©Rusty Quill 2023 Private & Confiden al

THE MAGNUS PROTOCOL

Episode 4
“Taking Notes”

Written by Cole Weavers

Edited by Jonathan Sims & Alexander J Newall

Show-Notes are available at the end of the Transcript.

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ANNOUNCER
Louise Ironside - To the greatest friends I
could wish for: To my craft fair companion
Mimie; To JC who's kept me sane with
endless walks; and ultimately to Harrow
and Ivy, here's to another two decades
and more.

[Intro Theme]

ANNOUNCER
Rusty Quill Presents: The Magnus
Protocol.
Episode Four – Taking Notes

[Music]

1. INT. LOCATION - OIAR OFFICE. NIGHT. CLEAR. (COMPUTER).

The decrepit computer turns on. SAM is typing whilst idly singing to
himself.
Alice stomps closer then slams her hands down on his desk.

ALICE
(whisper)
What the hell Sam.

SAM
What?

ALICE
Don't ’What?’ me. I invented ‘What?’.

SAM
(quieter)
Wh-I… I honestly don’t know what you're on
about.

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ALICE
I just received a security notification.
SAM
About me?

ALICE
Someone was trying to access restricted files.
And my money is on you.

SAM
Why would you be getting those notifications?
ALICE
I shouldn’t be, but you should be damn glad that
this system doesn’t do anything like it should. If
Colin caught wind of this he would have a
meltdown!

SAM
Right. Well, thanks, I guess?

ALICE

Apparently you tried searching for files with the

terms...
(checking printout)
"Magnus” and “Protocol"?

SAM
That’s what this is about? I mean, yeah, okay, I
got a case referencing the Magnus Institute and
then I looked it up and found a few files on the
system that mentioned using “The Protocol”.
Why would that be restricted?

ALICE
Because we work for the government and-
the government loves secrets, you dickhead!

SAM
Alright, yeah, I get it...

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Beat.

ALICE
(slightly gentler)
Listen Sam. I don't know what "The Protocol" is
but a couple of the old guard mentioned it over
the years. The way they talked about it… it's
high level stuff. You do not want to get found
anywhere near it, never mind openly looking it
up.

SAM
Well, I mean it isn't exactly as though I'm-

ALICE
This is not something you go poking
around in. Not if you want to keep your
job... or your neck.

SAM
Okay, okay! I get it. Consider me scared
straight.
ALICE
I’m serious. I don't want you getting in
trouble all right?

SAM
(realizing)
I mean, how much trouble are we talking
here?

Beat.

ALICE
All I know is it used to involve Starkwall.

SAM
Starkwall? As in “The San Pedro Square
Massacre” Starkwall?

ALICE

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The private military contractors yeah.

GWEN approaches.

SAM
(whispering)
I thought this was supposed to be a "boring
office job"!?

ALICE
(whispering)
It was until you started messing around!
Gwen arrives and sits.

Beat.

GWEN
You could at least pretend you weren’t
talking about me.
ALICE
Aw damn, you caught us! I was just telling
Sam how important it is that he focuses
on his work otherwise he’ll end up trapped
here like you forever.

GWEN
Of course you were. Well keep it down.
Some of us do actual work here. At our
job. Which pays us.

SAM
Noted.

GWEN double clicks on her PC.

AUGUSTUS
My Nephew,

/If you are reading these words, then I am

already gone, and can offer no assurances as to
the truth of them. You must simply trust in their
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veracity and import-

ALICE
/Hey! Augustus! Feels like I haven’t heard him in
forever!

SAM
So is this, like, a rare voice?

Gwen presses spacebar, irritated. The voice stops.

ALICE
Kinda. It’s usually just Chester or Norris.
Augustus is a bit of a special occasion.
GWEN
Firstly, they don’t have names. Stop trying to
give them names. Secondly, can I please just
get on with my job.
SAM
I’m sorry.

ALICE
I’m not.

GWEN takes a calming breath then hits the spacebar again.

2. CYBER SPACE

AUGUSTUS
My Nephew,

If you are reading these words, then I am

already gone, and can offer no assurances as to
the truth of them. You must simply trust in their
veracity and import.

Keep what you read close to you, and secret, for

as long as you may live.
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I must hope that what lamentable inheritance I

am able to offer might solicit a modicum of that
familial affection which I have neglected to
display in years past.

Nephew, to you I leave my violin, an instrument

of the finest craftsmanship.

