09-22-2013, 02:02 PM
With Mr. Marx seated, the hum of consideration vibrated the back of the Regus' throat. The acquiescence to command was unexpected though undermined by the the condescension accompanying it. His attitude was the plank in his own eye. Although the ancient office of the Regus was as a conductor of a great orchestra in which he considered the Americans a necessary harmony, after all, they were on the same team, he was willing to be the man to remove such splinters from his acolytes tunnel vision. To whom else fell the responsibility if not him?
As much as the undivided attention of the Regus would entertain his american subordinate, there were more important matters at hand. Such as saving the world. The parchment Aria carried here today was an original page from the Voynich codex, and this one in particular was one of many 'missing' from its two-hundred and forty brethren. The difference between missing and lost being one of semantics.
Lifting it gently as the wind, he placed it upon the tempered glass panel embedded in his desk and a digital copy was scanned to the air above which he could manipulate. The elaborate projection hovered midair, much as how the lesser advanced Wallets worked.
"Cryptographers have been driven mad trying to decipher this text." Armande drank in the hand-written script with thirsty eyes that sensed the challenge. The points and slants ran smoothly across each and every glyph, as though freely transcribed. Enciphered texts were frequently punctuated with pauses where the author took the time necessary to translate the code.
"It is a page from the Voynich manuscript," he struck Aria with a knowing gaze. That name was known to conspirators and historians alike, no few of them outside their society as within it. The name should strike a tense chord in her mind.
The Regus then circled the hologram. A swiping motion enlarged the illustration in the corner. "Here you will see why this page is of interest." Surely this would draw even Mr. Marx from his cocoon of ignorance. For inked to the corner of the page was the half black, half white image of the ouroboros, with the point of the devouring serpent drawn at the highest position in the loop. Unlike the familiar images marking the Atharim themselves, this one was severed into seven symmetrical pieces, disconnected, yet still whole.
"Ms. Piccolo," Armande clasped his hands behind his back when she turned toward him, "With your 'biological' connection, you have insights stronger than any one of your affinities in the last millennium," his tone was forthright and neither praise-worthy nor judgmental. She was a tool, however, and to defend the world, the Regus of the Atharim would wield anything as weapon. "In this image and in these glyphs lie meanings deeper than the translation itself. Your task is to take yourself seven-hundred years in the past, and tell us the author's state as he penned this page."
Where cryptographers and code breakers failed, the Regus was going to succeed. The page, indeed likely the entire manuscript, was glossolalia, the visual interpretation of a stream of consciousness penned only by the most obtuse of prophets. Where linguistics failed, pure emotion itself had to be translated. Rather than strings of sounds which the author knew, the word and sentence units were the rhythm and melody of his spirit ascribed forever in vellum. Luckily, the greatest living furia of a thousand years would succeed where so many others had failed.
"You will need the original document, but it is too precious to relinquish beyond the walls of this Office. Therefore, your work will be conducted in my presence in situ. No doubt this has been a difficult day for you, child. You may return tomorrow after resting your mind if such aids are necessary."
Hands clasped behind his back, he awaited her answer.
As much as the undivided attention of the Regus would entertain his american subordinate, there were more important matters at hand. Such as saving the world. The parchment Aria carried here today was an original page from the Voynich codex, and this one in particular was one of many 'missing' from its two-hundred and forty brethren. The difference between missing and lost being one of semantics.
Lifting it gently as the wind, he placed it upon the tempered glass panel embedded in his desk and a digital copy was scanned to the air above which he could manipulate. The elaborate projection hovered midair, much as how the lesser advanced Wallets worked.
"Cryptographers have been driven mad trying to decipher this text." Armande drank in the hand-written script with thirsty eyes that sensed the challenge. The points and slants ran smoothly across each and every glyph, as though freely transcribed. Enciphered texts were frequently punctuated with pauses where the author took the time necessary to translate the code.
"It is a page from the Voynich manuscript," he struck Aria with a knowing gaze. That name was known to conspirators and historians alike, no few of them outside their society as within it. The name should strike a tense chord in her mind.
The Regus then circled the hologram. A swiping motion enlarged the illustration in the corner. "Here you will see why this page is of interest." Surely this would draw even Mr. Marx from his cocoon of ignorance. For inked to the corner of the page was the half black, half white image of the ouroboros, with the point of the devouring serpent drawn at the highest position in the loop. Unlike the familiar images marking the Atharim themselves, this one was severed into seven symmetrical pieces, disconnected, yet still whole.
"Ms. Piccolo," Armande clasped his hands behind his back when she turned toward him, "With your 'biological' connection, you have insights stronger than any one of your affinities in the last millennium," his tone was forthright and neither praise-worthy nor judgmental. She was a tool, however, and to defend the world, the Regus of the Atharim would wield anything as weapon. "In this image and in these glyphs lie meanings deeper than the translation itself. Your task is to take yourself seven-hundred years in the past, and tell us the author's state as he penned this page."
Where cryptographers and code breakers failed, the Regus was going to succeed. The page, indeed likely the entire manuscript, was glossolalia, the visual interpretation of a stream of consciousness penned only by the most obtuse of prophets. Where linguistics failed, pure emotion itself had to be translated. Rather than strings of sounds which the author knew, the word and sentence units were the rhythm and melody of his spirit ascribed forever in vellum. Luckily, the greatest living furia of a thousand years would succeed where so many others had failed.
"You will need the original document, but it is too precious to relinquish beyond the walls of this Office. Therefore, your work will be conducted in my presence in situ. No doubt this has been a difficult day for you, child. You may return tomorrow after resting your mind if such aids are necessary."
Hands clasped behind his back, he awaited her answer.