[Singers] They've pulled some strings for this. [it's what they do] While they would not keep the whole of the main chapel closed to the public [let the doors be unlocked; let all who seek grace enter herein] between Solomon's continued connections with the Archbishop [he believes the former priest has a Great Work, see?] and a solicitous conversation with one Elsabeth Arsenault [this place is a beacon in a world gone to darkness, Bishop; I would be privileged and humbled to aid in some small manner...] with all sincerity and savvy. So it is that one of the smaller chapels is set aside this evening.
The evening is cool; promises of Autumn in the air; whispers of the Winter to come. The Basilica Our Lady of Sorrows stands as it has stood for over a century, one of the few Basilica's in the United States, sanctioned and sanctified by the Pope and governed by one of the highest ranking Archbishops in the Nation. The neighbourhood surrounding it is... poor. Downtrodden. Not at all what it once was; not at all the affluent suburb in which the Cathedral was first built. But perhaps the wisest understand that this is, perhaps, for the best: They are a refuge right in the centre where good will, grace and fellowship is most urgently [or at least openly] needed. Lights shine through stained glassed windows, painting illuminated hues over graciously broad stairs marked and poxed by years of wear and treading of the feet of the faithful, the penitent, the searching.
Solomon knows the way to the chapel set aside: In through the adorned Narthex and then through the grater Nave along to the East then [where the sun also rises]. But perhaps he waits outside right now for Emily's arrival after seeing the two guests to the chapel ahead of time so they might congregate and prepare.
--------------
ooc: Alright, I'll let you guys post in your arrivals to the outside of the Basilica and such and then you can have them move along to the chapel.
[Emily Littleton] Summer's last tendrils are not strong enough to push away the rain on this Chicago night, so Emily approaches the Basilica with an umbrella opened out over her head. The click of boot heels on pavement is not utterly foreign to her, but it calls to mind more formalized cities and lifestyles than what she keeps here. The short heels loft her height ever closer to six-foot even. Emily is not a short woman, she knows how to carry the height proudly and surely.
She has come to the Basilica once, maybe twice before. Once to hear Solomon, then Father Ward, speak to a congregation in early July. Once before, she thinks, to meet with him on one thing or another. It is a grander place than St. James' in Lake View; on an altogether different scale. It echoes back to Cathedrals and spires she has known in other places.
There is a thin shawl, folded and kept in the small purse she carries. This is to cover her head and shoulders when they enter the Sanctuary, if such things are requested in this Congregation. Many Old World sanctuaries still follow these laws, and Emily finds herself a bit uncertain in churches full of bare-crowned parishioners. He has told her to wear something conservative, so the dress she has chosen is demure. It falls to just past her knees; the neckline does not reveal much; the lines are clean but not clinging. Over this, just now, she wears the lightweight leather jacket that she has cleaned, more than once, since they emerged from the Labyrinth.
There is a still a slowness to her movements that speaks to healing wounds. There is still a faint touch of the taint she cannot Willfully strip away. Beneath that, the Singer-to-be is calm. Collected. She mounts the steps with steady footfalls and quiet purpose, shakes her umbrella free of rain drops once she is under a protective overhang, and finds her way inside to where the others are waiting.
[Solomon Ward] He waits, just inside the doors of the Basilica and the entrance to the nave. Dressed as always in his stern apparel of black and white, starched and crisp and uncreative. A simple cut, though its quality and tailoring speaks more for it than most similar designs of contemporary color contrasts and patterns. A simple statement of quality in all things, no matter how basic. The only thing that breaks the black of his jacket is a silver crucifix pin, small and in keeping with the theme of simplicity, affixed to his left breast pocket.
"Good evening, Ms. Littleton," spoken quietly, despite the relatively low number of parishioners present on a Saturday evening. There is a pause there as he waits, expectantly, for her to make use of the mounted basin of holy water placed along one of the walls.
Despite the semi formality of how he speaks there is a honest warmth to the words. Not quite a smile, but the empathic would detect a slightly pleased tone underlying his quiet rasp. "We've been allowed use of one of the side chapels. I shall be acting as your escort, and your Praecept. At times you will be asked to speak for yourself. At times I will answer in your stead. Effectively, your sponsor."
[Carraway] She's pulled some strings to be here. Her life involves frenzied periods of travel followed by months of quiet (her allegiances changed, the job remains the same), but this is worth it. She's watching another lost soul find her way Home, an echo of herself two years ago.
