#cruciform in shape

[streetsofdublin]

HISTORIC NORMAN CASTLE IN TRIM COUNTY MEATH

In fact, the castle is the largest Anglo-Norman fortification in Ireland. Hugh de Lacy and his successors took 30 years to build it.

PHOTOGRAPHED 26 DECEMBER 2006 Few places in Ireland contain more medieval buildings than the heritage town of Trim. Trim Castle is foremost among those buildings. In fact, the castle is the largest Anglo-Norman fortification in Ireland. Hugh de Lacy and his successors took 30 years to build it. The central fortification is a monumental three-storey keep. This massive 20-sided tower, which is…

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Scrub My Brain With Bleach - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Vi pays the price for snooping...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

As she moves to go, her foot catches something under the desk. It's a trunk, the wooden surface scuffed by frequent use. But the design's exquisitely ornate. The lid's inset with a mosaic of mother-of-pearl. It depicts a blue-haired sprite in a grove, a green dragonfly cradled in her palms. The motif is repeated in a band around the brass rim, where the dragonflies open and close their wings, their iridescent patterns shimmering as if in flight.

It reminds Vi of the folktales of Janna, passed into her tiny ear by Mom at bedtime. How the dragonflies were Janna's eyes, their luminous wings bearing the sparks of her magic. How they flitted through the old gardens of Oshra Va'Zaun, bestowing the Goddess's favor. How, should the light catch their wings just so, they'd grant a boon on a lucky soul.

And a kiss of fortune, upon their lips.

Jinx, Vi guesses, chose the box for its whimsy as much as its utility. She's plainly taken pains to keep it tidy. Despite the scratches on the varnish, its structure is solid, and its brass lid is freshly gilded. There's a padlock, burnished to a lustrous gleam, and a keyhole in the shape of a dragonfly's thorax. The key itself is a golden cruciform dangling off the chain that seals the lock.

For a moment, Vi wonders if the trunk is, in fact, a trousseau. Jinx hardly seems the type. Her idea of wedding finery would involve explosives more than lingerie—if she bothered to put anything on at all.

And yet the possibility's not as outlandish as it'd been while Vi was knuckling sleep-crumbs from her eyes in the guestroom.

The trunk is clearly a cherished possession. Maybe Jinx keeps her favorite jewelry here. Maybe she's got a cache of special grenades. Maybe she's hiding a skeleton. Or three.

Maybe Vi's a nosy, meddling shit.

But she can't help it. The trunk's so much like the hope-chest in Caitlyn's attic. Hers was a varnished lilac beauty, lined in rose-petal velvet, and neatly packed with sentimental relics. Her grandfather's bifocals. A pearl brooch from her mother's wedding day. Her father's favorite stethoscope.

And a threadbare pair of Vi's hand-wraps folded around a wispy strip of Caitlyn's panties.

Vi has teased her mercilessly over the last item. There was something so ticklish at the idea of the prim-and-proper Caitlyn Kiramman, with her fastidious manners and her blue-blooded airs, holding her very first fuck-me panties close to her heart—much less in the love-knot of Vi's grubby bindings.

"Just a memento," Caitlyn had squirmed, flushing scarlet. "Don't let it go to your head."

Vi smirked, thoroughly enjoying the display. "My head's the last place that's going, Cupcake. Never thought my wraps would rub shoulders with you skivvies. Let alone your granny's good silver."

"Oh, shut it!" Caitlyn snapped, flushing darker still. "If you must know, they're a reminder."

"Of what? How hard I rocked your world?"

"Not... precisely. I just wanted something real. To help me remember."

Vi was confused. "Remember what? I'm right here."

"I-I know." Caitlyn's lashes dipped. "But things could have turned out differently."

"How d'you mean?"

"That night. On the Bridge. It could have gone... terribly wrong."

"Yeah," Vi admitted, quieter. "But it didn't."

"Because of you."

"Huh?"

"Because you chose to come back." Caitlyn's eyes were shining, but earnest. "You chose to come back for me."

"It's not like you gave me a choice, Cait."

"But there was a choice." The sheen faded from Caitlyn's eyes. Only the earnestness remained. "You made yours. And I made mine. And I'd never have pictured it would lead to..." She trailed off, the flush creeping higher, except now the shyness was subsumed by an almost wistful wonder. "What I'm trying to say is: I wanted to keep a part of you with me. A part that's mine, and mine alone. So that if things ever went sideways, I could always remind myself: 'Caitlyn Kiramman, you took a leap of faith once. And it was the best thing you've ever done.'"

She'd looked at Vi then, and the naked emotion in her eyes was the sweetest torture. Vi's own face flamed. She was used to being the forward one in the flirtation game. To having the upper hand. Not being the one caught flat-footed and off her game.

