William Schomp

William Schomp

Recovery and Detective Services:

Das Erste Grimoire

Written by:

Jeremy Robb Sheppard

Prologue

He was just another a guest speaker.  I hadn’t even planned to go to the lecture hall that day.  I certainly didn’t care about listening to another sullen old man.  He was just going to tell us how important it was for us to learn what we were being taught and help fight the Nazis and Nips.  They already trotted out three others that month, yammering on about the greatness of serving our country, how we were the future.  One or two I wouldn’t have minded, but the last one didn’t even seem to believe the line he was paid to feed us.  Any student who had bought into their spiel had already enlisted and would be leaving at the end of the semester.  Four in one month was beginning to border on cruel and unusual punishment.  This newest one didn’t even sound like a war veteran, William Hartung Schomp, a Private Detective, art recovery expert, and a local paranormal big wig.  Anyone who had lived in the city for more than a year or two had heard of him.  To most of us, it just seemed as if they had run out of real veterans or local heroes from “the Great War” and were hauling in local celebrities to talk to us.

Three hundred students filled the lecture hall, members of the graduating class and a few of the more exceptional undergraduates from the Arcane Studies program.  Most of us were talking among ourselves, wondering why another government lackey needed to talk to us.  We weren’t troubling ourselves overmuch about the grandstanding of another military spokesman.  Most of us were gathered in small groups discussing the most recent images from “the front,” which movie starlet had been seen at “that” club with “that” actor or director, or which flick we were going to go see that weekend.

The doors to the lecture hall opened.  Most of us turned to scrutinize the man who would be boring us for the next hour or so.  He would have been a big man in his prime, six foot… six foot one, easy.  He obviously came from a Celtic lineage, with Germanic or Nordic heritage added in for that average American look.  He had a large build, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, his stomach at one point might have been flat, but he was certainly showing a noteworthy potbelly.  He walked into the lecture hall with a very pronounced limp and was using a walking stick, an actual stick as tall as he was, not a cane.  His shoulders were hunched slightly. It gave him an almost deformed physique.  His beard was the color of raven’s feathers, with distinct white hairs framing his mouth and chin.  He had it trimmed short, shaved from underneath his chin, but not his cheeks.  His tattered grey fedora covered more black hair.  It hung in lank curls almost to his shoulders, which gave him a very shabby appearance.  Along with the grey suit he was wearing, his long coat appeared to have once been very high quality and had long ago seen better days.  Overall, the man did not give the impression of being a well-respected, accomplished detective, and Arcane master.  The man before us, stomping back and forth in front of the lectern, looked more like a vagrant down on his luck and deep in a bottle.

I amused myself by looking around the hall assessing how the others were reacting to his appearance.  Most of the assembled students went back to their discussions, although in much more hushed tones.  As I said, many of us were essentially tired of the “Down with Tojo and Himmler! Uncle Sam wants You!” speeches.  This man before us unquestionably did not impress us.

My attention got quickly redirected to the front of the hall though, when he attempted to get the attention of the room.  He started with a polite cough to clear his throat and indicate his intention to begin speaking.  It sounded like he had not used his voice in years.  A few of us began to pay attention, but as I said we were not that impressed by him. I would say we intended to be entertained by the attempts of this down and out drunkard trying to talk to us.  He quite dramatically and shockingly ended that entertainment by drawing a very large revolver.  It began to glow intensely, as if in displeasure at the lack of respect being shown to its owner, one Mr. William Hartung Schomp.  A number of the young ladies in attendance, who actually had been paying attention, screamed very shrilly, and startled enough of the other students for them to look towards the front of the lecture hall.  Where they saw that Mr. Schomp had leveled what appeared to be a stylized, glowing, and smoking Colt .45 revolver directly at the back of the hall.