Lisa Carraway gave no thought to covering her head. They're to approach the One with joy, not humility: grace, not shame, nothing to hide their humanity away. She has been to the Basilica before; this was when she lived in Chicago, when she stopped in the place because she knew of it and knew of its value, because she lived nearby back then.
The Knight appears in a striking figure, almost androgynous: tall and slim and long-limbed in a dark suit cut sharp. Her hair, almost as dark as her clothing, is bound up out of her face, in a loose bun that bunches just above the nape of her neck. Her features are unremarkable, elongated and solemn, and forgettable not because they are plain but because they're reminiscent of so many people, different places. She moves with an easy grace, a shadow.
The young woman to be initiated gets a dimpled grin when she's sighted, but otherwise she passes inside to let Emily converse with Solomon. Briefly, the Knight stops to make use of the holy water (sign of respect) before she goes in to stand with the rest.
[Singers] ((keep posting guys! I'll jump back in as they get to the chapel.))
[Carraway] ((Post around me too, Lisa's just gonna head right back to the chapel.))
[Emily Littleton] While he waits, Emily dips her fingers in the font and touches them to her forehead, sternum, and her shoulders. She does not speak the words aloud, but they run through her mind in rote recitation: in nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. These are the practiced observances of a pious life, and while she has not necessarily lived one she does know its trappings and significance.
"Good evening Fa-- Mr. Ward," she says, catching herself on the remembered change in salutations. When he explains that there will be times when he speaks for her, she nods. When he explains that there will be times when she is called to speak for herself, she also nods. This with a solemnity that does not weigh down her warmth, tonight. The thin and rebuilding reverence is clear in her; it is a brightness, a grace.
The passing Knight draws a small smile from the girl. There is a flicker of recognition, but then her attention is all back on her Praecept, for tonight. Her sponsor.
"Thank you," she tells him, and it is weightier than just for tonight. Emily's expression does not go into what else may be carried on those words but they are resonant. "For speaking for me, and for helping me join the Chorus."
[Solomon Ward] Solomon chuckles, lips, and scars, stretching into a slight smile at her thanks "There is none needed, but you are welcome all the same. Few of talent or ability find the Light. Tonight we are made greater for your presence. Don't put too much stock into the formality of it. Some us are more, and less, formal than others. That was poor phrasing... do not be anxious, in a negative sense. You are welcome here"
He nods to the other, Carraway, who enters. A politeness, a tinge of curiosity. None of his usual tension and paranoia. He wasn't told who may be present for this, not in specific details, but loose terms and small details meshed together so that he had a vague sense. The dimpled smile to Emily confirmed it.
"If you ladies would follow me, the others wait for us in the chapel",
To which he would lead them.
[Emily Littleton] As they walk toward the Chapel, there are thoughts that Emily draws forward, names, and places aside knowingly. There is a pang of regret that her godfather could not take this walk beside her, stand up for her, sponsor her into the Chorus himself. There is sadness too, that the Singer she befriended here is still absent from the city and will not bear witness. These are drawn in, drawn up as she lifts her eyes to the passing stained-glass panels, and breathed out in one thorough exhalation.
This is neither the time nor place for regrets. This is no time for wishings of what-ifs. Now that she's admitted them, to herself, she can leave them alone for the rest of the evening.
Emily walks a little behind Solomon, and a little to the right. Her head is gently bowed as they move through the holy site. This is a sign of respect, as is her silence. Though that, that is also a flutter of nerves that she pushes down in order to keep her eyes clear and her shoulders proudly squared.
[Singers] The chapel is a small affair, though to call it 'modest' would be something of a stretch. This is not an temple of the Eastern Orthodox tradition; nor one of the resplendent constructs of Europe, ripe with iconography that blends elements of the occult and, yes, even the pagan, adorning the classic symbolism of Catholicism into the greater amalgamation claimed, pruned and revised by the Holy Roman Church. No great Gothic arches; no beatific flying buttresses. But behind the main altar is a lovely stained glass work of floral design reminiscent of the rose window from La Sainte-Chapelle in Paris. Along the walls of the relatively 'cozy' space are frescoes worked by local artists, depicting small vignettes of Jesus' miracles, the style whispering of Latin American roots in a open gesture of acceptance to the urban population that makes up the bulk of the Basilica's modern-day parishioners. The pews consists of two sections of five rows each and each pew itself would hold about four adults - five if they squeezed or were particularly zealous in their fasting. It is just the right place for smaller, private functions. Family Mass for those lost; personal Christenings and Baptisms. Indeed, to the west of the rose window behind the altar there stands a stone baptismal font.