"That's all the bindings are," Caitlyn whispered. "A reminder. Sometimes... even the craziest leaps can lead you home."

Against her will, Vi's eyes misted.

"Crazy leap, huh?" she managed, trying to regain her bravado. "Is that all I am to you?"

In reply, Caitlyn kissed her. Vi kissed back, a little roughly, just to prove a point.

When they parted on gasps, Caitlyn was smiling.

"You are," she breathed. "And I'd have you no other way."

They'd kissed, and kissed some more, and fallen into bed. But the shocky sweetness of the confession had never left Vi.

Not since.

Vi shuts her eyes, fighting the burn of tears again. In her hands, the trunk is heavy. The weight of a past. One that doesn't belong to her, not by a long shot. Whatever's inside is meant for Jinx, and only Jinx. Vi has no right to open it. Has no right, even, to be here.

Except there's a small voice in the back of her mind.

Wait.

Jinx's past, and the future, have always been tangled. Last night, the knot pulled taut, and her sister had nearly died. Vi had been dragged into the middle of it. So had the rest of the city. Maybe there's something in here that'll clue Vi in on how to unravel the mess. To keep Jinx from repeating her mistakes. From falling into the trap of believing her greatest failure was a childhood lapse that broke everything.

Or believing her only worthy gift is the power to fix it.

Maybe, just maybe, Vi can help.

The key fits into the lock with a delicate click. It turns. The padlock springs open. Vi lifts the lid. Inside are, in fact, mementos. But they're mementos of a life Vi's never seen. An eclectic mix of salvage, toys, and tools. Broken clocks, their innards dissected. Wind-up insects, their cogs and sprockets disemboweled. Half-empty canisters of spraypaint. A small cache of fireworks. A pile of old, dog-eared children's books.

Basically: a heap of shiny.

Vi recognizes her sister's magpie habit of hoarding glitter. The junk stuffed under Powder's bed was of a similar stripe: gears from Vander's old watch, diodes from garbage chutes, fistfuls of colored glass from the arcade, and a single, shiny golden gyroscope.

Vi's fingers touch the gyroscope, and the memory strikes her like lightning.

Ekko.

This was the gyroscope he'd gifted Powder, the twilit afternoon at the reservoir. The day he'd planted a smooch on her little sister, and stirred up a shitstorm when Vi caught them in the act. The day their world, tilting at precarious angles, had not yet gone sideways.

The day is gone, but the gyroscope is here.

Carefully, Vi lifts it out. She's stunned that it's survived the transition of past to present. The gold plating is untarnished. The mechanism is well-oiled. The tiny blue marble at the center, its facets winking, is still intact. As if, throughout the years, Jinx has treasured it more than all the deadly detritus in her possession.

Vi can't fathom why.

At the very bottom is a silk pillowcase. It's stuffed with mysterious flotsam. A small silver pendant shaped like a bird, its eyes made of tiny turquoise cabochons. A set of child-sized brass knuckles, the surfaces etched with a filigree of skulls. A plastic baggie stuffed with leaves, each one browned and crinkly with age.

And—what the fuck?

The curvature of a disquietingly sleek red object with a trigger that, when clicked, sets a row of gears whirring.

It takes a moment for Vi to recognize it as a vibrator.

"Shit," she says, and drops it fast.

It clatters back into the pillowcase, whirring. Vi switches it off, and knots the top tight. Her face smarts. She can't believe her little sister has a sex-toy. One she's seemingly designed to her own specs, judging by the unusual curves and polished contours and the silent-as-fuck mechanism meant to keep her old man from finding out.

Jinx, the Daddy's Girl. Jinx, the terrorist. Jinx, the sorceress.

Who, apparently, has been getting her rocks off.

"Goddamnit," Vi mutters. "I need to scrub my brain out with bleach."

[trivialbob]

Last year I complained of Prime drink mixes not mixing well in water. The powder clumped up. Some sips of the beverage were too watery, others had too much flavor.

Last year I asked my future daughter-in-law, a professional chemist, if there was something I could do to make the power mix better, giving me a more enjoyable drink experience.

Last year she was of no help.

Michelle and Matt are here now in the Twin Cities this week to celebrate Christmas early with us. Before they had even unpacked Michelle gave me my Christmas gift.

It is an Intllab Magnet Stirrer. This is the same type of mixer she has in her chemistry lab. The base has a spinning magnet underneath a metal plate. A cruciform-shaped, plastic-covered metal spinner sits in a beaker resting on the plate. When power is applied, the device stirs the liquid.

It works well. I am hydrated and have satisfied taste buds.

These are two of Matt and Michelle's engagement photos. They are getting married next year.

[sitting-on-me-bum]

CALANAIS STANDING STONES, ISLE OF LEWIS, OUTER HEBRIDES

For over 5,000 years—predating even Stonehenge—these enchanting stones have illuminated hearts and minds.