The engravings on the metal barrel and body of the gun were glowing a blinding green, as the barely visible carvings on the wooden grip traced an orange glow through Mr. Schomp’s aged fingers, palm, and back of his hand.  The hammer seemed to pull back in slow motion as Mr. Schomp pulled the trigger in a steady and controlled motion, showing years of practice.  The orange glow flowed into the hammer, as the green glow drained into the chamber coming underneath it.  The crack of the hammer hitting its intended target sounded like thunderclap throughout the lecture hall.

Few of us were still in our seats, as the hammer fell.  The ones that were still seated, watched, as what looked like a churning green and orange boat flare rocketed up the aisle and splashed against the back wall of the lecture hall.  We all stared.  A number of us watched the light, or maybe a better word would be the energy, blaze outward from the impact and around all the doors and bricks, connecting behind the dais.

“That should ensure that we are not disturbed, as I talk to you.”  Mr. Schomp holstered his revolver.  He turned his back on everyone, walked to the back of the dais, took hold of one of the chairs lined up along the wall, and dragged it, quite noisily, near the edge of the dais.  He sat down a little heavily, taking a deep breath as he did, huffing it out as a deep sigh.  “Damn thing is heavier than it looked…  Must be made of red oak.”  Mr. Schomp cleared his throat once again. The cough echoed around the lecture hall, people got up off the floor, and resumed their seats.  Now completely focused on Mr. William Hartung Schomp.

“Right.  I am here today to tell you my experiences with the army and dealings with the Nazis.  It is a useless exercise.  Everyone’s time is different and the same.  It is all in how well you deal with it all.  It is scary.  It is tedious.  What little pleasure is to be found is fleeting and should be treasured.  It can be one of the most laborious experiences for anyone with a lick of sense.  Out of all of that, all I can tell you, as a veteran of ‘The Great War’ is: Trust the men who have either been there before, the veterans, or the survivors who have shown the ability to roll with the punches.”

 “Sir?”  John, a member of our Academic Alchemy and Arcane Arts class, stood up while raising his hand.  “Sir.  That isn’t what the other men told us.”  John was one of the class, who had already enlisted, after the first guest speaker had ended his speech.  He was leaving at the end of the semester.

“Those other men were paid to come here and other universities and colleges up and down the Eastern Seaboard and tell you all that Sh… Stuff.”  Mr. Schomp leaned forward in his chair, looking for all the world as if he couldn’t quite see John, squinting at him, and tilting his head just a little to the left.  “Let me guess…  Eagle Scout.  Leaving just as soon as the semester ends?”
John grinned sheepishly, as he lowered his hand.  Recovering steadily, he stood up a little straighter, John appeared to take a regimental parade stance.  “Yes, Sir.  I am glad you recognized that I am a patriot and that I am a member of a prestigious group of dedicated young Americans.”

“Son, I see the aura of a boy, trying to prove he is a man.  I hope that your time in the service doesn’t ruin the potential I see.”  Mr. Schomp sat back slowly, both effectively and definitively dismissing John.  “Let me explain why I am here…  I am here to determine if any of you have the potential to learn the Arcane Arts, beyond an Academic exercise.  That is why your teacher is not here and why I have sealed the room to keep everyone else out.”  A few grumbles and exclamations of stark surprise escaped a number of the students.

“Yes, I know you are all students of the Arcane, but not all of you are capable of actually implementing what can be taught.  I do not want to hear arguments to the contrary.  How many of you actually saw me ‘seal’ the room or did many of you see me point a fancy looking revolver at the back wall and pull the trigger on an empty chamber?”  Mr. Schomp barely waited for any of us to raise our hands, treating what he said as more of an expression of doubt than a question to the assembled group of students.  “The Arcane is just like many predetermined skills.  It is like being left-hander, one in ten people are left-handed.  The ratio is somewhat higher for the Arcane say, one in five, but people have varying levels of skill aptitude.  A lot of people have the aptitude, but some people are just able to channel the skill with less difficulty.  And since all of you have elected to begin studying already, the government believes that most, if not all of you already have a high aptitude for the Arcane.

