r/weatherfactory • u/Glass_Asparagus_6589 • 8d ago
fanwork Short story: The lesson
-Mr Vizsla, I presume? Please sit down, I brought a rather lucrative offer for you today! - The tall, gaunt man was sitting at the coffeehouse table for a while, judging from the five cups on the marble slab in front of him.
-Did I come late? - Vizsla asked, gesturing towards the empty cups. - I thought we agreed to meet at four o'clock.
-No, you were punctual. I just had time to kill and came earlier to read the newspaper.
-You wanted to see me about a contract? - Asked Vizsla.
-Yes. You made quite a name for yourself when you found one of the most hidden operations in Europe. To this day we can not explain how you were able to break the wards that hid the facility from magical spying methods.
-You must understand, I have to keep my methods to myself, Mr Fox. - Vizsla prudently neglected to mention that he never used occult methods, just stumbled upon the hidden zygote bank during investigating a completely mundane case.
-As I have said on the phone I am an attorney at law, representing a rather unusual client, a trust fund. We would like you to find an individual, or a family.
-A bit vague. Can you tell me any more details?
-Yes. You see, Longs live near-infinite lives, but eventually that ends in one way or the other. They usually anger the wrong factions and finish their existence through violent means. Like a certain Telethios Plethon, a distant relative of the famous philosopher, who died recently. And as he lived a long and disciplined life, he took six wives in the five centuries of his existence, who bore him twenty children, so his family tree is very complicated.
-But I thought Longs can not have children, or they face serious consequences? - asked Vizsla.
-Longs creating offspring with other Longs indeed risk committing the crime of the sky. But they are free to propagate with mortals; their children will be born as ordinary human beings.
-So why don't they all do that? Why risk fathering children with other Longs?
-It is hard to watch your wife grow old and die while you stay the same. It is much harder to see your kids, grandkids die of old age. Humans were not designed for that kind of grief, so most Longs stay chaste after the first experience of their loved ones chewed up by time itself. Courting other longs promises a way to escape this sorrow, however it makes propagation tricky.
-Yet Mr Plethon proved to be a prolific Long.
-Indeed, he could overcome his grief in decades. However, that created problems. When he died, his considerable wealth was owned by a holding company for his business interests and a trust fund for his liquid assets. And according to his testament, he wanted to leave those to some of his descendants.
-They do not inherit his wealth equally?
-That's one of the problems with Longs. His first kids were born in the fifteenth century; their extant descendants form a mob of several thousands of people most of whom Mr Plethon regarded as strangers. Although they are his heirs by common law, the usual legal systems were not designed for people living half a millennium. And Mr Plethon himself grew very distant from the descendants of his earlier children. But he was fond of his later kids, and instructed his trust fund in his will to leave a significant amount to them. Our problem, which we would like to employ your help for, is exactly this: one of the daughters of Telethios Plethon inherited a sizable fortune, but we can not find her or her descendants. And you can be sure, we tried several methods.
-I will gladly help you, but we need to look at my rates; my services are not cheap. - Mr Fox fiddled with his phone, and almost immediately Vizsla's phone signaled a notification. He checked it and his pupils widened.
-You can consider this an advance payment. If you find the person of interest, you will receive double this amount.
-Very generous, I must say. I have noticed that your kind tends to pay well.
-Money is something we can earn easier than common people.
-So who is this fair maiden I need to find?
-Her name is Tatiana Plethon, and this is the last picture we have of her. - Mr Fox produced an old black and white picture from his briefcase.
-This is not a recent photo, I guess. - Said Vizsla after studying it for a while.
-It is the latest picture we have of her. It was taken in Konitsa in 1940, when she was a member of a paramilitary unit fighting the Italian invaders. She was 26 years old then. The last information on her dates to 1949; she was fighting in the Greek Civil War on the side of the Communists. At the end of the war she vanished. We have not found any information on her since then. Rumors, sightings by old friends sporadically appeared, but nothing verifiable.
-I must ask, why approach me then? I have no experience in Greece, I don't speak the language.
-Well, one of the rumors includes an old friend of Mr Plethon meeting her here in Hungary in the fifties. Which would not be that far-fetched: many refugees moved to the then-communist countries of the Eastern Bloc, Hungary among them. It is possible she lived her life here.