The circle of mystical megaliths is a muse for animated Disney film Brave.

Protagonist Merida is guided by will’-o-the-wisps to an arcane ring of stones, where her destiny is forever changed.

Cruciform in shape, this puzzling arrangement of menhirs has an esoteric essence, its pillars stretching towards the sky, as if wanting to make contact with the stars.

PHOTOGRAPH BY ACACIA JOHNSON

[389]

Stanley Szwarc’s Visionary Cross Purposes Stanley Szwarc (1928-2011), a Polish book keeper turned metal worker and then artist after arriving in the United States, gave no indication of being particularly religious, but he did like making crosses. A prolific creator of objects from scrap stainless steel, always demonstrating over-the-top imagination, Szwarc made hundreds of crosses, if not thousands. He produced jewelry, he made crosses to be hung on the wall, and he crafted cruciform objects with no apparent use other than to be carriers of his endless combinations of geometric shapes. Szwarc liked to say that no two of his objects, be they crosses, vases, key fobs or boxes, were alike. The evidence plainly supports that contention while demonstrating a virtuosic artistic vision that could not contain itself, always seeking out fascinating ways to vary the ornamentation, to create objects of surprise, delight and striking beauty. Szwarc was one of the great self-taught artists of the 20th Century.

[rainintheevening]

Hey all, would really appreciate prayers for my mom. Her back is in rough shape right now, she's in a lot of pain, and can't walk very well. They got a short extension on the insurance pay-out, so she can get back to seeing the osteopath she's been seeing, but probably not for long. God only knows where this is going.

Please pray for her, and me as I wrestle with trying not to shift into my old friend survival mode. I don't want to shut down, I want to stay open, I want to live cruciform. But it's hard.

[blueiscoool]

A 5th-Century BC Bone Scepter Discovered in Bulgaria

A unique bone scepter belonging to a Scythian warlord from the 5th century BC was discovered during excavations in the prehistoric salt production and urban center Provadia-Solnitsata in Northeast Bulgaria.

The Scythians were a steppe and semi-steppe people who arrived on the Danube in the seventh century BC. They entered modern-day Bulgaria, but there is no evidence that they fought the locals. There’s information that they had confrontations with the Thracians after the 5th century BC.

The archaeological team is led by Professor Vassil Nikolov. The scepter was found in a grave examined by Violeta Stoitsova and Kalina Samichkova.

Professor Vassil Nikolov told the Bulgarian News Agency (BTA) that Scythian graves are something very rare in today’s Northeastern Bulgaria are extremely rare, just four or five have been discovered so far.

The excavated pit is different from those found so far, Nikolov explained. The shape of the Scythian warrior’s grave resembles a boot, with a hollowed-out part. It was apparently excavated in later times, but people saw the skull and upper part of the man’s skeleton, which are missing today, and stopped immediately, explained Nikolov.

Respect for ancestral graves was very important for the Scythians. Anyone who damaged one of these tombs would have harmed the Scythians. Perhaps the people who dug the grave realized that the person lying there was an important Scythian and left the grave without looting.

Archaeologists have now found the bone scepter, which the researcher described as “an incredible achievement of the art of that time”. Alongside the human bones, they also found those of a horse, an iron knife, a small dog, and a turtle.

The Scythians had exceptional traditions in the art of bone carving. The sceptre is 39 centimetres long. The handle is made of two pieces of bone glued together. The connection between the head and the handle of the scepter is very precisely crafted. Seen from one side it looks like the beak of an eagle, but on the other, the ancient craftsman has carved an anthropomorphic image on which the beak looks like a hat.

The scepter is proof of the skills of their masters, Nikolov noted and added that it probably belonged to a military commander of a small military unit.

“Those found so far are usually cruciform, with an ornithomorphic (A figure in ancient art resembling a bird) upper part. Most often the craftsmen carved an eagle because this bird is part of the Scythian religious-mythological system,” Nikolov said.

By oguz kayra.

[dismorfofobie]

Cross shaped tattoos of Aromanian and Megleno-Romanian women from Dobruja and the Balkan space.

Damca, Sigiliu or Crúțe tattoos in Aromanian language were used as a protection tool to prevent girls from entering Turkish harems.

Nicolae S. Minovici states that the act of tattooing was produced at a young age, in the context of survival in an area under Ottoman rule. "Parents used to mark children around 5-6 years old with a tattoo representing a cross, to prove the fact that they were Christian, and with the respective name to know who they are."

The sign of the cross appears even today at Aromanian weddings in the form of a hlambura (a cruciform wedding tree, with three apples stuck at the ends, decorated with various materials). Another meaning, re-semantized on a symbolic level, is related to the affirmation of the Orthodox Christian faith and protection against the evil eye and other diseases.

