Invasion of the Bible Snatchers (Private)
Jan 14, 2023 21:03:53 GMT -5
Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 14, 2023 21:03:53 GMT -5
Despite the fact that the afternoon weather was perfectly pleasant, Cyran still found himself fiddling with the silver clasp of his cloak, pulling the fabric tighter around his shoulders, as if that could stave away the nervous anticipation that had been plaguing him since he left the inn he was currently taking residence in this morning. In his long lifespan, he’d rarely felt anxious. Fear, yes, and hatred and anger and love and every ugly human emotion under the sun, but there was a sort of calm that had come with age, he found, and rarely was that calm rattled by such trivial things. And yet, he found himself awash with it now, a strange sort of irregular rhythmic feeling in his heart that manifested in small, nervous habits with his hands- readjusting his cloak, fiddling with a strand of silvered hair, tapping his boot against the cobblestone.
Currently, the assassin was leaning against the outside wall of a tailor, watching the passerby bustling about on their errands, too busy to pay another foreigner a moment’s notice. Cyran preferred it that way. He didn’t stand out much in a crowd, despite being clad in dark colors, a stark contrast to the people of Solaria’s favored lands that pranced around in shades of gold and soft yellow hues. Maybe if someone were to glance over at him, they would take in the strangeness of his appearance- his right eye, currently covered with a floral eyepatch, and the sort of melancholic air that seemed to cling to him. But even where he was settled under an awning, shaded from the warm sun, the darkness seemed to take to him like an old bedfellow, preventing anyone from paying too much attention to him. Their eyes seemed to… drift right past him, unbothered by the strange man in their midst.
As if Cyran didn’t even exist at all.
If any of this bothered Cyran, he didn’t show it- the faraway, troubled look in his gaze had nothing to do with any of that. Rather, he was more worried about the letter he’d received from one of his oldest, dearest companions, the one that had brought him all the way to Capitol Landing from Darkveil at the drop of a hat. He and Vi’ira exchanged letters regularly, as often as they could while she was off on the sea and he was traveling the lands. Usually, they exchanged how they were doing- and in Vi’ira’s case, the kind of trouble she and her crew had gotten into, and ending with lamentations that it had been far too long since they’d last seen one another.
But Vi’ira’s last letter was a bit of a surprise. It had come with a warning- and an offer.
The contents of her letter were grim, describing a religious group she’d heard of in her travels, a church of worshippers who followed a god not of Charon’s pantheon. That in itself was not so strange, as there were many people across the country with different beliefs. Faith in itself was a foreign concept to Cyran, but he would never begrudge someone their own worship. What he could not forgive was the use of godly power for one’s own gain- which was exactly what this so-called Church of Repose did.
Even in Darkveil, Cyran had heard… whispers. Followers of this Goddess of Mercy, a woman whose name was never to be uttered by even her own followers. They liked to hide in the Deadwood, where they spread their twisted religion, planted seeds in the minds of criminals and murderers who hid within those gnarled roots. Some men had even gone missing- not that anyone particularly cared about the lives of crooked thieves and conmen who made the Deadwoods their hideout, but it was Cyran’s business to be made aware of any stirrings in the Ash Lands. Where trouble went, he was often sent to douse it before it became a forest fire. But a few bodies were nothing concrete, despite the gruesome state those corpses had been left in. Cyran had nothing to go on, and no proof that members of the Church of Repose were behind such a thing.
Until he received Vi’ira’s correspondence, detailing her crew’s encounter with a survivor who’d managed to escape the clutches of these deranged madmen, and suddenly the pieces began to fall together.
The Church of Repose believes that their goddess will bring about a swift and righteous end to the people of Charon.
They sacrifice nonbelievers to get in her good graces.
There is a pastor in Sol City that claims to be her Voice.
And then, at the very end of the letter, in true Vi’ira fashion, a declaration that she was going to travel to Sol City to put an end to this, somehow, before ending with a single question- want in?
And Cyran had already made a promise to the moon in this very city that he would keep her safe, especially when she made the decision to run off and get herself into crazy adventures like this. His response had been brief, but the ink stained with all the shaky worries that he could not quite convey over parchment.
You do not even need to ask to know that I will be there by your side. Always. Perhaps we should take a more subtle approach, however- if these cultists are as big a threat as you say they are, then we need more information. I will meet you in Sol City. Stay safe, and may your moon guide you through safe waters.
Only, upon his arrival, and their arranged meeting time, Cyran realized that he’d neglected to tell her about some of the… changes he’d undergone since they’d last met. He certainly hadn’t told her about what happened in the Sultan’s Tomb- how did one even begin to describe that den of nightmares? He hadn’t wanted to worry her, but she was about to see that he hadn’t entirely escaped unscathed.
He didn’t want her to worry about him.
He was… okay, really. He had people who cared about him and had helped him after what he, Cirice, and Gerhart had gone through in that place. He loved Vi’ira dearly, but there was still a part of him that was unused to being worried for in return. This was meant to be a reunion and a mission, not a chance for Vi’ira to see the spread of the corruption that had taken ahold of his body.
He would simply have to keep the eyepatch on.
Cyran took a deep breath and steeled himself, calming his nerves. He was excited to see Vi’ira, truly. He wished it would have been under better circumstances, but tragedy liked to follow the two of them like a yawning shadow. He only hope that this reconnaissance mission would be uneventful. Given that their plan was to pose as a couple of sisters of the cloth to get into the church, that would be a rather difficult task to accomplish.