It's at that font that a woman stands; pouring in water from a earthenware pitcher, heavily etched and inscribed. She is decently tall for a woman; lithe and willowy of build, with a strudyiness to her - a certain hint of martial ability - that adds to her grace rather than detracts from it. Dressed sharply and meticulously in a blouse of brilliant pearl white that flatters rather than detracts from her alabaster complexion; a pencil lined skirt that falls just below her knees much like Emily's own and a small round of black lace atop the stylish cut of her platinum blonde hair; short and very contemporary. Her face, as she looks there way, is all angels - all sharp lines and bold, sleek nose and piercing glacial blue eyes that - while not unkind - are certainly the sort that speak of being capable of... pristine perceptions. And an uncanny knack for leadership.
It makes sense... women rank very few in the Templars... and she has made it far.
At one of the walls a man stands, dressed in the formal garb of his people. The Hindu traditional dress is appealing; well put together and somehow peaceful; its adornments of embroidery are well woven and ornamental without crossing the line into gaudiness and the outfit does little to hide a rather rotund belly on a man who must be well into his middle years. His dark skin holds the signs of age well; handsomely. Handsomely in a manner that is paternal; with graying bits at his sideburns and temples where his cap of spice hue doesn't hide the hair away. Clean shaven, his features are comely and welcoming as he looks away from his interested perusal of the artwork on the walls; shapely lips curving into a broad and easy smile that immediately gives great indication of where the majority of his wrinkles and age lines come from. His height is average for a man, which puts him slightly shorter than at least the woman by the font and Solomon himself - perhaps Carraway and Emily as well.
It is he who speaks first; hands coming together before him once they enter into the space [lit, it should be noted, by candlelight that glows from standing candelabras along the aisle between the pews and around the altar itself] he bows slightly at the waist to each of them in turn, then speaks in a voice accented with his native Indian tongue, it's timbre robust and jovial; a warm and generous nature echoed in the glint of warm brown eyes. "Namaste." He intones to them all though he's already greeting and spoken to Solomon some time before.
In the meantime, the woman has finished her preparations and now moves down to join them where the man has come to stand int he aisle between the pew rows; candlelight glimmering off the highlights of her hair. Her own smile shows a natural tracery of wry humour; her gaze that flicks between them all is discerning, steady and pervasive, as aquiline as her nose.
"Good Evening. I am Presbyter Elsabet Arsenault; Preceptor of the Knights Templar of the Great Lakes region." There's no haughtiness or great pomp in her given title though to be sure she speaks of her order with due reverence and pride. "This," indicating the man with a graceful motion of her hand, "Is Presbyter Janu Dubashi; Yogi of the One Song Adytum of Madison, Wisconsin; a member of the Monist faction--"
"Faction?" The man interjects; his grin now jokingly sly, like Elsabeth was trying to pull a neat joke. Her makes a show of grimacing - there is nothing put-on or hamy about it, though. It's just a certain... flair... in his nature; a robust charisma. "Dear friend, you know how I feel about that Word -- ah, for the divisions strengthened all from the mortar of poorly chosen words."
The woman is... bemused. In a manner that is, shall we say, schooled and tolerant. "Just so, Janu. Just so. Philosophical debates for another night? I'll bring wine."
"If there is you and there is wine, then a finer evening I could not imagine." He bows slightly and she snorts a low sound of wry amusement, like she should be rolling her eyes. There is a warmth between them - a sign of long acquaintance that may not agree at all times but holds respect at least. "Now..." a touch of the absentminded, a glance back at the three who have just joined them. "You, sir, I have met," to Solomon. "And these lovely young ladies?"
[Singers] ((pics of the NPCs are up in my Gallery, btw!))
[Solomon Ward] Solomon clears his throat slightly, and as the escorting male makes introductions.. which are of course some what embarrassingly flawed given is lack of knowledge in all parties involved.
"Yogi" almost strained, not quite, "this is Ms. Emily Littleton, Initiate and aspirant to the Choir Celestial," a slight pause. A moment of awkwardness as he indicates the other woman with his hand, "My apologies... this is Ms...."