[birgittesilverbae]

thinking of babea au and lilith forced to seek refuge in her childhood home with an injured bea.

lilith standing in the foyer, stooping to heft beatrice into her arms and she smells of ozone, of burnt-out matches. her hair smells of cedarwood.

the apparition of her mother looking shrunken next to a suit of armour, wineglass in hand, and beatrice only half-aware of anything (mostly aware of lilith’s warmth, her neck, her breath when she looks down as though afraid that beatrice will suddenly stop breathing) but struck by the thought that lilith must have found her silence somewhere. here.

the quiet she carries with her, and how when she laughs it feels like the air has cracks in it. beatrice craves that sound, but the foyer echoes. lilith’s childhood home is full up with silence.

lilith stands, ignoring the steady drip, drip of bea’s blood onto the tiles, how it smears the family crest. she stares at her mother over the wrinkling of bea’s brow, her soundless sighs committed to the tomb of lilith’s throat and she feels, for an instant, like she’s holding a flame instead of a girl.

holding a match for too long and begging it not to burn her fingers.

her mother says her name. that’s all; ‘lilith’ in her sepulchral tone, eyes roaming over the bloodied shape of beatrice cradled in her arms. all the bullet holes are gone, ringed by blood but incapable of harming her. there’s a handful of them sitting inside lilith’s pocket, digging into her thigh.

she doesn’t know why she picked them up, except perhaps that they were soaked in bea’s blood and she didn’t want to leave them in the alley where she dragged beatrice. where she listened to her in the dark hiccupping blood as mercenaries flickered past them in the street beyond.

lilith had to wrap her body around the cruciform sword. it glowed like a beacon. she manged it, mostly, but the light caught beatrice’s eyes. they caught on her pain as though on broken glass.

her mother stares as they trail blood over the parapet floor, the carpet, following after lilith as she lays beatrice down on one of the sofas. it’s more of a loveseat, really, and looking at it in the lamplight lilith is struck by a smaller, cleaner version of herself sitting cross-legged, a book open in her lap.

beatrice lies there, bleeds there. it’s mostly from her arm, where lilith watched a divinium-laced bullet strike her, spinning her back into lilith’s arms, blood erupting over her fingers. beatrice was already full of bullets, listing from the halo’s fading burn, but the sight of that unearthly blue light glimmering in her skin made lilith more afraid than she thought was possible.

somewhere between the family crest and the sight of beatrice dampening the sofa cushions with blood, lilith’s mother seems to find her voice.

she opts for Italian, which only makes beatrice’s lips twitch, and lilith has to fight back the insane urge to kiss her. not in front of your mother, fool!

this of course swiftly followed by, and why would it matter?

instead, lilith smooths beatrice’s hair off her forehead, ignoring the sweat and dirt that follows the sweep of her palm. “rest,” she commands, picking up the old version of her voice from the days when she used to pin beatrice to the mat in cat’s cradle and lean down close to say “yield.”

“where are you going?” out of spite, beatrice says this in Latin, which shortens it tremendously.

even with her mother’s eyes on her, lilith can’t help but dip down, darting a quick kiss to beatrice’s forehead. “just rest. i’ll be back.”

she dumps her duffel down next to beatrice, hoping and yes, maybe praying, that she has what she needs inside.

“what was that?” her mother says as lilith moves back out into the foyer. her body wants to tremble but she holds it still, moves to the staircase like a thief stealing into heaven.

her mother follows her with a string of complaints as she digs out clean clothes for bea (hers, old, trying to pay no attention to what she chooses).

lilith fetches warm water and washcloths, she tries to breathe. the response, when she asks after food, is “why on earth would I know what we have to eat?”

she carries it all back to beatrice, takes the first aid kit from her duffel. forced to cut through bea’s armour to reach the only intact wound. she makes herself listen to beatrice’s unguarded cries of pain as she takes the shards of divinium out of her shoulder. the halo flickers, gleams, replaces bea’s blood which is just as well.

there’s so much of it on her hands.

her mother hisses at her for ruining the furniture and lilith feels herself go still and quiet.

“you should be happy. aren’t you the one who told me that anything the halo touches is holy?”

bea slipping into consciousness just long enough to hear lilith say, “well, here she is; the holiest thing you’ll never get your hands on.”

her mother leaves. there’s the sound of an engine starting, a door slamming. then a better silence.

she bandages bea’s shoulder and kisses her properly, careful not to get any more blood on her face. “time for bed,” she mutters.

“can’t… don’t think I can walk.” beatrice is only half-awake.

