Wondersmith, Trailblazer, Drinkspeaker
Birth Name: Camberon Henry Grey
Craft Name: Nicolas Flamel Smith, Adept bani Verditius (aka Forge)
Shadow Name: Adept Nicolas Camberon Henry Grey Flamel Smith, bani Verditius, Artificer of the Seven Wonders, Herald of the Hidden Path, Forge of Adamant
True Name: Adept Nicolas Camberon Henry Grey Flamel Smith, bani Verditius, Artificer of the Seven Wonders, Herald of the Hidden Path, Forge of Adamant; In Caligine Abditus, Sangris Erunamo al-Arikash
Nature: Bon Vivant
Tradition: Order of Hermes, House Verditius (The Enchanters)
Concept: Wondersmith and Waymaker
Physical: Strength 2, Dexterity 3, Stamina 2
Social: Charisma 3, Manipulation 4, Appearance 1
Mental: Perception 4, Intelligence 3, Wits 3
Talents: Alertness 3, Awareness 4, Dodge 1
Skills: Crafts 4 (Metalsmithing), Firearms 4, Technology 3
Knowledges: Academics 2, Computer 4 (Programming), Science 3
Correspondence 3, Matter 3, Prime 2
Primary Sphere: Correspondence
Backgrounds: Avatar 3, Dream 4, Wonder 4 (Seven League Ring)
Mission Presidio University Chantry Backgrounds: Library 5, Node 5, Sanctum 2 Resources 3, Mentor 3
Resonances: Dynamic 1 (Instinctive)
Lightning Calculator (1)
Ability Aptitude (1): Crafts
Defective Sense (1): Taste (-2 Penalty)
Addiction (1): Alcohol
The Bard’s Tongue (1)
Specialty Foci (Should incorporate modern technology as much as possible)
Correspondence 3 (Sacred Geometry), Matter 3 (Hermetic Mudras), Prime 2 (Lanterns)
General Foci (Should incorporate modern technology as much as possible)
Swords, cups, discs/talismans, wands/staves, altars, incense, sacred geometry/geomancy, alchemy, astrology, tarot, Kabbalah, Enochian, Coptic/Egyptian symbolism, metalworking, new communications technologies, fast talking.
Avatar 3 ::: Nic’s dynamic Avatar manifests as a mercurial being composed of one or more of the seven planetary metals depending on the purpose for its appearance.
Dream 4 :: Hermes is a master of thought and vision, a lightning-serpent that springs through dreams; Nic’s dreams sizzle with Hermes’ infinite knowledge, his mind skipping like a stone across the collective unconscious.
Wonder 4 :: Seven League Ring, as the Correspondence 3 teleportation effect. The white-gold ring is subtly accented with a hollow diamond filled with mercury. The effect is activated with a kiss to the setting.
MyPhone :: A highly modified hybrid of an Android and iPhone, with several unique components. Close examination would reveal that those impossible components are designed to incorporate subtle arcane symbolism to achieve potent effects. Various custom-programmed apps on the MyPhone are useful as foci.
Toolbox :: A standard toolbox, but with an unusual emphasis on specialty jewelry and metalsmithing tools, including hammers, chisels, and tongs, and even a miniature (possibly magically miniaturized) anvil.
20-Piece Mixology Kit and Flask :: An answer to innumerable first-world problems, as needed or desired.
Magical Kit :: Nic follows the time-tested Hermetic practice of preparing commonly needed ingredients for final touches and quick use. The small suitcase is neatly filled with various vials, etched metal discs, and oils, some of a dubiously legal nature. ST Discretion – Always ask!
What Everyone Knows
A grandiloquent and self-described “puckish rogue,” Nic is known by everyone, though even a casual observer can sense what motivates every class clown. Loud and proud, he is critically insecure and needs the spotlight — whether through a dazzling work of Art, a hilarious plank, or a coy turn of phrase. His friends and enemies are always kept on their toes, and are equally likely to be gifted a glorious treasure or a humiliating prank. This trickster is contradictory, unpredictable, callous, and strange, and like so many of his peers, unutterably brilliant. Nic yearns to use his particular brand of brilliance to push the boundaries, to provoke, to challenge, and always with artistic flair.
Nic is a swaggering, sauntering maker of wonders and blazer of trails. When danger rears its ugly head, he offers it a glorious makeover and a stiff cocktail. He does not hesitate, nor does he believe in subtlety. Rather, Nic hungers for adventure, and thirsts for thrills. There is wisdom in patience and caution, but that’s what other people provide. He will provide drinks and finger foods. For Nic, the “11th hour” is cocktail hour.He cannot bear the thought of being boring, predictable, or forgettable.