His skin is a slightest hue darker than it should be, given he has been caught unawares. Not the largest breach of etiquette in the world, but given the mans propriety he's at a some what sense of loss in this.
[Emily Littleton] Though Emily has studied with (studied under) a Monist, that is not where her familiarity with this greeting stems from. When he bows to Emily, she places her hands in the appropriately shaped gesture and politely inclines her head; it is an acceptable silent reply, this gesture. I honor the Spirit in you which is also in me.
There are no gold or silver hues to Emily's hair to catch the candlelight. If anything, it draws out an ember note, warmth in the low-cast red tones that deepen the brown of her hair toward black. Emily is silent while Solomon introduces them, but a warmer smile has crept to her features in the wake of the warmth shown by the Yogi, and the Preceptor.
[Carraway] Solomon, on their way in, gets a level look that's no less curious. Polite, though, a little detached: it's the way a person might study someone through glass, a subject. Lisa exudes a precise, professional manner, which is an impression that does not drop as they make their way back to the chapel.
Her eyes are a pale gray, almost colorless, and they rake over the two Choristers within the chapel in a manner that is simultaneously dissecting and interested. She smiles at them both after a moment. This too is precise, and it's a welcoming, open sort of expression (carefully practiced, a habit, a spy's smile - not altogether what she'd offered Emily coming in.)
She inclines her head once toward Solomon when he pauses in his introduction. "Lisa Carraway," she says, looking back toward the others. "Ordained Knight of the Order of St. George and the Dragon."
[Singers] A glimmer of surprised but genuine pleasure when Emily shows a knowledge in her response to Janu's greeting; a certain interest in his gaze, quietly assessing in a manner far more gentle than the others around him are likely prone. It seeks without prying. A moment, before his warm eyes slide to Lisa; his acceptance of her presence unquestioning.
Elsabeth watches both women more closely; there is no hostility there but certainly a sense of a woman who would view others likes pawns on a board if she had to. If the need was there. It certainly has been in the past. Uncaring? No. But decisive and driven. Perhaps even ruthless if there was need. Such things are only hinted though; only whispered possibilities. For now she is formal but welcoming in her own manner.
Both of them, together, have an air to them, like they've made this place their own, if only for the night and only for this reason. Their Resonance mingles as they stand together - hers is the depths of oceans and the cutting edge of the iceburg. His is the heat of dawn and the smell of delicious things and a grandfathers loving embrace. When introductions are made all around - made and accepted:
"You are all welcome here," she says.
"We are humble and grateful to be welcomed in turn," he picks up.
"We are all one under God and in our Fellowship," she follows.
"We are all one under The One," he completes.
No clearer opening to ceremonies could be asked for.
They turn in unison, fluid, like it must have been practiced [except it wasn't] and move then to stand each on either side of the altar, a step above the main floor of the chapel. It is expected that Solomon will know to escort Emily to stand before the altar, he by her right side -- Lisa perhaps knows enough to take the left flanking position.
Once there, then, it is the woman who speaks again, lifting her voice clearly and crisply. Majestically.
"Who among you seeks the Light? Who among you seeks to blend their voice into the greater Song of the Celestial Chorus?"
[Carraway] When Janu's gaze slides in her direction, he too is met with a smile. It's warmer now; she's making efforts. It's easy to detach oneself, easy to handle everything like a procedure, but she reminds herself that this is not merely ceremony or protocol, and it should be Felt. Each person is here to exemplify humanity, to glorify it much as she herself does.
Elsabeth merely gets a look of calm regard. One person recognizing a kindred soul, perhaps. And then Lisa moves to take up the left flank.
Her resonance speaks of brilliance, a beaming outward, a shining light: something that mesmerizes and pulls inward, that calls souls to it, something unyielding, something that will not diminish or die down. It's a bit at odds with the woman's calm, almost expressionless countenance.
She stands beside the altar, and meets Emily's eyes as the young woman stands before it. There's a smile again, encouraging, happy, proud. She'll make a good Knight one day.
[Emily Littleton] There is no tell that Janu will find, painted in the girl's features or among the trappings of her attire, to explain why she is familiar with his culture in any way. She has not yet spoken, here, so he cannot even guys at her ties to an Empire that once graced (dominated) Indian lands. Her reason, though, is thus: In her broad travels and many near-homes, Emily has encountered a host of cultures, beliefs and people. She has lived in China, visited temples, sat in holy spaces not of her own Faith. She has seen the grace in the foreign observances; at times there has been more Faith to them than to her own. She respects them; welcomes them.