“i’ll carry you.”

a hand on her chest, “no. just be here.”

lilith makes up a bed for them on the floor. she lights the fire with wet wood from the shed outside that spits as it takes the flame.

the next morning bea sits at the kitchen nook, wearing lilith’s old taekwondo hoodie, tracing the logo on the sleeve with her fingers while lilith burns their scrambled eggs

lilith, slightly chagrined, sets down a plate of overcooked toast and dry scrambled eggs. bea looks at her and it’s an odd expression. it’s the look she saves for the ocean, or for certain flowers.

they eat, bea tucking into her tasteless meal like she’s never eaten before, pretending she can’t see lilith looking at her with a sort of bleak fondness.

because bea’s hands are trembling as she holds her cutlery and she looks strange and small in lilith’s hoodie and a pair of old sleep shorts. they’re eating at the breakfast nook in the kitchen that her mother never uses but where lilith used to eat lunch (and dinner if her mother was at a party). it feels sacred to her, somehow. feels right to find beatrice sitting there.

bea makes a short noise of delight, noticing a big, uncoordinated ‘LILITH WAS HERE’ carved into the wood right at the edge of the table. she makes lilith scoot over next to her, points to it, then shamelessly takes advantage of their closeness to tuck both her hands into one of lilith’s sleeves so she has to eat left-handed. clumsily.

lilith rolls her eyes, but she laces her fingers through bea’s, and kisses her again.

[streetsofdublin]

TRIM CASTLE AT CHRISTMAS

The castle is often called King John’s Castle although when he visited the town he preferred to stay in his tent on the other side of the river.

[hieromonkcharbel]

Synopsis of Tonight’s Group on The Ladder of Divine Ascent:

Where are we in the spiritual battle? Do we understand the virtues that are generally most necessary in the pursuit of virtue? So often in our day, we approach the spiritual life in a piecemeal fashion, gleaning from the writing of saints things that speak to our own particular sensibilities. But are any of these things going to help us address the dominant passions that we struggle with?

We cannot be lazy in the labors of the spiritual life. We are blessed to be able to sit at the feet of the great elders and those who speak from experience. And yet, as with so many things in our day, we would have things come in our own time and in the way that we desire. Christianity overturns our perception of reality. What it means to love, what is truth, all comes into view only through the person of Christ. The shape of the Christian life is cruciform – always involving a dying to self and sin, and rising to new life in Christ. We must cast off the old man in order to put on the mind of Christ. Lacking discernment we may find ourselves being guided by the demons and settling into mediocrity or the embrace of selfishness and sin that merely is an aping of virtue.

[inevitableisopod]

Longswords and you, pt 1

So, to furtherance! the first thing im going to address is what i imagine will be of interest to the vast majority of people that actually want to read this blog, the longsword!

so, now what is a longsword? unfortunately, we don't know. the term longsword is a modern definition that is not necessarily indicative of historical perception, and as such it instead refers to a group of swords spanning approximately 4 centuries (first emerging in the 1200s, and being used right through the 1600s and slightly in the 1700s albeit with much diminished regularity), that differ in application and design, but never the less share certain characteristics, these being:

long double edged blades, usually 10 cm either side of a meter, but bare in mind this can very wildly

relatively long handles, easily taking 2, or even 2 and a half hands, ending in a rather pronounced lump of metal called a pommel

a long crossbar that forms the guard, giving the entire thing a roughly cruciform shape.

one of these basically

Unfortunately these rules are neither hard nor fast, but give the general idea!

Next i'll discuss its impact in modern western culture and usage!

May your edges stay sharp and your points true

[bechloesupercorp]

It was too beautiful of a day. Cruel, really, the sun that cast a soft glow onto Bea’s face whenever Ava stole a glance. The blonde highlights reflected with each powerful attack, fending off Tarasks like it wasn’t even a challenge. What a dream this life was. Ava fell more in love each day. 

She couldn’t wait. Once they were done all this, they’d walk into the sunset and dance under the stars. Bea wrapped in her arms, grass tickling their feet. Spinning ‘round and ‘round and ‘round til the sun came up. She could feel the weight of her lover in her hands, tying her to the earth. The soft, Don’t fly away from me darling, in her ear. Never. In this life and the next.

The battle was coming to a close, leaving room to breathe. Ava took a deep breath, crisp air filling her lungs. The cruciform sword hung loosely in her hand as she swung around, searching. The wind blew, frosting over the edges of her fingertips.

She smiled, eyes flitting over her sisters. Camila, with the fierce look in her eyes as she took down an adversary. Lilith, flying above with a fond glare. Her sisters. For such lonely children, neither Ava nor Beatrice had ever expected to be surrounded by so much love.

Beatrice. Their eyes met, Beatrice’s gaze softened, and an unbelievable lightness  bloomed in Ava's chest. A quip danced on Ava’s lips as she started to approach. 

It only took a second. Bea’s eyes went impossibly wide – a blade protruding sharply from her chest. Dark red dripped from her lips, taunting. The breath fled from Ava’s chest, replaced by seething rage.

