[Introduction] He Who Dwells Upon the Mountain, Guardian of Hearts,

[death_dawg]

The police had called in a pick-up late that evening: a would-be storm-chaser taking a video camera out to film the thunderstorm that had hit the area, who'd gotten himself struck by lightning

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[myrddin_wyllt]

Merlin was on his way inside as well, and might be just a few steps behind Jacquel. He'll pause - he can feel something powerful in this one, though for now, he can't quite tell who he is.

"The door is likely open," he says slowly - a bit warily, but that's only because Merlin is not sure who he's talking to right now.

[death_dawg]

Jacquel turns and something close to a smile of recognition passes over his calm, brown face. "So it's as I suspected: I've crossed over and not into the West," he says.

There goes making the phonecall, unless he can get a message across into the world he left.

[myrddin_wyllt]

"Not into the West or into anything we know, nay," Merlin replies.

He pauses, examines the man, he can fell power rippling out from him.

"I am the Merlin."

[death_dawg]

"I go by the name Jacquel in my world, though I have been called by many names, most of them true," he says. "But what is this world? I don't remember seeing this house near Cairo, Illinois," he says, and there might be a dry smirk in his tone.

[9891_miles]

Well, here's someone who might be mistaken for some Asian deity, perhaps. Falkor is visible, but not in discussion distance, for now, simply flying, up in and through the clouds.

He's singing, his voice is low and full of deep joy that resonates through the core of his air and fire being.

[death_dawg]

He's out for a walk, possibly early on the next morning (typist willing), when he gazes up into the heavens. He's minded somewhat of a fire dragon from China, whom he'd seen on the battlefield near the House on the Rock. The sight brings back dark memories and lighter ones: the storm that came that turned out to be unnecessary and revolutionary at the same time. And yet the dragon's song is enough to banish the darker thoughts.

He can't help smiling up at the sky and the singer aloft in it.

[9891_miles]

Perhaps because Falkor can feel observed, he'll eventually come down - but not right away, it may in fact take him a moment to decide that he's curious about this... person down there. Whom he can feel is not an Ordinary Person.

He'll remain afloat, but will peer down at Jacquel curiously. "Hello, there."

[death_dawg]

"Hello there, sky-flier!" he calls, shading his eyes with one hand as he looks up. "Are you praising the rising sun or the spring morning?"

[vizir_daughter]

She's been better - Scheherazade is still careful about where she goes at night, but when the sun's out, she feels safe enough to be out and about.

That's why Mr. Jacquel might come across a noticeably Middle-Eastern young lady, her feet and hands tattooed in henna, bare feet tucked nicely under her, though perhaps one can tell that she's wearing ankle bracelets. She's wearing a robe and a shawl that cover her head and shoulders modestly, but she's by no means entirely veiled.

She'll be found frowning over a game of sudoku.

[death_dawg]

He can't help smiling at the girl as he enters the room: she reminds him a bit of an especially pretty temple dancer at Hardai, what would in time become Cyonopolis, who used to look after the temple dogs there, brushing their fur.

He approaches, eying what she's doing, and recognizes the game she's playing: it's in all the newspapers these days, another import from a far away land.

"Excuse me, I didn't mean to look over your shoulder," he says, realizing he's staring.

[vizir_daughter]

She was rather focused, Scheherazade - and that would probably explain why she startles out of her head-wracking exercise. Or maybe she's still nervous from her previous experience.

"-- Sayyid," Scheherazade utters, and she stares up at him, then inclines her head politely. It's a wonder that she spoke Arabic and not Persian - perhaps it has to do with Jacquel's features, or perhaps it has to do with the mathematics.

"-- it's quite alright," she continues in the same language, which is not the contemporary sabir of contemporary Cairo, but rather the elegant classical tongue of Bagdad.

[death_dawg]

"Sorry, I'm not him," he says, apologetically. "You may call me Jacquel." Though there's a hint that this is one of many names he's used, it's just the one he's using now.

[pandora_antioch]

Much later at night, there will be a vampire in the library. Pandora is working on a translation of the Res Publica, from Latin, to Quenya - something she'd like to give Celebrimbor as a wedding present.

She's thoughtful, though, and frowning as she works, mostly because of that conversation she's had with Light. But maybe she can feel... something. Something on the rise. Much has gone on, of late - a vampire attack, Saetan's disappearance... and she has a feeling of foreboding which she can't place.

But of course, that doesn't mean that Anubis himself can't find her, on the contrary.

Wasn't she dedicated to Isis, once?

[death_dawg]

He's sniffing about the house and he's found his way to the library. This is more Ibis's domain than his, but he's not above finding a good book to read. Perhaps he will find some of Ibis's books here.

Which is when he spies the young woman at work, a young woman with a most peculiar scent. Some of it makes him think of Isis, who spread her wings many years ago. But the rest is...different.

"Don't let me disturb you, though I was looking for something to read," he says.

[pandora_antioch]

Pandora can feel something different about this one. He is ancient, maybe more so than Akasha and Enkil, even. She raises her eyes from her book, slowly.

Egyptian. She can tell by the looks of him, by his gait, by his smell, by everything in this man.

Immortal. In the way he moves, the way he is dressed, his easy confidence in a strange and new place.

Interesting.

"I believe you just did," she replies, simply. "As long as I am no longer writing, were you looking for something in particular?"

[death_dawg]

He's likely at least as old as the earliest Pharaohs, though death is at least as old as the universe itself. How long he's inhabited this particular body is anyone's guess (possibly at least since the date of the one fully human image of his inner self -- Do gods take their forms from human ideas, or do they inspire humans to shape certain images of them?).

"I was looking for several volumes that might look like nineteenth century ledgers? The contents are handwritten in a very neat hand, the kind that used to be called copperplate," he says.

[itsnotrelevant]

At some point after his arrival, perhaps as he learns his way around the mansion, Mister Jacquel may find himself watched by a pair of dark eyes peaking out from around a corner. River isn't sure what to make of the new arrival, so she is observing him.

[death_dawg]

He might likely be wrapped up in his explorations before he notices her presence. But as he walks along a sunlit corridor, she might sense something dark, even deadly about him, but at the same time, he has an air of general harmlessness about him.

But to her eyes, his shadow might look...odd...the head isn't human.

[itsnotrelevant]

The contrast facinates her and she'll trail after him, not overtly making her presence known but not attempting to hide either.

[death_dawg]

He pauses, sensing a living soul behind him, lurking, but he does not turn to find her: he does not want to startle her. Instead he moves on slowly, letting her follow him if she will.