Camberon Henry Grey was born to George and Elaine Bennett Grey on August 5, 1989 in Spruce Pine, North Carolina. The sickly, half-rotten mining town was home to a tight-knit community of miners, whose back-breaking work yielded much of the country’s quartz, mica, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires. The town was the heart of a multi-mullion dollar industry that only drained the hills and its people of their lifeblood, and left the miners destitute. He was an only child and, as soon as he could hold a pickaxe, joined his father in the mines.
A catastrophic collapse left his father and much of his crew dead, but Cam miraculously survived — and House Fortunae took notice. The disaster had made national headlines, and the Hermetic diviners fortunately discovered what the Syndicate had not: the boy possessed an alchemist’s Avatar. They made arrangements, and before long Camberon was the recipient of prestigious scholarships that drew him under the Order’s aegis. The Rhodes took him to Oxford, where the truth of his mentorship was revealed. After a few very stiff drinks, he was coaxed out of the broom cupboard, and was formally initiated.
His training was rigorous but far from traditional. Assigned to an Iranian alchemist called Ostanes of House Verditius, Camberon took the name of Nicolas Flamel. The two made a dynamic duo — they both possessed spirited personalities, and a healthy contempt for rules. But inevitably his apprenticeship in the rudiments of alchemy drew to a close, and after his Awakening the Order enrolled him at Mission Presidio University, the closest thing to Horizon or Doissetep.
Dreams rush before my eyes like ripples on the turgid skin of a boiling ocean. I drift this way and that, diving across worlds of smoke and razors and half-truths, worlds of freezing torment and ineffable beauty, flying over glaciers rippling with lust and climbing pearlescent spires as tall as moons, a mere feather on the breath of God. Absorbing illusions, the whispers of phantom voices. Sometimes the voices are glacial and deadly, sometimes volcanic, sometimes dripping with wet—and they speak. Here, in this deepest dream, only words move. Heat and ice, throat and eye, and madness for a thousand years, frozen blood boiling in my threadlike veins. I cannot open my eyes. Or if I can, everything is distant snow, blur. No light here, no light. But rather darkness visible.
There is nothing else, neither night nor day, here—when suddenly all the hot and all the cold, the light of darkness, the sound and silence, congeals into a single incandescent drop. I see the drop swell and burst into flame, the very same fire of divine substance that burns in the sun, the moon, the stars, the flesh, unfathomable, inextinguishable, insatiable. The great press of the universe takes form, slithering grey lava, a lion’s mane of ash. The sound grows primordial, an old world’s lonely music, lonely words congealing and plunging. Shapes of canyons, mountains, stone, bone, blood.
Awake, arise, or be forever lost!
I press through… through fire and water, through opal and pearl, through old bones and slicing briars, over icy deserts, over pits, scaling the towers… upwards, ascent… I reach the realm of imaginings and thoughts, and I hear the words, soaring, crystalline, and pure. I want to go on. These words melts my dreams. I have slept dreams of dreamless stones, have heard songs of ignited blood, but never have I slept a dream such as this. My eyelids that were kept closed are opened. Lighter than air, than water, than lips, than light…
I find myself, drawn by a slender cord, silver and sanguine, and I follow it towards the earth, falling faster than a shadow towards its root. Walls bar my path, but I step lightly and all barriers give way one by one, all gates are reduced to dust one by one. I find it there, the soul of my soul, the flesh of my flesh. I speak its name, I claim it, I bind it, I rend it, I devour it, I weave it through my name.
I become truly myself.
A torrent of blood, hot, surging through my veins. Primordial fire pulsing in perfect simultaneity with the tides, spurting through the thin fibers, filling them with pneumatic essence, transfiguring them utterly.
Skin still boiling and rippling, Charles Henry Grey awakes, screaming, blood boiling. The agony is transcendent, and he finds it precious. The sound of his throat, the pain in every atom of his flesh, is precious. What a glorious thing! How remarkable this music, these words! This must be savored, remembered! Every last detail a testament, a miracle, a gift, something to be treasured and kept close to the heart and the mind.
Chaos all around him, blinding. In time, the flesh adapts, cools, mends. The streaming blood, hot with this angelic incandescence, sinks back into the flesh, resuming its pulse. Seeing himself reflected in silver, he examines himself, every inch, for countless hours, and then his surroundings. Everything must be known from every angle: the fibers of every scrap of cloth, the grain of every wood panel or floorboard, the temperature and composition of the air… He sees himself in a mirror and is entranced as he examines every hair, every pore. He locks eyes with his reflection, gazing deeply, past iris and pupil.
And then he sleeps and dreams, the heat of the flesh cooling into finest crystal. He remembers the man he was and dreams of who he has and will become, learns his life and his death… and momentarily forgets in darkest wine, only to dream again.