Ava watched in horror as the sword was retracted. Beatrice slumped to the ground, mouth falling slack. A harsh glow erupted all around, a final anguished pulse to save her love. 

No such luck.

Beatrice didn't even stir, eyes wide and unseeing, as Ava fell to her knees. Her torso crashed against the pavement, heart shattering in a million tiny pieces. The rough concrete shredded into her skin. It didn't matter. She couldn't feel it anyways.

But she felt it: the second that Bea left. Like a hand wrenching out her heart. It was all that she could feel. The deep despair as she stared at her slain lover, Halo dark and heavy in her back. Face pressed against the freezing pavement, she cast her eyes to the sky, watching the clouds shift as relentless tears pricked at her eyes. 

They floated above, ignorant to the immense loss and the crater in Ava's heart. It was almost as if she could just pretend, just for a second, that they were back in the Alps. Side by side on the picnic blanket Bea had picked up one day, after the third time Ava'd rolled down the sloping hills, dragging Bea into staring at the clouds, searching for shapes, with the sun on their faces. Grass stains, Ava, are incredibly difficult to remove, Beatrice had remarked, laying out their mat. That hadn't stopped Ava anyways. But Beatrice had never complained, only strolled behind her while she lovingly rolled her eyes. If only she could pretend, just once more, that the hard pavement that she couldn't feel was the soft grass and the distant human in her ears was the chirp of the songbirds and the whistle of the wind through the mountains. Those were the times where she'd really felt free. There, with Beatrice, far enough away that they could just be. Ava let it wash over her, the same way she'd done for years, paralysed in an orphanage bed. 

A soft hand ran its way down her cheek, and she wanted to follow it, but the calluses were all wrong. Fuzzy voices drifted into focus as she was dragged back to the real world. Camila's head appeared as she was shifted onto her back. 

“Hold on Ava, we’ll get you out of here,” she promised, determination written on her face. 

Ava simply turned silently back to Bea, tears dripping as she watched Lilith drop defeatedly onto her heels. So it was true. 

Ava gulped, energy draining further from her limbs. Paralysed again. A bittersweet smile turned the corners of her mouth.

"We loved you both," she promised. The Halo still laid dark between her shoulder blades.

"No! Ava-"

The ghost of a familiar hand danced along hers. Calluses all in the right places. Sensation rippled through her body, up her arm and spreading. 

“We loved you. And we’re sorry.”

Warm fingers brushed over her knuckles, before settling in her palm. Slowly solidifying and weighing heavily in her hand, her shakily fingers came up to grasp back. An easy smile fell over her lips, even as the Halo stayed extinguished in her back.

Soft crunching approached, Lilith appearing at the edge of Ava's vision, cradling something – someone – with the utmost gentleness. A familiar hand dangled at her peripheral, limp and stained with blood.

There was no mistaking the steady stream of tears running down the sisters faces, nor the stuttering breaths.

As Lilith laid Bea down beside her, Ava couldn't stifle her sob. She could feel the hand in hers tighten, like a promise.

It's time. She smiled weakly, apology in her eyes as she breathed,"In the next," and then they were gone.

— — —

They'd seen. They'd seen the light slowly leave Ava's eyes, Camila sobbing into Lilith’s embrace. 

It was only when they'd looked up, that they'd seen. The faint glow of the Halo, and the outline of two lovers, walking away, hand in hand.

[gorbalsvampire]

𝖃𝕴𝕴𝕴 𝕿𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖘 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝕱𝖊𝖚𝖉𝖆𝖑 𝕭𝖔𝖍𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖆

𝔄𝔠𝔱 ℑℑℑ, 𝔰𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔢 𝔦𝔳

Our story reaches its first peak, with Theodericus awakening to overhear hushed words between Libussa and... is that Prince Brandl? Surely not. Most unlike him to be concerned with a lowly mortal. Putting his new Heightened Senses to the test, Theodericus overhears an an overture being made - or perhaps a reassurance given.

In haste, the young Ventrue hies him to the Inn of the Four Stags, there to meet with Marsillius and put the Brujah to the question. Surely Ecatarina or Cosmas know where the Prophet of Kupala might be found, and what his designs on the Basilica might be. Theodericus was very hung up on the idea that a church might be deconsecrated, and wanted to be damned sure that wasn't the plan. Cosmas reassured him that, as a former deacon who'd arranged a deconsecration for his first parish, there was a little more to it than Theodericus might think, and also that the Church does not casually discard a whole-ass Basilica.

Marsillius was intrigued and asked about said parish: it was, said Cosmas, the parish of St. Stephen's in what is now the Jewish ghetto, in the old cemetery that's now the new cemetery. Theodericus and Marsillius blinked: there was no church in the Josefov cemetery. Cosmas assured them that yes, there was. And this was a sign, the first sign, that something was up.

