Signature, or what methods were utilized in the ring’s creation?”

“Of course. Let’s have a closer look and…” Cornelius faltered. “Hm, that can’t be right...”

“What is the matter, Cornelius?” Moira asked. The old man adjusted his monocle this way and that, squeezing his eyes nearly shut.

“Forgive me, Warden.” Cornelius set the ring down with a look of deep consternation. “But I cannot properly identify the influence of external mana. It is as if the mana employed has been structured precisely for the ring’s intended purpose and nothing else.”

“That… sounds impossible.” Moira leaned back and folded her arms. “Not even our best craftsmen can create an item with such purity of function.”

“Is that a problem?” John asked. It didn’t seem like it was. Rather, it seemed like this confirmed his claim that the ring appeared out of nothing.

“Not as such, no, but I can scarcely believe it,” Cornelius said, flustered. “I must have made a mistake. Let me have another look and-”

“That will do, Cornelius, thank you,” Lord Brighton interrupted. His firm hand reached the ring before Cornelius’. He slid the ring back across the table, out of reach.

“My Lord, I am sure that with another look I can find the ans-” Cornelius took an unsteady step forward as the ring was pulled away. John could see red rising into his face.

“You have performed your duties adequately, Cornelius. I won’t waste more of your time with such minor inquiries,” Lord Brighton said. His voice and eyes both carried a hint of reproach.

“Of course, Lord-Protector.” The old man gathered his scattering wits. “But, if I may ask, where did you find this ring?”

Lord Brighton tapped his fingers and cast a sidelong glance at John.

“In the rough, one might say. Precisely where is of no importance. In either case, you are dismissed,” Lord Brighton spoke succinctly, punctuating the end of the conversation.

“By your leave, Lord-Protector.” Cornelius bowed- but not before following his Lord’s gaze to the young man sitting next to Moira. He scrutinized John under a twisted expression. Confused, disapproving, and anxious eyes scanned him for several uncomfortable moments. The old man, whatever his exact duties were, was clearly unsatisfied with the outcome of his summoning. He hesitated to leave, switching between trying to catch the eye of Lord Brighton and his daughter, as if waiting for them to change their mind.

John did not meet the man’s eyes. Instead, he sipped his tea. It wasn’t so bad now that it had cooled down some.