I will confess I once harbored the notion to

dismantle the thing, or consign it to the fire, but
I have at times been called covetous, and
perhaps there is some merit to such an
accusation, for I cannot now bring myself to do
so.

There has been a great deal of rain here this last

fortnight, which has been strangely pleasing to
my maudlin mood, and has brought with it some
nostalgia for that dreary summer you took
residence with me.

I flatter myself to think that I might have

imprinted upon you some part of myself in that
time together, and perhaps in this way I seek to
keep hold of my prized violin still.

I have never spoken of how I came to possess

this violin to a living soul, but I must now
confide the truth of it to you, for it, and its
history, are now yours.

I was a young man, younger than you are now,

when I was called to try my talents before the
Royal Court Orchestra of the Palatinate.

While I must confess the thought of leaving the

material comforts of Alnwick Abbey caused me
trepidation, in truth I had little say in the matter,
and the privilege of being so summoned was
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not lost upon me.

My violin tutor, one Oliver Bardwell by name,

nursed a conviction that this honor was purely
the fruit of his own skills as an instructor, rather
than a product of my talent and endeavor.

Bardwell, a singularly vexatious man, reveled in

the task of reminding me that, though my father
may hold station in the Lords, the regrettable
position of my birth ensured I could not rely
upon that fact to provide for my future.

In these moments of Bardwell’s cruelty, I shall

confess I indulged my imagination in
contemplation of what morbid or grotesque
fates might befall him on the journey, by
happenstance or even by my own hand.

Regardless, it was with both nervousness and

delight in my heart that I watched Alnwick
Abbey gradually recede from view. My course
was set for Mannheim, a destination where I felt
a youthful certainty that my brilliance would at
last be acknowledged.

As for my towering father, with his unshakeable

belief in his own celestial significance, he too
disappeared from sight, surrounded by my
useless half-siblings, impatiently awaiting their
inheritance.

Naturally, it was Mr. Bardwell who undertook the

role of companion on my journey across the
continent, surely harboring his own dreams of
ennobling himself through my imminent
accomplishments.

I paid little heed to his prattle or ambitions,

spending those weeks en route refining my
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finger patterns upon the timeworn bridge of my

cherished Rogeri, at least as far as the unsteady
coach would permit.

Alas, as the journey continued, Bardwell’s

practiced manners and veneer of refinement
gradually eroded, and as the summer's warmth
yielded to autumn's chill, his demeanor truly
soured, a change hastened by each rut and jolt
of the aged carriage.

Soon, a feverish restlessness had settled upon

him like a shroud of tulle, and his once
discerning eyes had clouded with a frantic,
almost manic gleam.

I watched with growing unease as shadows

danced upon the walls of his thoughts, their
forms and nature hidden to me, save for what I
overheard him utter beneath his breath, barely
perceptible to the ear. At moments, it seemed
almost as if he were listening to some far away
music, though my instrument lay quiet beside
me.

I have made mention of the grim fantasies that

on occasion possessed my youthful mind, but
you must believe me, nephew, when I say I had
no part in his death. I do not know what at last
caused the frenzied paroxysm which seized him
that night. He had slept but little the week prior,
and the strain upon his nerves was plain to see.

It was as I missed the fingering of what should

have been a simple exercise, a mistake I ascribe
to the coach’s jostling, that he leapt to his feet.
Words tumbled from his lips, devoid of
coherence, a symphony of mania conducted by
some unseen maestro of his own imagination.

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It were as though some specter flitted just

beyond his sight and grasped his hands,
moving them with wild abandon as Mr. Bardwell
sought salvation from whatever phantoms
haunted his waking dreams.

I often wonder if I might have intervened to save

his life. But I was young and frightened, and
simply watched in quiet awe.

As the storm within his mind reached a

crescendo, Bardwell seized the handle of the
carriage door, opened it abruptly and, without
hesitation, hurled himself head first into the
night.

The coachman, noticing immediately what had

happened, brought the carriage to a sudden
halt, and we confronted the grim spectacle that
lay before us.

A rock, marked with the grisly remnants of my

tutor’s troubled mind and the fragments of his
fractured skull, served as a morbid marker,
looming over the lifeless form of the detestable
Mr. Bardwell.

In my naiveté, I turned to the coachman to ask

what we might do. Alas, I saw at once the
suspicion that gripped him.

He had been witness to many heated exchanges

between myself and Mr Bardwell, and as I
approached, it became clear he perceived not a
terrified and distraught youth, but a violent
killer.

A primal fear seized the man, and he acted

rashly. I shall not speak of what followed, but
suffice it to say that I ended up alone, wandering
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in the night.