It was decided that they needed a Malkavian to catch a Malkavian. They needed Octavio's childe. Off to the convent to collect Alzbeta. A very hungry Alzbeta, who had once again been trying to induce Premonition...

But before we get into that, let's talk about Mariam. Mariam who had seen fit to venture into the cemetery alone, having picked up a trail from that circuit of BREAD CRIMINALS who constitute her modest Herd. Ruth told her there was a reason they made their drops by the stream that flows under the cemetery: there was a customer who wanted a lot of bread and, according to Simon who'd followed him into the cemetery one night, was living in the old Christian church...

Yes. Of course there was an old Christian church. Hadn't there always been?

Mariam decided there was no time to waste. She rang the lich gate bell, left a scrawled message in the wood of the gate, and ran like hell up through the trees and the gravestones and the winding hummocky paths to a dark, drab, modest chapel - a stolid, decaying cruciform of a building, a roost of owls screened from the world's vulgar gaze by overgrown and tangled yews.

With the Silence of Death woven about her, Mariam pushed open the door; deep, dark, that even her Eyes of the Beast could barely penetrate. Pews... pulpit of stone... the faint lightness of leaded windows...

She stepped inside, and plunged into an Escherian nightmare of stairs, arches, walkways, pillars; wooden doors that had the vague shape of pews about them. Tapping ahead of her with her staff, and cursing her importune folly, she tried to find her way forward, but the Mental Maze of the prophet was taking its toll on her will.

His voice drifted through the deeps, telling her what he had seen - red star, thin blood, world would be as Gehenna, if the Fiends are strong this can be prevented. Mariam was having none of it, gritting her teeth and accusing him of the murder of the rabbi Zachary - almost forgetting the name as her willpower was sapped still further. The penalty for death, she told Octavio, was death -

And the world shifted about her, and she was clinging to a pillar in the dark as all the pathways turned turtle and twisted. In that moment, by some strange outward compulsion, her Convictions were no longer as they were - to hell with being greater than the beast. Eric's lesson was to indulge it. To live with harmony. To exist in accordance with its needs.

Alzbeta, meanwhile, was troubled. Her vision of Octavio had come again - this time, a prophet in a pulpit before a congregation that could not see him for what he was - and she came to understand that this was not quite how it happened. Nothing was quite how it had happened. Her memories were not as they should be.

Still convinced that Octavio was not a villain of his own volition, as it were, she asked God or the Cobweb or both: how do we stop him without killing him?

And the answer was: Theodericus. He had not expected four Cainites. The others he had plans for, but not the Ventrue knight. There was a lovely conversation between the three who remained at large, a refrain of "with all the love in my heart" passing between them, as it was impressed on each by each that this was urgent. Kupala's Night was tomorrow night. If he wasn't stopped now... he might never be.

They went at once to the Josefov's gates, to the lychway, where they were met by Othelio - Mariam's broodmate, who had answered the ringing of the bell and was most perturbed. So perturbed, in fact, that he led them into the warren beneath the cemetery - showing them a passage that led up into the apse of St. Stephen's as was, if you but broke through one flagstone.

Alzbeta was the first to climb, her Beast howling - Hunger 4, at this point - and Six accepted a devil's bargain to gamble Alzbeta's Humanity on not letting a hunger frenzy drag her further down. Climbing into the dark, Alzbeta had to dare the Mental Maze, and even Rousing - Hunger 5! - could not save her. She climbed and climbed and climbed while Octavio asked her: is this how it ends?

It was the first time any of us at the table had heard Alzbeta genuinely angry. Genuinely shouting at her sire, full throated, that what he was doing was not God's work nor Humanity's, that she had to stop him to save him...

Marsillius was next, and as he braved the Maze he broke the charm and saw the interior of St. Stephen's for what it truly was. There was Mariam, frozen in the doorway, clutching at the jamb as if her unlife depended on it. There was Alzbeta, scrabbling like one of her spiders, trying to climb the wall as if to touch the windows above. And there, in the pulpit, white-knuckled and red-eyed, a figure that looked like him. Older. Haggard. Wretched. Mad. And clearly on the verge of frenzy himself, because ol' Relleytrots here cannot use Mental Maze with any SPC and not fail all three Rouse checks to get it going. Thank goodness for Octavio's deep, deep Willpower pool.

What to do? Marsillius could see what was afoot, but he was no warrior born - just a little monk! He ran out into the church proper, determined at least to attract Octavio's attention, and stopped short: there they were, row upon row of them. A congregation, half-starved, half-bled, and all blind: not a one in possession of their eyes. The stench of humanity at its lowest, in thrall to Humanity now forsaken.

Theodericus clambered into the chapel. To his eyes, Octavio stood at the head of this congregation; Marsillius in the pulpit, mad with fear. Mask of Isolation. You've gotta love it. Theodericus did what he had to do and gave chase to the "prophet" and Marsillius did what he had to do and ran like hell. Straight into Mariam. Desperately gabbling that they were all going mad, that it was him, that her eyes were not to be trusted, that whatever she was seeing was not real.