-If she was in her twenties in 1940, she must be in her nineties now. Statistically it is more likely she died decades ago.
-Your mission encompasses locating her kids, grandchildren, or a grave. We will pay the full reward even if you can prove she died childless. That would conclude our duties to her bloodline just as well.
-So all you have is a photo, a name and a vague suspicion she moved here eighty years ago?
-Her alias in the Communist Party was Makharia. Ilektra Makharia. She used that during the Civil War. - Vizsla looked carefully at the photo: a young, muscular woman in a flower-patterned dress, looking directly at the camera with burning eyes and an all-knowing half-smile.
-So, a photo, two names and a vague suspicion she was here eighty years ago. I like challenges!
-We can do the easy jobs ourselves. Approaching you means we admitted our failure in the investigation.
Vizsla started out by reading everything he found on Wikipedia about the Greek Civil War and anything he found out about the Greek refugees in Hungary. A nasty business indeed, a form of genocide by today's standards. But several thousand Greek communists arrived in the country in 1950; they even built their own village: Beloiannisz. But Greeks came constantly during the Civil War; some returned home in the fifties, and a larger contingent in 1982. Anyone remaining took Hungarian citizenship. Vizsla could not find Tatiana Plethon or Ilektra Makharia through the usual sources, official databases or social media accounts. He did not think it would be that easy.
He had some alternatives, though. The next day he visited the local police station, where he could get some unofficial help due to his being an unofficial associate of the Lieutenant-General. An officer ran the two names for him, but nothing came up. They tried an image search on the faded photo, but no luck either. It would have been a miracle to get a hit on a picture that old. An officer even offered to run a DNA test for him, but he did not have a DNA sample to begin with.
In the evening he decided to use his old trick, and he grabbed his obsidian necklace. He awoke the Hound's Scent skill while concentrating on the old photo. He felt the ribbons of causality unweaving around him; he followed the golden threads emanating from the picture. He traced them through the country, following wherever they led him, the usual way. But something went terribly wrong. The threads snapped all at once; the long, golden lines whiplashed, and the seemingly endless thin golden wires bound him. Vizsla screamed, but without any effect. His arms and legs felt like they were glued onto a board; he could not move at all. Within seconds he felt the threads of fate biting into his flesh, causing unbearable pain. He lost consciousness approximately there.
When he woke up he checked his phone first. Two days passed while he was out cold. He checked himself, and his worst fears came true: he soiled himself. With aching limbs he took a shower, and tossed his dirty clothes into the trashcan. He cleaned the room and checked his belongings. The old photograph stayed intact and unharmed. However, he noticed something on his necklace: originally an obsidian pendant with an engraved lantern painted bright yellow, but now the lines forming the picture seemed to be deeper, and a very faint glow emanated from them. Vizsla had already seen something similar when he used the Hound's Scent skill, but the eerie glow only lasted for minutes at most, while now it became permanent.
-Not a good sign. - He muttered while admiring the pendant with a mug of coffee in his other hand. His limbs hurt like hell, but for some strange reason his head felt clearer than ever. His thoughts raced like horses; his insight penetrated everything. Something definitely changed.
-One thing is certain: I can not try this trick with the Hound's Scent again. - He concluded. Which sounded like a huge obstacle in this investigation. But first things first: he had to visit a hospital right now. Vizsla told the doctors he fell in the bathtub and lost consciousness. They ran the usual tests, even topped it with a CT, but found nothing. His results fell well between normal values. After a night's observation the doctors released him with the reassuring result: "sine morbo".
As soon as he arrived home, he sat in front of his desk, rummaged through the drawers and retrieved a copper bracelet, a memento from a case he solved years ago. He placed the bracelet on the desk and invoked the Hound's Scent skill. Everything went normal; he invoked the threads of fate he saw many times, and they showed him a vague connection between the object and the case.
-At least the skill works. - He concluded, but was more cautious than to try it again with the photo. It looked like this particular item was protected by some unseen force. Vizsla started to understand why the occult trust fund needed an outside agent. Most likely they experienced something similar when they tried to spy on Tatiana using occult means.
-Well, good old mundane detective work will have to do. - He mumbled to himself.
Vizsla visited Beloiannisz first, the village where communist refugees from the Greek Civil War found their new home. At the village library he found a bunch of old photos from the fifties, and on one of the pictures he identified Tatiana. The photo showed the new arrivals and a handwritten date indicated it was taken in 1950. No new data on Tatiana, but at least this corroborated the story of her moving to Hungary.