How long I walked through those woods I

cannot say. I was near insensible, and darkness
shrouded all.

I do not know whether to call it luck or

misfortune, that twist of fate which saved me,
but at length I spied through the trees the
flickering of flame and a figure huddled close for
warmth.

A gentleman, it appeared, of surprisingly refined

countenance sat there, casting a stark
silhouette against the firelight.

"Spreekt u Engels?" I inquired in broken Dutch,

Mr Bardwell’s indifferent instruction having left
me still ignorant of any German.

"A fellow Englishman," came his warm reply,

accompanied by a hearty chuckle.

"You have a look that speaks of hunger," he

continued, and offered some crudely skewered
morsel, nearly charred to ash by the flames.

Devoid of caution, and keenly aware of my

empty stomach, I accepted the burnt meat
without ceremony.

Sitting by the fire, he probed gently into how I

came to be there, and I found myself disclosing,
with a candor I did not intend, the unvarnished
truth of not only the night just past, but my life
up until that moment.

Attentively he listened to my story, his gaze

unwavering, and seemingly kind. Then he
sighed.
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"Fortune does seem to have forsaken you," he

mused, his expression unreadable and his tone
strangely conspiratorial.

"Indeed, I would suggest a stroke of luck is

much in order."

I agreed, and the smile that then crossed his

face, as though my acquiescence had sealed
some compact between us, was a most curious
thing.

The stranger reached over and retrieved from

behind the log on which he sat an unusually
shaped sack.

Within it I could spy an assortment of trinkets,

ranging from battered knives and chipped
porcelain to fine jewelry, small ivory figures and
even a set of gambler’s dice.

"Luck assumes a myriad of forms, " he

proclaimed, his practiced manner warm and
inviting, “and today it takes the form of a simple
traveler offering you his wares. You mentioned
playing the violin, I believe?”

He plunged his hand into his curious bag, and

after moment of two of searching, pulled out an
instrument of such apparent quality that the
providence of its appearance seemed almost
otherworldly.

Placing a bow upon the string, and in a single

fluid motion, he executed an echoing double
stop that resonated with a satisfying thrum.

He said nothing as I examined it, ascribing it no

history, no famous maker or master luthier.
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The neck, a paragon of symmetry, led the eye

from the deep crimson hue of the upper bout
gradually surrendering to a subdued natural
mahogany as it descended.

"Ah, is this the face of fortune today?" He

inquired, observing as my fingers traced the
strings' span.

At that moment a cry of pain erupted from my

throat, a cry that shocked even myself, as I
realised I had cut my fingertip upon the strings.

The merchant only smirked, looking at me as

one might a boy who'd touched a cooking pot.

"I have nothing to offer in return," I confessed,

unused to being without means, and attempting
to return the violin.

"Then let us not consider it a purchase, but a

gift from a true friend."

His words were warm, yet there was within them

some undertone which seemed to elude my
understanding.

Before I could inquire further, this man, whose

name I had never thought to ask, gestured down
the path and, already beginning to kick dirt upon
the fire, assured me my destination was but a
few hours walk away.

In something of a daze I left my companion then,

and soon enough it became clear that he had
spoken true, and my whole ordeal had unfolded
less than a day from the end of my journey.

And so at last I made my arrival at the Manheim

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School, that nurturing ground of virtuosos who

would grace the grandest stages of Europe,
beckoned with its promise.
The luminaries it had borne, illustrious names
such as Grua, Stamitz, Richter, and Fraänzl,
made the prospect of joining it, and them,
almost overwhelming.

No mention was made of the manner of my

arrival, nor of what might have befallen me on
the road, and after some few days I found
myself ushered into a resplendent hall, where
sat a panel of my would-be arbiters.
A tremor of apprehension coursed through me
as I faced the silent assembly, and it was with
an unfamiliar feeling of uncertainty that I
gripped my new instrument.

Its neck, more slender than its predecessor, sat

awkwardly in my hand, and as I began my
fingers fumbled in their search for purchase
upon the strings.

I attempted the first of my well-practiced

recitations, but my playing was inelegant and
rough, eliciting only dismissive whispers, and
derisive muttering from my audience.

A surge of indignation and fear welled within

me, urged on by the knowledge that I, my
father's sin, who had done terrible things to
reach that hall, could never return home in
disgrace.

I executed a 'jete', a jarring musical demand for

their attention, a declaration that I must be seen,
and heard.

A rapid and perfect volley of eleven notes, past

which no murmur, no whisper lingered. I had
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their complete attention.

