[Suzerain of Sheol]

The boy comes alone, his passport and papers all in perfect order. His accommodations at the Hôtel de Ville, his suite overlooking the palatial square below, have been purchased well in advance, an entire floor of his own from which to plan the destruction of, one presumes, the modern world's most elite mages. Now secure in the solitude of its private quarters, the body of Andreas Ragnvaldr IX responds to the will of its master, dutifully retrieving from its suitcase the velour blindfold and a spool of thread. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the host begins, pushing the needle full through the corner of its lip without the slightest flinch, bright blood sluicing down its chin, and then again, and again, tying taut the mouth that is no longer needed. Reinforcements of mana close the punctures tight as soon as the thread is drown through, until the boy's lips are sealed.

That finished, the old spirit moves its grandson to the center of the overlarge bedchamber to begin the summoning. A lesser mage would require a conjuration circle, imploring aid from the Grail in the evocation of a heroic spirit, but Andreas Ragnvaldr I has no need of such paltry contrivances. He merely lifts the boy's arm, its hand outstretched, and creates the skull he will use as catalyst, every molecule replicated from the authentic item stored in the Dead Apostle's library two-thousand miles to the north. It hovers in the air before him, its empty gaze meeting that of his puppet's.

Without preamble, Andreas' raises his disembodied voice, channeling the specter of True Magic across the distance separating them. “Byron! You mad churl, come forth!”