“Just as many scientists are being drafted for a number of government projects, any of you with the right kind of potential will be drafted as well.  The government has designated that project as, ‘The Salem Project.'”

Everyone began to shift in their seats.  No one thought that any of the guest speakers would be talking about the draft, at least not in the “government project” sense of the word.  Mr. Schomp scanned the room slowly, taking in all of our faces.  He didn’t appear to be enjoying this any more than we were.  A few of the women were vocally objecting to being “Drafted.”

“No one here is going to be ‘Drafted', in the military sense of the word.  The government is only going to be using your talents for defense of our shores.  The Army, Navy, and Marines are conducting their own testing.  Anyone here that shows the right potential will be a part of ‘Civil Defense,' effectively a part of the ‘National Guard.'”  Mr. Schomp paused a moment and looked towards the desk where our teacher normally sat, while not at the lectern.  “Professor Winters tells me that you are competent with formulae and focus and with the Philosophical Theory behind Arcane practices.  I am going to provide a series of tests, to see just how competent you all are…

“There are three essentials to any spell – Form, Intent, and Willpower.”  Mr. Schomp glanced around at the gathered students seeing whether any of us would contradict him.  But before anyone could, he continued with a self-assured nod.  “Some of you may not hear it referred to in that way.  Some may know physical, mental, and emotional.  It is basically all the same thing.

“Form, is for the most part what it sounds like.  You need something to focus the spell through, a physical form.  That can be many things.  A staff…”  He reached out with his right hand, and the walking stick he had left next to the lectern sailed to his hand with a meaty smack.  “A spell, a potion… anything that within the practitioner’s mind is going to hold the energy that you’re releasing.  For our purposes, we are going to use my walking stick.  I crafted it from a lightning-struck Dogwood tree from my own yard.  There are carved sigils up and down its length, some are personal… Some are different representations of the five elements.”  While Mr. Schomp explained all of this to us, he held up his walking stick, and the different carvings lit up as he mentioned them, going down the list of different ancient languages commonly used in Arcane spell-formulae – Egyptian, Greek, Latin, Norse, Celtic, Germanic, Cuneiform, and so forth.

“Intent, is a little more complicated.  With some things your intent is already dictated by the Form you are going to use; Love Spells, Healing Potions, Shield Charms, or a flying carpet…”  Mr. Schomp’s voice trailed off, waiting for the few dispersed giggles to subside.  “Those kinds of items define their intent and generally, have set formulae to follow that have been around for millennia.  Intent, is defining what you want to do within the Arcane and requires the most ingenuity and imagination.  The more imaginative you are, the more fluid of thought and idea you can be, the better at creating with the Arcane you can be.  And the inverse is true.  The more rigid of thought, the more close-minded to new concepts and ideas you are, the harder it will be for you to create ‘On the fly’ or in the spirit of the moment.  Intent requires you to decide what you want to do and then formulating a form into which you plan to focus that want.”  Mr. Schomp again directed his and our attention upon his walking stick, holding it in both hands, across his palms, and rolling it slowly back and forth.  “Some claim that you should decide your intent before you pick a form.  That decision is entirely up to you.  I only list them in order of importance from least to greatest to me.”

The walking stick was rolling back and forth horizontally across Mr. Schomp’s palms faster and faster.  He just watched it for a few moments.  Then he pulled his hands out from under it.  The walking stick continued to roll back and forth through the air exactly where he had been holding it out.  “The last thing needed to perform any kind of Arcane act is Willpower.  Above all else without the will to say, ‘It shall be so.’, the Arcane user will be nothing more than a theorist.”  Mr. Schomp pushed back his chair and stood up.  He proceeded to the steps of the dais.

“I could quite easily leave this room, return home, and then come back here tomorrow night, and that stick would still be moving, back and forth in the air.  Unless…”  At this point, he singled out three of the assembled students.  “…  Any of you, can walk up there, and cause it to stop…”