In that moment of silence, a piercing pain

radiated from my left ring finger.

As my eyes opened, I saw of blood pooling on

the neck from where my skin should be, as the
uppermost layer of the fingertip dangled, torn
and hanging like discarded parchment.

Pain and panic blossomed, but no option

remained other than to play, and to play the
most daunting melodies my mind could conjure.

Sluggish at first, as I felt the strings run their

length against my bloody flesh, then rapidly
accelerating, crescendos intertwining
diminuendos, a dance of command and
submission enacted upon the strings.

Double stops, left-handed pizzicato, and heart-

rending spiccato bowed in rapid succession,
each note eliciting something deep and
primeval. I could see in the faces of my
audience an astonishment, and something not
entirely unlike terror, and when the final notes
rang out at last, a palpable breathlessness
blanketed the chamber.

I was, of course, accepted, hailed as a singular

talent.

Yet a suspicion took root in me. A realisation

that the positions of “player” and “instrument”
were not so firmly set with this hungering violin.
It was a creature with needs and purpose of its
own.

The needs were simple enough. Blood. Flesh.

Little enough at first. Skin shaved and cut and
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singing in pain. And the rewards were great, as

with each performance, agony intermingled with
melody, and my bleeding fingers lubricated
those resonating strings.

My audience too showed a remarkable appetite

for my artistry, and as I progressed through the
school my reputation began to grow.

I was demanded, hailed, celebrated. And all the

while, I bled. Did those who listened to me ever
truly notice my sacrifice?

Did they see the slow transformation of my

fingers, as each sonata exacted its toll?
Applause followed me as each elongated note
testified to my life’s blood, and my pain.

Yet still I played for them. How could I do

otherwise?

Standing tall, a man in my own right, my

grandest ambitions realized.

And yet, while admiration rained down upon me,

never was I elevated beyond the confines of my
origins. The rarified world of my noble patrons
was closed to me.

Modest riches adorned me, some small fame

clung to my name, but never was I truly allowed
to escape the position of my birth.

It was only then, in the depths of my pain and

bitterness, that I found a secret truth. A truth I
impart to you alongside the violin itself.

The blood for its strings need not be your own.

It was not simple philanthropy that led to my

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taking on positions of tutelage in those bustling

cities where I plied my trade, providing a
musical education to the poor and the easily
forgotten, asking nothing in return. Nothing
except the occasional student who would not be
missed.

Perhaps you pale at this, and abjure me for a

monster. But you will learn that to feed this
instrument, now yours, is of singular
importance. Only once did I play it without
paying its price: wrapping my fingers in thick
bandages so as to prevent its razored strings
from cutting me.

I had believed my playing would be lackluster,

my performance uninspired. Yet the music that
came from my instrument that day was
somehow more beautiful than it had ever been
before. It was lively, pulsing, carrying with it a
spirit of motion, an irresistible urge to dance. I
looked out upon my audience, a small gathering
of minor Austrian gentry, and saw in their eyes a
strange and familiar look. One I had not seen in
many, many years. Not since that night in the
carriage with the unfortunate Mr Bardwell.

They fell upon each other then, a dance of teeth

and nails, of tearing and gouging. I watched as a
gout-ridden man in emerald silk sucked the eyes
from his son’s skull and crushed them in his
jaws like ripe cherries. A demure young woman
bedecked in gold peeled the cheeks from her
betrothed as she sang to the music that I could
not stop playing. It was only when a candelabra
was upended and the room engulfed in flame
that I was at last able to cease my recitation and
make my escape.

Perhaps you shall prove a stronger will than I,

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and will yet find it within yourself to destroy this

hungry thing of wood and cat-gut. But I cannot. I
shall not.

For my music, ah, my divine music, is truly a

balm for the unhealed wounds of my existence.

In its celestial strains I have found solace, a

sanctuary woven from ethereal threads.

And perhaps you shall find similar.

Feed my violin, nephew, for I have given it all I

that have and more.

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3. INT. OIAR OFFICE NIGHT, STARTING TO RAIN (COMPUTER)

SAM and ALICE have been listening despite themselves. GWEN is still
working.

ALICE
Dear grandpa Augustus does always tell
such lovely stories.

SAM
Why on earth would something from the 18th
century show up on Freddy?

ALICE
(smirking)
I told you Gwen was behind on her work.
GWEN
(irritated)
Someone likely digitized an old historical record
and it triggered the search engine.

