#fair basilica

[littjara-mirrorlake]

Daily Life in the Phyrexian Spheres (Dross to Seedcore)

Previous: Facade to Furnace, Maze to Bays

The Dross Pits, much like its previous incarnation in the Mephidross of Mirrodin's surface, is a sphere rife with intrigue, double-crossing, and back-alley deals. The social structure is feudal, with lords ruling over masses of serfs and slaves, and thanes make up the top of the social pyramid. Dark, towering citadels of flesh and bone rise out of the necrogen mists, which bathe the entire layer in an eerie green glow. Large swathes of territory are controlled by thanes, lords, and magical creatures such as blight dragons and archfiends.

This sphere is densely populated, with the vast majority of its inhabitants making up the servant classes that live and die under feudal lords. Compleated Mirrans begin at the very bottom and most have little hope of ever ascending past this station, as the Steel Thanes' obsession with Phyrexian purity leads to heavy discrimination against those who are not Phyrexian-born. This obsession extends to a scrutiny of every Phyrexian's pedigree--the further removed a person is from their last non-core-born ancestor, the purer their bloodline is considered, leading to a higher chance of social advancement. As such, first-generation core-born Phyrexians (born to compleated Mirrans) are only barely considered truly Phyrexian and share their parents' meager social standing. As Phyrexians are immortal and have no need for heirs, faction members produce scions to serve their own advancement, not to eventually succeed them. Of course, said scions are rarely happy with this arrangement, seeking to usurp their parents and seize their assets instead.

Magically and technologically, the inhabitants of the Dross Pits largely focus on emulating Yawgmoth-era techniques gleaned from scrying the glistening oil. Due to the heavy emphasis on ichor magic and intrigue, glistening oil from individuals of interest--and the intelligence it contains--is an invaluable commodity in the Dross Pits. Bloodsuckers like necrosquitoes and pistid swarms are often employed to this end, fueling an illicit trade of stolen bodily fluids.

Much like the Furnace, the Dross Pits do not have an overarching system of governance or standard of law, and political allegiances vary widely. Pockets of the Dross Pits are strongholds of the Phyrexian rebellion, though they are severely handicapped by the loyalist spheres blocking them both above and below. Every thane has at least nominally allied with either Elesh Norn or the rebellion, though they are ultimately beholden only to themselves and care little for the ideals of either side.

The Fair Basilica is the innermost inhabited sphere and the de facto capital of New Phyrexia, where Elesh Norn rules from her palace and the majority of the Phyrexian military is housed. In the heart of Norn's empire, every aspect of daily life is carefully regimented and monitored; people are marched in orderly rows down alabaster bridges, flanked constantly by armed enforcers and their swarms of patrol mites. Flights of angels keep constant watch in the skies. Staggering acts of brutality are committed against any who display signs of deviance, and commoners are all too used to keeping their heads down and trying not to watch as their peers' oil is scrubbed from the streets.

Every resident of the Fair Basilica is expected to devote a significant portion of their time to worship, and the rest to assigned duties like patrolling or working the flesh-vats. Those who need to sleep do so on strict schedules under the watchful eyes of supervisors. Newts are raised by the state, rigorously educated on the Orthodoxy's religious tenets, and often apprentice under cenobites, which continues after their compleation; Mirran aspirants commonly join them.

Though it relies heavily on other spheres for commodities like raw material and technology, the Fair Basilica is at least self-sufficient in growing its own porcelain metal, which spreads in a fungus-like manner on recently dead flesh. It is mass-produced in giant growth vats, alongside Basilica inhabitants' germ offspring and seedpod centurions for the invasion (often bodies without minds, hollow for puppeting via ichor magic).

Rebellion is most difficult in the Basilica due to its oppressive environment and authorities' vested interest in controlling the flow of information--and oil--into and out of the sphere. The news fed to residents is tightly curated, requiring workarounds to even hear of the rebellion's presence at all. That said, dissident spies have managed to infiltrate even the innermost of the loyalist spheres.