That was to be expected, he supposed. When it came to Vi’ira, life was crazy and chaotic, but he always found himself having fun around her, no matter what kind of situations they found themselves in. Her energy was infectious, and her presence like a balm on his tired soul. Despite his nerves, there was still a small smile on his face as he waited for her to arrive at the tailor’s shop so they could set out on their mission in earnest.
Currently, the assassin was leaning against the outside wall of a tailor, watching the passerby bustling about on their errands, too busy to pay another foreigner a moment’s notice. Cyran preferred it that way. He didn’t stand out much in a crowd, despite being clad in dark colors, a stark contrast to the people of Solaria’s favored lands that pranced around in shades of gold and soft yellow hues. Maybe if someone were to glance over at him, they would take in the strangeness of his appearance- his right eye, currently covered with a floral eyepatch, and the sort of melancholic air that seemed to cling to him. But even where he was settled under an awning, shaded from the warm sun, the darkness seemed to take to him like an old bedfellow, preventing anyone from paying too much attention to him. Their eyes seemed to… drift right past him, unbothered by the strange man in their midst.
As if Cyran didn’t even exist at all.
If any of this bothered Cyran, he didn’t show it- the faraway, troubled look in his gaze had nothing to do with any of that. Rather, he was more worried about the letter he’d received from one of his oldest, dearest companions, the one that had brought him all the way to Capitol Landing from Darkveil at the drop of a hat. He and Vi’ira exchanged letters regularly, as often as they could while she was off on the sea and he was traveling the lands. Usually, they exchanged how they were doing- and in Vi’ira’s case, the kind of trouble she and her crew had gotten into, and ending with lamentations that it had been far too long since they’d last seen one another.
But Vi’ira’s last letter was a bit of a surprise. It had come with a warning- and an offer.
The contents of her letter were grim, describing a religious group she’d heard of in her travels, a church of worshippers who followed a god not of Charon’s pantheon. That in itself was not so strange, as there were many people across the country with different beliefs. Faith in itself was a foreign concept to Cyran, but he would never begrudge someone their own worship. What he could not forgive was the use of godly power for one’s own gain- which was exactly what this so-called Church of Repose did.
Even in Darkveil, Cyran had heard… whispers. Followers of this Goddess of Mercy, a woman whose name was never to be uttered by even her own followers. They liked to hide in the Deadwood, where they spread their twisted religion, planted seeds in the minds of criminals and murderers who hid within those gnarled roots. Some men had even gone missing- not that anyone particularly cared about the lives of crooked thieves and conmen who made the Deadwoods their hideout, but it was Cyran’s business to be made aware of any stirrings in the Ash Lands. Where trouble went, he was often sent to douse it before it became a forest fire. But a few bodies were nothing concrete, despite the gruesome state those corpses had been left in. Cyran had nothing to go on, and no proof that members of the Church of Repose were behind such a thing.
Until he received Vi’ira’s correspondence, detailing her crew’s encounter with a survivor who’d managed to escape the clutches of these deranged madmen, and suddenly the pieces began to fall together.
The Church of Repose believes that their goddess will bring about a swift and righteous end to the people of Charon.
They sacrifice nonbelievers to get in her good graces.
There is a pastor in Sol City that claims to be her Voice.
And then, at the very end of the letter, in true Vi’ira fashion, a declaration that she was going to travel to Sol City to put an end to this, somehow, before ending with a single question- want in?
And Cyran had already made a promise to the moon in this very city that he would keep her safe, especially when she made the decision to run off and get herself into crazy adventures like this. His response had been brief, but the ink stained with all the shaky worries that he could not quite convey over parchment.
You do not even need to ask to know that I will be there by your side. Always. Perhaps we should take a more subtle approach, however- if these cultists are as big a threat as you say they are, then we need more information. I will meet you in Sol City. Stay safe, and may your moon guide you through safe waters.
Only, upon his arrival, and their arranged meeting time, Cyran realized that he’d neglected to tell her about some of the… changes he’d undergone since they’d last met. He certainly hadn’t told her about what happened in the Sultan’s Tomb- how did one even begin to describe that den of nightmares? He hadn’t wanted to worry her, but she was about to see that he hadn’t entirely escaped unscathed.
He didn’t want her to worry about him.
He was… okay, really. He had people who cared about him and had helped him after what he, Cirice, and Gerhart had gone through in that place. He loved Vi’ira dearly, but there was still a part of him that was unused to being worried for in return. This was meant to be a reunion and a mission, not a chance for Vi’ira to see the spread of the corruption that had taken ahold of his body.
He would simply have to keep the eyepatch on.
Cyran took a deep breath and steeled himself, calming his nerves. He was excited to see Vi’ira, truly. He wished it would have been under better circumstances, but tragedy liked to follow the two of them like a yawning shadow. He only hope that this reconnaissance mission would be uneventful. Given that their plan was to pose as a couple of sisters of the cloth to get into the church, that would be a rather difficult task to accomplish.
That was to be expected, he supposed. When it came to Vi’ira, life was crazy and chaotic, but he always found himself having fun around her, no matter what kind of situations they found themselves in. Her energy was infectious, and her presence like a balm on his tired soul. Despite his nerves, there was still a small smile on his face as he waited for her to arrive at the tailor’s shop so they could set out on their mission in earnest.