Her godfather was a Monist, after all. His teachings run deeper for the Initiate standing amongst them than those of Mr. Owen Page, but they both taught towards tolerance. Temperance.
Emily draws a small, steadying breath before they approach the altar. She does not fidget or act outwardly nervous, but this is a formalized space and a serious matter of will and spirit. She glances to Solomon, to Lisa, and then back to Elsabeth and Janu. Her eyes are clear, steady blue fields with flecks of slate grey, as she replies in a calm and even voice:
"I do."
This call and response is not yet something she knows by rote, but the form is familiar.
[Solomon Ward] There's a crook to his lips that tug in the slight hint of a smile, one of the rare few times he isn't so absolutely stern and serious. An offered arm to Emily, if only for the few paces it takes to escort her to the small alter and into her place before he takes his position to her right side. Hands folded one over the other in front of himself in a manner that's nearly casual, entirely practiced. Patient. Expectant.
At Emily's glance he gives a slight nod, more a lowering of the chin than anything else, but reassurance all of the same. He stands beside her physically as well as symbolically.
The words and choice are for her and her alone, simple words and yet perhaps some day formative, life altering. He stands quietly while she speaks them.
[Singers] It is again the woman who speaks; she isn't shouting by any means but she knows how to work a room; she knows how to raise her voice just so; inflect her tone and pitch just so, to take advantage of a rooms natural acoustics so that the words are each distinct as the toll of a bell that calls, beckons, wills the Faithful [by whatever means and ways that they hold that Faith] forward. Calls them home.
"Who of the Faithful speaks for this woman? Who of the Faithful gives Witness to her Song? Give Testimony now that we may know how her Light is seen from without."
Old words; old terms not often used any more outside of ceremony. She asks what Choristers now vouch for the woman seeking initiation and her eyes falls first on Solomon to verify his place and speaks brief words of advocacy for Emily -- then too will those glacial blues slide and rest upon Lisa, seeking the same there.
[Solomon Ward] "I speak for this woman" he says, clear and strong in voice. He doesn't work the acoustics the way she does, but there's a presence to him all the same. That less than subtle mein that hides under his skin and calls out for things from times dead and past. The second skin he wears under his skin that reminds so many of a time when men like did things in the name of Faith that were called and uncalled for.
"I, Solomon Josiah Matthias Ward, Sergeant of the Covenant of the Knights Templar, bear witness to her Song. Her Song is true, she walks in Faith. She has acknowledged God, the One, as the Creator of Heaven and Earth. She has personally aided in the destruction of Evil. She is her brother's keeper and her Light is true".
[Emily Littleton] This is perhaps more difficult than putting herself forward as an Aspirant: standing quietly by while others Testify. Emily's chin tips down, a little. Her hands rest loosely at her sides. Her gaze is trained on the altar, not either of the Singers standing beside or before her. The length of her lashes shades her eyes from view, just so. It is demure, not anxious. Truly.
When Solomon's voice calls out to answer the bell-peal of Elsabeth's, it lifts a thin weight from Emily's shoulders. Her chin tips up, just a bit more, and her eyes blink clear of that momentary shrouding. He speaks for her, completing some not-yet-known ritual, and it is that much easier to breathe.
She does not look expectantly to either of them as the Templar Precept's gaze slides to Lisa. She keeps her attention trained forward, to the altar, but the tense wind of expectation in Emily is starting to unfurl; it is giving way to joy, to a sense of genuine happiness.
[Carraway] "I also speak for this woman," Lisa says, once Solomon has finished. She too seems to have a sense of how to project her voice, how to make it sing through the chapel. The heart of humanity beats as One, and she hears it, knows how to match herself with it and strum chords that resound.
A flicker of interest passes in her ghost gray eyes when Solomon mentions the Knights Templar. The memory of a persistent, romantic dream, perhaps; something that led her to stand here. It passes quickly; she's here for Emily.
"I, Lisa Morgan Carraway, Knight of the Order of St. George and the Dragon, have borne witness to her dedication to bettering the whole of Humanity and the destruction of that which would threaten it. She is a symbol of that which We strive to be, a light in dark times."