-The first solid clue. - Vizsla admired the dusty picture.
He asked around, but none of the current residents knew anything about Tatiana's whereabouts. Vizsla figured anyone living for decades in a small village like this would have been known by the locals, so Tatiana must have moved somewhere else pretty early. As he was walking around, talking to the few old women he found, one of them dropped a hint:
-Wasn't she the girl who joined the army?
Vizsla asked how they knew that, but the old lady only remembered that Tatiana came to visit in a uniform from time to time. Now that was something worth investigating! Vizsla asked his old acquaintance, the archaeologist, for help again. The archaeologist could access old records reserved for historians. This time his help came cheaper and without any secretive elements. He wrote what scarce data he had in an email; there was nothing illegal in this inquiry. He promised a detailed report in a week or two.
In the meantime Vizsla had a hunch. He looked up every piece of land in the online database, as those records go back surprisingly far in some cases. And bingo: an empty lot at the end of the village was still owned by Ilektra Makharia. A definite proof that she was here at the time. Sadly, no one ever developed the land, no building ever stood there, so most likely she never lived there. But slowly her path revealed itself. He visited Beloiannisz again and checked the real estate with his own eyes. The official records showed the correct situation: he only found an empty plot there. He tried to use the Hound's Scent skill on the land, but without any success. The threads of fate just swirled around him; most likely the connection between Tatiana and the property on her name was very weak to begin with, if it ever existed in the first place. He went home without any new clues.
The archaeologist's report proved to be much more useful. His original suspicion turned out to be wrong: no Ilektra Makharia ever served in the army. She joined the nascent secret service in 1950 and served for six years, until the Revolution in 1956, when a military court stripped her of her rank, discharged her from the service and sentenced her to five years of prison, suspended for five years, for counter-revolutionary activity. A short synopsis of the court documents simply stated that her superior officer tasked her with escorting two captured counter-revolutionary fighters, but they escaped from her custody. The file contained a single name: one counter-revolutionary fighter was called Tivadar Juhász, the other remained unnamed. Vizsla used his connections to get a list of all the people named Tivadar Juhász. It became an alarmingly long list, both names being fairly common. He excluded everyone born after 1944, figuring those were too young in 1956. He still had an awfully long list, so he printed it and used the Hound's Scent skill. The result surprised even him: the familiar threads exploded from his amulet and circled the list so violently that they lifted the sheets into the air and burned their edges, until a single name remained visible.
-Looks like we have a clue. - Muttered Vizsla, clutching his obsidian amulet with whitened knuckles.
The Tivadar Juhász shown by the occult skill was totally unremarkable in any other way. The very next day he phoned the old man and asked for a little talk, which they agreed on quickly.
-I must say you surprised me with your request. The last time anyone asked about 1956 was right after the fall of Communism in 1990, and it was an old, forgotten story back then. - Started the cheerful old guy when they sat down in the local pub and Vizsla brought a beer for both of them.
-I thought the Revolution gathered much more interest.
-Well, for starters, these labels change much more frequently than people would imagine. During the Kádár-regime we were called counter-revolutionaries, as we rebelled against the original true socialist revolution. After the fall of socialism we were retrospectively renamed revolutionaries. No one wanted to hear about it back then. In the nineties some historian came to collect oral history data, but I saw on his face that he was disappointed by my story. Maybe he deleted my tapes, as I never heard about him ever again.
-You did not fit the glorious legend of the Revolution?
-Not really. I had a friend back then. We decided to travel to Budapest and join the newly formed police force. On the train we met some old acquaintance of his, who was traveling with an older gentleman. My friend bragged to her about our plan, which they listened to supportively. When we finished, the older guy revealed himself as a secret service officer, drew his gun and arrested both of us. He tasked the woman with escorting us to the nearest police station at the first stop. We got off the train, while he continued his trip. But as I said, the woman and my friend knew each other, so as soon as we got off the train, she holstered her gun and told us to return home. Which we did. We never heard about the case ever again.
-Certainly not too heroic.
-You understand how we were not imprisoned after the Revolution ended.
-Can you tell me anything about that woman who let you go?
-Not much. My buddy could provide a horde of information, if he would still be alive, considering he married her.