ALICE
And so was solved the horrifying mystery
of the Quite Old Letter. Gosh, I’ve got
chills.
GWEN
Maybe doing some actual work might
warm you up.

SAM chuckles.

ALICE
(to Sam)
Yeah you might get the odd historical
record by accident. I wouldn't even bother
scoring or assessing it.

GWEN
Whilst I would advise our junior colleague to

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remember that that they are being paid to do

just that. Besides, it still counts towards your
numbers.

ALICE
And you really do need those numbers don’t
you Gwen.
GWEN
We all do.

ALICE
(turning off PC and collecting
things)
Not me! I’m done. Sam?

SAM
(Doing the same)
Pretty much…

ALICE
Then I cordially invite you to bugger off
home and think about how important it is
to focus on your work.

SAM
Yeah, yeah. Coming Gwen?
GWEN
Not quite yet.

ALICE
(moving off)
Case and point. Ta Ta Gwendoline darling,
chow.

SAM
(following)
See you tomorrow.

GWEN
(Still working)

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Hmmmm.

They both exit.

Extended pause as GWEN works.

There is an email notification from her PC.

GWEN
Hmmmm?

She opens the attachment a recording plays. The audio quality is very
poor.

KLAUS
(video, begging)
Please. Please, you don’t have to do this!

YOUNGER LENA
(video)
We both know I do.

KLAUS
(video)
/I I-could disappear again! They would
never know!

GWEN
(Gasp)
/Lena? What the hell?

Computer turns off.

[Music]
ANNOUNCER
The Magnus Protocol is a podcast
distributed by Rusty Quill and licensed
under a Creative Commons Attribution
Non-Commercial Share-alike 4.0
International License.

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The series is created by Jonathan Sims

and Alexander J Newall, and directed by
Alexander J Newall.
This episode was written by Cole Weavers
and edited with additional material by
Jonathan Sims and Alexander J Newall,
with vocal edits by Lowri Ann Davies,
soundscaping by Tessa Vroom, and
masting by Catherine Rinella with music
by Sam Jones.
It featured Billie Hindle as Alice Dyer,
Shahan Hamza as Samama Khalid, Anusia
Battersby as Gwen Bouchard, Sarah
Lambie as Lena Kelley with additional
voices from Tim Fearon.
The Magnus Protocol is produced by April
Sumner, with executive producers
Alexander J Newall, Dani McDonough,
Linn Ci, and Samantha F.G. Hamilton, and
Associate Producers Jordan L. Hawk,
Taylor Michaels, Nicole Perlman, Cetius
d’Raven, and Megan Nice.

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The Magnus Protocol 4 – Taking Notes

CAT3C7494-19111831-29012024
Collection (blood) -/- musical [letter]

Incident Elements:
 Blood
 Gore
 Violence
 Hysteria
 Self-harm

Transcripts: https://shorturl.at/gzF15

This Episode is dedicated to Louise Ironside, Mimie, JC, Harrow & Ivy,
thank you for your generous support! You can a complete list of our
Kickstarter backers https://rustyquill.com/the-magnus-protocol-
supporter-wall/

Created by Jonathan Sims and Alexander J Newall

Directed by Alexander J Newall
Written by Cole Weavers (for more of his work visit
https://www.thetownwhispers.com/ )
Script Editing with Additional Materials by Jonathan Sims and
Alexander J Newall
Executive Producers April Sumner, Alexander J Newall, Jonathan
Sims, Dani McDonough, Linn Ci, and Samantha F.G. Hamilton
Associate Producers Jordan L. Hawk, Taylor Michaels, Nicole
Perlman, Cetius d’Raven, and Megan Nice
Produced by April Sumner

Featuring (in order of appearance)

Billie Hindle as Alice Dyer
Shahan Hamza as Samama Khalid
Anusia Battersby as Gwendolyn Bouchard
Tim Fearon as Augustus
Sarah Lambie as Lena Kelley
Paul Schmidt as Klaus

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Dialogue Editor – Lowri Ann Davies

Sound Designer – Tessa Vroom
Mastering Editor - Catherine Rinella

Music by Sam Jones (orchestral mix by Jake Jackson)

Art by April Sumner

SFX from Soundly, Freesound (CCO): kyles and previously credited

Support us on Patreon at https://patreon.com/rustyquill

Check out our merchandise available at

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Join our community:

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EMAIL: [email protected]

The Magnus Protocol is a derivative product of the Magnus Archives,

created by Rusty Quill Ltd. and licensed under a Creative Commons
Attribution Non-Commercial Share alike 4.0 International Licence.

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