[Singers] There is a sense of burgeoning pleasure - admiration, unity, fellowship - in the air; emanating from the two at either side of the Altar as the two Knights speak, first Solomon and then Lisa; brief words; but words that Sing; words that Reflect the Light they have seen in the Aspirant; words that chime with the Harmony they feel she will entwine with the greater whole.
...there is a moment; a deliberate pause. Then, lowly, the bell chime an invocation in and of itself and those piercing blue eyes find Emily once more. Janu is looking as well, so that depths of honey-flecked brown gaze down alongside blue and upon blue. Drawing her out. Drawing her in. Weaving a bond first born in words and then sealed in Action.
"Emily Vesper Littleton; We call to you now," they speak, in unison. As one. As all are one. "Do you so pledge to stand with the Sacred Congregation of the Chorus Celestial to become the true Protectors of Mankind, that no creature of Infernal influence or vice kind shall pose a threat to humanity;"
Just Elsabeth, "From Vampires, discarnate spirits and other evil dead shall you safegaurd Mankind;"
And Ranu, alone, "From shape-shifters, changelings and other inhuman species shall you defend Humanity;"
And so they proceed, back and forth in the same flowing manner as before, never a beat missed, "From demons, succubi, incubi and any other dark spirits shall you protect the Innocent;"
"From sorcerers, thaumaturgists, warlocks and others who conspire with dark forces shall you shield the Powerless;"
"From the Dark Singers and all who would desecrate or pervert this Good Creation shall you preserve the Earth?"
Then, Ranu, softer.. kinder. Searching. "And will you nurture Harmony where it might be sowed? Will you cradle Good Will so it might thrive? Will you seek Fellowship so that even the darkest hours of the darkest Fight will not lead you to despairing?"
Together, stronger, truly blended: "Do you so Swear? Do you so Vow?"
[Emily Littleton] She swallows. It is a small thing, a little clearing away of the lump in her throat before she speaks. Emily is not as gifted as they are with the way she wields her voice; it is not a round-toned bell, nor is it a thing of precision and clarity, but there is a practiced note to it. She is a Diplomat's daughter; Emily knows how to hold her head high and be counted. There is a firmity to her, now, that strengthens that voice and lifts it up in support and harmony to the others.
"I, Emily Vesper Littleton, will. This I do so swear and I do so vow."
She looks from one Presbyter to the other with the same measured surety. These are not vows that the girl takes lightly. They are not promises she will be swayed from. Even diminished as she is in the wake of the Labyrinth assault, there is nothing to aver her from swearing these oaths and binding herself thus.
If any of it gives her pause, or gives her reason to doubt, it is the last. To find Fellowship so that she will not stumble in the darkness and lose her way. This is the weakness she knows in herself; it will be the watchword she must keep always to the forefront of her thoughts.
[Carraway] These vows: they're similar to the ones she swore upon her own initiation, upon being brought into the Order of St. George. But Lisa is clearly pleased by Janu's additions. She's sworn into one of the guardian orders, but pays just as much (if not more, at times) attention to the other duties of the Chorus, to the duty mankind has to itself and the responsibility they have toward one another.
Those latter vows are things she doesn't think Emily is going to have a hard time remembering to do either. She stands easily, tall and straight and dark in her suit, and there's a faint smile softening her features when Emily takes her oath.
[Singers] It is Presbyter Arsenault who answers first, intoning words fitting to the Order and Creed she follows and Represents here, tonight, Always. "Then let your Voice join our Song and let our War Song be heard and our battle cry be trumpeted across the world, for a powerful army unto the Lord shall we be."
"And, also," Ranu; deeper; radiant as hearth fires are; strong as the protection of bonfires in nights like pitch where evil roams and humanity feels its greatest comfort in solidarity, "Let your Light join our Beacon. Let our Flame be a Beacon to the Lost, the Weary and the Broken. Let each of us glow as One, under the One, that thrives in us all and in all things; that Welcomes and Heals and proclaims a greater Victory of Spirit and Unity."
"Come now, Emily Vesper Littleton, Solomon Josiah Mathias Ward and Lisa Morgan Carraway. Join us - I, Elsabeth Marion Arsenault and my Brother, Ranu Budhil Dubashi - that we might Commune as one with the Song, in the One."