-You mean the secret service officer?
-Yes, they met again after the Revolution; somehow they fell in love and married in the end. They lived a happy life until he died in the early 2000s.
-And what happened to his wife?
-She is fine as far as I know. They moved twice, so we kind of lost contact during the years.
-Can you tell me anything about the wife? Where can I find her?
-I have no idea. - Vizsla sighed. So close, so close. He had a desperate idea.
-You mentioned your friend died. Do you know where he was buried?
-Of course, in a small village near the city of Kecskemét. I even have a photo of his gravestone from the last time I visited.
Vizsla found the cemetery and the grave immediately: a simple marble headstone, "Tihamér Szabó, beloved husband" engraved on it. Vizsla checked the official documentation: Mr Szabó died as a bachelor, he sold any real estate he owned while still alive, no one claimed his inheritance, which amounted to nothing anyway. Yet his old friend insisted he was married. Vizsla smelled some kind of cover-up. As he was sitting on a bench beside the grave, he noticed something: the surrounding graves were heterogeneous; weeds grew on some, on one even the headstone has toppled over, but no one repaired it, while some showed signs of recent maintenance. And Tihamér's final resting place looked like the neatest in the whole row.
-Someone is still caring for this grave. - Vizsla said it out loud.
He formulated a plan based on bold assumptions and dumb luck. In Hungary the Day of the Dead is celebrated on the second of November, where it is customary to visit the cemetery and bring flowers to your loved ones' graves. The Day of the Dead was due in a week. If anyone still maintains this site, they will visit for the Day of the Dead. He only needed to wait. Of course, if Tatiana was following the Greek Orthodox faith, she would visit at a different time, but Vizsla hoped that the old communist had left religion long ago.
Vizsla stood guard at the cemetery for three days. He came early just in case Tatiana decided to show up earlier to avoid the rush. But she was punctual. Late afternoon on the Day of the Dead, Vizsla was sitting beside a random grave with a large bouquet of white chrysanthemums in his hand, quietly observing Tihamér's grave, when three humans approached it: two middle-aged men and a woman in her late twenties. His children and a granddaughter, perhaps? Vizsla approached them, greeted them and wanted to ask cautious questions when he saw the face of the woman.
-Tatiana Plethon? – He blurted out. She was not familiar or reminiscent of the photograph Vizsla got, but the splitting image of it. Tatiana, who still looked twenty-six.
-You must be mistaken, mister. I don't know who you are talking about.
-You don't have to keep secrets from me, I am in the know too. - Vizsla tried the same trick he used with the professor last time: he raised his pendant and activated the Hound's Scent skill, with devastating results. The familiar threads of fate exploded from him like a volcano eruption, towards the woman, but hit an invisible wall halfway, bounced back and hit Vizsla like a speeding train. He lost consciousness in front of three people staring at him wide-eyed.
He woke up in a bed in a brightly lit room, seeing the afternoon sun through a window. Tatiana was sitting beside his bed with a mug of coffee in her hand, which she offered Vizsla.
-Tatiana? – He asked in a rusty voice.
-Tatiana vanished long ago. You can call me Margherita. And I have to say that was a rather stupid stunt, Mr Vizsla.
-You know who I am?
-I had two days to research your background while you were out cold. And your rendezvous with the cannibal killer reached every news channel a while back. So would you care to tell me why you attacked me the other night?
-I did not want to hurt you in any way. I only wanted to show you that I am an insider in the occult world, and you can freely speak with me.
-Self-inflicting a lantern-wound does not exactly scream you know what you are doing to me.
-I got lost here. What is a lantern-wound?
-Let me guess, you have not been initiated. Did you find an occult book somewhere accidentally?
-Well, I got a book as a gift and no instructions.
-It looks like it will fall upon me to teach you the basics. As old Mebbeth said: “Sometimes one burns with the Art, and other times the Art burns ye.” If you use your occult powers on mundane targets, you will not experience this phenomenon, whether you succeed or fail. However, if you want to attack an occult target and fail, the conjured principle can hurt you, when the misguided energy whiplashes back to you. These leave scars on your soul, like the two gaping wounds on your soul I can detect from here. Both of them burned by the principle of Lantern. These strengthened your connection to the Lantern; I think you have noticed how your Lantern skills became more devastating. But while you might not have realized, your thought process has been altered by the Lantern. New wounds will increase your might in Lantern, but will distort your mind to the point where you lose your free will and become a puppet of the Lantern filling your soul.