Mariam came out of the maze. For this moment only, her soul was torn, one quarter of her heart given over to the Via Bestiae, and so she called upon the Beast Within and the beasts of the air. Down swooped a flight of owls, shrieking and shrilling, hooting and hollering, and that was the moment Octavio finally snapped and entered a frenzy.

Flailing and cursing to the sane, but to Alzbeta in her visionary state? Crucified. Crucified with his arms outstretched, crying to Heaven, and she was so hungry...

Was it truly him? Was it one of her friends? Some poor dupe like Marsillius who just looked the part?

The Beast cares not, and she drank. She drank deep and deep, and she drank until the body in her arms went rigid -

And there was Theodericus, with the Prophet's heart impaled on his Mithraen sword.

Enter Josef Zvi, as the coterie found what comfort they could. Arrangements were made. The wretches in the Prophet's care would be taken to such hospitals and surgeons as their circumstances allowed. Many would not survive; none would truly have lives worth living; but they would not simply be killed outright. Neither, said Josef, would Octavio. Moved by Alzbeta's pleas, he agreed to advocate for one adversary with another; to approach the Prince of Prague and plead for Octavio to be spared the Final Death or further suffering.

Tomorrow night would be Kupala's Night. Prince Brandl would hold court. Libussa would be present, and at his behest she would before the assembled Cainites drink of him, and be free of her ancient mistress. Orsi and Katya would be present, and as a cousin Ventrue Orsi would be shown mercy for his violation of multiple Traditions in Embracing her. Katya would become a ward of Prince Brandl's court, her education the responsibility of Ardan the Warlock; Orsi would be banished thus from Prague, with five nights to get him hence. And Octavio would be given into the care of Garinol the Cappadocian, whose arts were best suited - in the absence of any Salubri - to trawling the Malkavian's sleeping madness in search of answers. Provided Octavio was not wakened from torpor - provided he remained staked - he would not be killed.

One more piece of business. Theodericus von Ingolstadt. His services were needed. If the Prophet had been at work in the east, in Carpathia, then further devilment may be afoot. Prince Brandl - as prince, as nymphus of the cult, as cousin Ventrue - asked Theodericus to ride for Buda-Pesth, to the court of Nova Arpad, and deliver warning to her of what's afoot. Perhaps, when work schedules permit again, Theodericus will return - but for now, Real Life Writes The Plot.

And here, for now, our story ends.

I'll see you in October.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

"We are called to be cruciformed (shaped by the cross), Christophers (bearing the Christ of the cross), and Christplacarders (setting Christ and Him crucified on display, cf. Galatians 3:1) in our preaching of Christ." – Sinclair Ferguson

[emblematicemblazer]

World building and theories of Engage

Elusia's architecture

Elusia’s architecture is a mixture of Gothic, Romanesque and Perpendicular Gothic and has the following features:

Large, grandiose stained glass windows

Pointed arches

Intricate decoration

Pinnacles and spires

Rib vaults

Flying buttresses

Destinea Cathedral is inspired by York Minster, England. The grandeur of the building makes it a magnificent setting for the first time Alear meets Sombron. It also demonstrates the ingenuity and skill of Elusia's artisans. Masons would have been responsible for the ornate stone carving and creating the blocks for the walks.The roof is wooden and supported by wooden frames which the carpenters would be responsible for. Both the lancet arch windows and The rose window would have been the work of glaziers, finally painters would apply the finishing touches.

All the features such as the stained glass windows, the screens, the organ and the altars are all designed to add to the splendour of the building. 

The shape of the building has great significance, it is in the cruciform or cross shaped design to symbolise religion. Statues of dragons seem to reference the Divine Dragon design. It makes me wonder if Elusia used to worship Divine Dragons or if earlier Fell Dragons were more skin to their Divine counterparts.

Elusia Palace is inspired by Westminster, in particular the central lobby. This is important because it serves as the political centre of Westminster in the same way, it serves as a centre for political intrigue, lobbying and backstabbing in Elusia. It has a vaulted ceiling, the panels between the vaults runs are decorated in glass mosaic floral emblems and heraldic symbols. The style is Perpendicular Gothic as can be seen by the large windows, arched top panelling, straight lines in tracery and four central arches. 

Givre Port is inspired by Dover. Just like Dover Port, Gives serves as the major port and the ‘lock and key of Elusia'. It is where most military ships sail from and most trade takes place. It is where Ivy suggests gathering intelligence on the enemy's activities. There are several forts for defence. The houses are known as Wealden houses. They feature timber frames and a married upper floor. Inside each would have a central hall and a variety of other rooms.