They both step away from the alter now, with minimal but welcoming gestures that the others follow them, moving now to the baptismal font. It takes some maneuvering, but they can all come to stand in a circle around it. Coming closer now they can all feel it: The Resonance that hums in the water Elsabeth poured in the earlier. Holy Water, yes, thriving with the Dynamism of Worship and Hope and the Static resolve of Unity and Steadfastness. Water Blessed and Worked for just such an occasion, melded and fused with Quintessence meticulously and painstakingly drawn and held for just such purposes as this. They are meant to follow suit with the two Adepts, each dipping the fingertips of one hand into the water...
...it is unclear really which begins the Song first. In truth Ranu has the better singing voice so far as such things go: His tenor is true and bright; Elsabeth would make no living off skill alone, but she is unashamed to join her voice with his. These are tones only; no great production; no complex harmonics or Battle Hymns or Hindu chants. It is a natural things, without flair or pretense. It may not even be the usual Foci either of them would use for the Working of Prime, but in this - in this ceremony - it is most fitting. Ranu stands to the north of the bowl, Elsabeth tot he South. Lisa was placed to Ranu's left; Solomon to Lisa's Left; Elsabeth to his and Emily beside her, between her and Ranu both so that the circle will be completed on the Aspirant.
Lifting his hand, droplets flowing, singing the no-words; heart-song, low and honest, he turns to Lisa and touches his fingertips to her forehead, passing Quintessence to her, which she will pass to Solomon and so on, each with their own form of mark.
...there is a whisper from Arsenault, hushed for Emilys ears, the barest break: "Open yourself to the Sight -- this is a beautiful thing."
--------------
[[And since we might as well! This is of course like a round robin Bond of Blood. It'll be done in Concert!
Prime Three for Adepts and Disciples, Prime 1 for Emily. Diff: 6/Diff:4, modify as needed. 5 suxx needed but the more the merrier!]]
[Singers] [[Rolling for Ranu who is leading.]]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 4, 5, 5 (Success x 2 at target 3)
[Singers] [[Rolling for Arsenault - full suxx count towards adding on.]]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 4, 6, 7 (Success x 3 at target 3)
[Carraway]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 7, 10 (Success x 3 at target 4)
[Emily Littleton]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 5, 10 (Success x 2 at target 3)
[Solomon Ward]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 6, 8 (Success x 1 at target 4)
[Solomon Ward] His 'Song' is worse than Arsenault's. The man couldn't carry a tune on his back and his larynx was damaged months ago. It comes out instead as a throaty hum, adding to the sound of the others but of little value in and of itself. Ironically it's almost a lesson in why they are a 'Choir' and not some other terminology. All the same he adds to it well, with a strength and heartfelt tone that carries along with the rest of them.
Quintessence gained from Carraway, the emphasis of the magical and mystical teachings of Emily's new Tradition. A link to the Creator and all of His Light, passed and shared from one to another, Solomon lightly touched the other Templar's forehead with cautious finger tips, though his eyes remained on Emily.
[Carraway] Lisa does often Work through song: it is something she has always done, a joy of hers since she was young. They call music a universal language, something that binds human beings to each other, something each person understands even if they don't know the words. Her song is one of joy and the exuberance borne of youth and conviction, and her voice, a rich alto, rings like a bell.
With much of religious ceremony, she's inclined to approach things tongue-in-cheek; those old archaic rituals are not hers, after all. They speak to a different time, and she's very much a woman of the modern age, Knight or not. But this is different.
Her fingertips are light on Solomon's forehead, and she gives the other Chorister a grin as she lets her hand fall away, lets the ritual pass along to the last of them.
[Emily Littleton] Emily has no practiced singing voice. She has sung along with hymns at church, holding the hymnal in her hands and staring at the arcane sigils that float above the words there -- music is not among her known languages, yet. She can follow, by ear, but not lead. Her voice is not unpleasant, with training it could be as warm and mellifluous as her speaking voice could be, and so she lends it tentatively at first to the growing choir.
Then, in time, more freely.
Her resonance builds to where it can break from of the wrongness left along her metaphysical skin by their time in the Labyrinth. It overtakes that sooty feel with an Unrelenting Reverence, a boundless grace. There is a reason her quintessential hallmark had leaned toward reverence long before she thought of Singing with the Chorus: this moment is that reason, this Fellowship and binding.
When it is her turn to dip her fingertips in the font, and turn with opened eyes (primed sight) to place a damp fingerprint on Ranu's forehead, Emily leaves it precisely where one might smudge ash on a particular Wednesday, where a bright red dot is placed in other cultures, where the third-eye is said to sit -- she does this out of long-held association with that place for blessings, for anointing, for touching toward one's spirit or soul. It is a light touch, just deft enough to leave behind the dampness and a whisper, and eddy of warmth from the nearness of her skin.