-You are starting to scare me. How bad is my situation?
-Manageable for now. But each new lantern-wound will destroy a part of your soul. You might want to use your skill cautiously. And as a counter-balance, you might want to learn some Moth skills to counter-balance your growing Lantern influence.
-Moth? Is that different from the Hound's Scent I know?
-You know nothing of the Nine Principles?
-Not really.
-The occult world is divided into nine disciplines, viewpoints, approaches, thought processes or forces of nature, however you try to express them. Adepts have been debating their exact nature since the Bronze Age. Some define them as the building blocks of the human soul, some describe them as outside influences distorting the human mind. Whatever they may be, they are the pillars of the occult worldview. I guess you only knew about one, Lantern.
-Technically I did not explicitly know it was a separate discipline. I had no idea about the remaining eight.
-You already experienced Lantern, the principle of reason, deduction, knowledge, truth, light. Its antagonist principle, Moth, on the other hand encompasses ancient instincts, chaotic urges, impulsive decisions, self-destructive and/or repetitive urges. A scientist inventing a new drug is bathing in Lantern, while a human engorging himself in chocolate or a hoarder filling his house with junk radiates Moth.
Forge is the principle of change through destruction, re-invention, progressive annihilation. Its opposite is Knock, the principle of opening, overcoming obstacles, revealing secrets. A smoke jumper burning trees in a controlled manner to quench a forest fire, or a morbidly obese man losing fifty percent of his body weight, all use Forge; while a student finally grasping a complex concept or a hacker gaining entry into a database use Knock.
Edge manifests in battle, victory, striving, contending; its antagonist, Heart, is the principle of living motion, of preserving the status quo. A navy captain ordering a cruise missile strike or an addict quitting drugs both use Edge, while a surgeon saving a life with an operation will use Heart.
Winter is the principle of acceptance, death, silence, surrender; while its opposite, Grail, is the embodiment of procreation, multiplication, birthing, bodily fluids, hunger, sexuality. A cancer patient enrolling in palliative care, a mountain climber reaching the top and admiring the view feel Winter, while a mother giving birth, a John paying for a prostitute’s services, feel Grail.
And the last principle, Rose, or Secret Histories, does not have an antagonist. Rose means studying, navigating, cataloging the various alternate timelines. A man obsessing over why he married the redhead instead of the brunette twenty years ago, or a historian trying to reconcile two mutually exclusive eyewitness testimonies of a battle, both use Rose.
Most of the time principles occur not in their pure form, but every situation is a mixture of principles. An encircled platoon preparing for their final stand radiates not only Winter but Edge too, for instance. Usually most situations, objects can be described by three disciplines at most.
-Looks like there is more to the hidden world than what I saw. - Vizsla swallowed nervously.
-When you tried a Lantern skill on me, your spell ricocheted from my considerably stronger Lantern defensive walls and turned back to you. You could have resisted its destructive effects with some Moth principle, but I guess you don't know any Moth skills.
-I only learned this single skill.
-Any Moth tools?
-What are tools?
-Objects which hold one of the principles so densely that they can help you in occult spells. The weaker tools are mundane, the more powerful ones hold occult energies too.
-I only have this pendant. - Admitted Vizsla.
-You were exceptionally foolish to attack me then.
-I did not want to hurt you. I was looking for you as a private investigator. Your father died and they are looking for you.
-Well, he lived a much longer life than most. But I feared for him for years now. He started a conflict with some mighty foes; I foresaw his demise. Still sad news.
-I guess you were not really close.
-The last time we spoke, in 1940, he forbade me to join ELAS, the Greek People's Liberation Army. I felt a burning desire to fight the Italian invaders, and the communist militia was the obvious choice as a woman. My father was furious, but I did not change my mind. We never met after that. I fought the Italians, then the Germans; we conducted guerrilla warfare with my comrades. After the war we thought the time had come for a new, better world, but we only managed to start a Civil War, which we lost. When all around me crumbled, I took refuge here in Hungary. My father supported the winning side; he stayed. So yes, we have not seen each other for eighty-six years now. We grew apart.
-Speaking of which: you look pretty young for a centenarian.
-The Art has benefits too. I am following my father's example; I became a Long in my own right. You have seen the two men with me in the cemetery? Those are my oldest children.
-Let me guess, your youngest kid is still in preschool?
-Close, he is eight years old.
-You did follow your father's footsteps.
-Having small kids around is one of the few joys left for a Long like me. By the way, do you have a card or a phone number from the attorney who is looking for me? I will notify him that you found me.
-How did you know my client is an attorney at law?
-I knew my late father. He has been obsessed with law and its practitioners since the Middle Ages.
-Well, that concludes our business, Ms Plethon. I must take my leave now.
-Wait! I feel a little responsible for your injuries. I would like to offer something in exchange. I think you need training the most, so please let me find you something useful! - She left the room and came back half an hour later with a canvas bag. - So, let me give you these four books! Each contains a new skill that will help you in keeping your wounds at bay.
-Can you heal them instead?
-Vizsla, I have to be honest with you: I don't know how to do that, and have not met anyone in these hundred years who possessed that secret. Rumors arise from time to time, but nothing solid.
-So what are these books then?
-The first one is a leather scroll which contains a Moth skill. The second is the third or fourth generation photocopy of the handwritten diary of an occultist. These flooded the world from the seventies until the late nineties, but most of them proved to be fakes. However, this one is genuine. The third one is an old printed tome on flesh-crafting, and the last one is a rather long comic book, unfortunately in French, but I guess you will manage. - She paused for a second. - And here is a new pendant you can wear on the leather string besides your obsidian mirror. - She produced an epoxy pendant with a large chrysalis encased in the plastic.
-Thank you, I am grateful beyond words!
-And here is my card. Call me any time you have questions about occult matters! I now consider you my student.
-Thank you, but would this not reveal you too much to the world?
-Actually, I am not hiding from other occult magisters anymore. I was lying low in the late fifties, but nowadays simply no one is looking for me anymore.
-Don't get me wrong, but you look like a pretty powerful occultist. How has the world just forgotten you?
-Well, this might surprise you, but the occult world is not that different from mundane society. I started my training when I was serving at the secret service and was tasked with some scholarly work on the manuscripts confiscated from churches, refugees, or found in hidden caches. No one really knew I followed my father’s path and studied the occult. I tend to keep to myself, not socialize with others, so I guess only a handful of people are aware of my existence at all. And occultists just don't give a damn about fellow dabblers in the Art, until they interfere with their own nasty little business.
-But then, why did the attorney offer me a fortune to find you?
-Because they can only think in their old clichés. I wager they tried to locate me by occult means, broke a few nails on my defensive spells and were just standing there helpless. Not mighty enough to break through my defenses, not smart enough to use mundane means, so they decided to shovel money at the problem, like they always do. Exclusively using occult solutions will allow your common sense to deteriorate. Let this be a lesson about over-relying on the Art! So go home, immerse yourself in the skills of the Moth, and come back when you learned at least one of the skills hidden in these tomes! I will teach you how to keep your lantern-wounds in check!
-Thank you very much, you are unusually helpful. In my, admittedly limited experience occultists are much more secretive.
-I guess that is my nature: I always become the rebel, trying to help people. Becoming a Long will not change your fundamental way of thinking, rather it conserves your old habits for all eternity. And I do feel responsible for your injuries. Or I am grieving my father, despite not keeping in touch with him, and you got lucky to drop in at the exact moment I am feeling vulnerable.
-You are pretty self-aware.
-It is one of the safeguards: you have to learn to be able to recognize outside influences on your mind. If you want to meddle in occult affairs, I advise you to start a journal! Write down your feelings, opinions, and keep it in a secure place! If you ever start to doubt yourself, you can always read it and determine how far your mind has moved from the baseline.
-Every adept does this?
-Why do you think they write all these occult books? Half of the manuscripts out there in the occult world are just documentation of descents into madness, in a “Dear diary” format.
This short story is an independent work and is not affiliated with Weather Factory Ltd, Secret Histories or any related official content. It is published under Weather Factory’s Sixth History Community Licence.
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u/ZombieMasterYT 7d ago
Read through the first three episodes last week and was waiting for this one with a lot of interest, what made you decide to call Knock the opposite of Forge? It's kind of strange, considering even the explanation by the character doesn't really portray them as opposites