[Singers] Emily sees it, as do any who have opened themselves to the Sight: Each see it as suits their Paradigm of course, though given the commonality of Paradigm - by long training within the Tradition or mark of their Mentors prior to their Initiation or a natural knack, just another sign of where they were meant to be - it is likely to be seen as Light; Light that brims near to overflowing in the baptismal Font; Light that flexes and thrives on the chords of their Chorus; Light that passes from touch to touch and Glows upon and around and within each of them in turn until the last where they form a collective Orb of it; a Circle surrounding the Font which is the epicenter; Connections within Connections and a literally manifestation of Oneness.
They hold it for a long moment; the strength of the Rote is poignant and savoured; each voice left to decrescendo naturally until it dwindles to a whisper; a vibration; it's own resonance chimed in the air...
Ranu smiles; paternal; jovial; celebrant. And - ah, let us hope she is not offended! - wraps his arms around the once Aspirant, now Initiate, with compassion and warmth. "Welcome, Sister." Then Elsabeth, who places her hands on Emily's shoulder and touches her cheek to the other womans and, "Welcome, Sister."
Tiem given for Solomon and Lisa to add their greeting - their mark - if they should like... some sense of the formality has dissipated, but not the air of Reverence and Joy and Sacred Vows.
Elsabeth, then, "As a Disciple of our ranks and one of the Faithful in the city, Solomon with act as your Praecept and you his Catechumen in matters of the Chorus as I believe he already discussed with you. He will see that your Catechumenate - which I understand was informally started under another Singer, no longer present in the city - is completed. But for all intents and purposes you are now Emily Littleton, Initiate of the Celestial Chorus. We all stand as witness and your name shall be spread as one of our ranks."
Ranu, benevolent, "If you have need of us, you need only call."
[Singers] [[oh and not that it matters much for the NPCs, but given 10 suxx -- Emily and Solomon can go ahead and take 2 Quint each from this. MOZELTOV!]]
[Carraway] The others may see it; Lisa hears it, hears the murmur of billions of points of consciousness around the world collected as One, a wellspring of memory and emotion. A chorus indeed.
She steps forward and what she offers Emily is a handshake, at first: a clasp at the wrist, similar to the warrior's handshake she offered Emily the second time they parted. Then she pulls the younger woman into a hug, a touch of shoulders and a murmured "Welcome home."
When she stands back it's with a glance toward Solomon, to see who Emily will be training under. Then she says, "I'll be in touch soon." They spoke of this in passing, it was hinted at: perhaps Emily already knows what she means.
[Emily Littleton] It is a breath-taking sight, that font overflowing, the brilliance of the sacred space in which they five stand just now. It is uplifting, a thing to remark upon, a memory to rejoice in -- it stands in sharp contrast to the recent months. It offers a beacon, a hope for something brighter.
She is a little surprised when Ranu hugs her, but not offended in the slightest. Emily's thin arms slide around him to embrace him in return. She is not whole, is not entirely hale, so there is a carefulness in the motion but not a reluctance. Elsabeth's greeting is more familiar (formalized) and its gesture is returned in kind with little hesitation.
Few of them have seen Emily without a thin mask, a carefully collected veneer. This will be the closest any of them come for some time, for a long time. There is a warmth within her, overflowing not at all unlike the font between them, that cannot be hidden by the careful set of her smile or the shape of her eyes. It gets caught up in the reverence about her, it's bright and almost infectious.
She is ready, this time, for the way that Lisa clasps her wrist rather than shakes her hand. Emily can return that without faultering. She is happy to hug her in return, and to nod in reply to what she's said. That Lisa will be in touch soon. If possible, that widens the girl's smile.
Her face might break. Or get stuck that way. If she keeps smiling like that. She'd have to go to Chantry meetings grinning. That simply wouldn't do. (Right now, Emily couldn't bring herself to care about that.)
When she finds her voice, which won't be for another few minutes yet, it will be to thank them all, with a genuine and resonant tone to her voice. One that is a little steadier now, a little stronger now than before. One that... Sings.
[Singers] [[Yay!! I believe that's a wrap! Thanks everyone!!]]
No comments:
Post a Comment