The Mycosynth Gardens form a natural barrier between the populated Phyrexian spheres and the Seedcore, and passage through them is controlled exclusively by Elesh Norn herself. The Gardens themselves are uninhabited by sapient Phyrexians, though fauna like inkmoths and skitterlings roam the silent lattices, and the mycosynth itself is known to create lures or other, more cryptic structures that mimic passersby.

The Seedcore, the innermost layer of New Phyrexia, is the domain of Elesh Norn alone, where she keeps the World Tree sapling Realmbreaker imprisoned and firmly subjugated under layers of mind-altering magic. Very rarely, Norn holds the most confidential of her audiences here with her inner circle or other crucial allies. The sphere is heavily warded against incoming divination, telepathy, and any other possible interference with Norn's plans, but here lays Norn's crucial oversight: there are no such protections against communication going out, allowing Realmbreaker's telepathic distress call to pass through into the Multiverse.

And that's it for overviews of the nine Phyrexian spheres, from the perspective of a far more average commoner Phyrexian than we're used to hearing about. There's always more to be said about each of them, of course, and I hope this helps get people started thinking about their own expansions, headcanon, or additions!

[phyrexianphamily]

Do you guys ever think about Elspeth?

Elesh Norn during a celebration at the Fair Basilica, following her encounter with Ashiok

[almostlookedhuman]

[somewhere-south-of-neutral]

Porcelain Throne:

the concept of a throne of porcelain is really quite a poetic one. a gilded throne can have an iron core, and a wooden throne can be borne across a battlefield, but for a throne made of porcelain—although it may be a thing of beauty and a show of wealth, particularly in europe, to commission and import something so intricate from so far away—it can only be heavy and fragile, and, if it chips even once, it can never be made whole again. it’s beautiful if you think about it. unfortunately the phrase “porcelain throne” refers exclusively to the toilet

[xinganhao]

🎸 vernon dates rockstar!reader. (2)

vernon x rockstar!reader who's a foreigner in an international rock band (2) a.k.a the one where vernon tours in your city ➤ see also: series masterlist

‧₊˚✩彡 includes: international rockstar!reader, f!reader, long distance relationship, established relationship, pet names, fluff, best read in order + headcanons under the cut.

🗺️ vernon chwe's guide to new york .ᐟ

📍 Socrates Sculpture Park, 32-01 Vernon Blvd., Astoria

your first date that's not over discord or facetime takes place in new york. vernon's just a little too prideful to have you come all the way to sokor for him and a part of him wants to play it safe. there's a smaller chance of him being recognized abroad than if he were to have you in seoul, so he books the red-eye flight and crashes on your couch for the weekend. he's still a bit jet-lagged when you drag him out to your location of choice. new york has its fair share of parks. vernon is expecting the usual— nature, buskers, the likes— only to find that and so much more. you'd taken him to an artist's park. there's exhibit sculptures, and multimedia installations, and he's just absolutely blown away. you can see it from the look on his face, how taken aback he is by the sheer thoughtfulness of your pick. he doesn't really know the extent of it, not yet, until you clue him in. "do you know what street we're on?" you prompt him as the two of you halve a greasy slice of pepperoni pizza. he raises his eyebrows in response. "i chose this place because it's on vernon boulevard," you say, and oh. oh. (or: this is where vernon realizes he's going to be pretty down bad.)

📍 The Bowery Electric, 327 Bowery

it's far from the first time vernon has seen you perform. he's seen all most of your videos on the internet, has watched you at festivals and concerts. there's something different, though, about the way you take the stage at the staple east village hangout. you're in your element underneath the blue and pink neon lights. your sound is full, and your eyes are bright, and it steals the breath from his lungs. you do an entire set until you're sweating and your chest is heaving. he wouldn't be able to look away even if he wanted to. everything about you is so cool. your oversized flannel, your secondhand fender. he thinks there's no way he can adore you more until you announce that you want to do a quick cover of a 'friend's song. the amps crackle. the drums kick up. you start to croon running 'round the whole city for someone to look me in my eyes and tell me pretty lies, and vernon swears he can just drop dead then and there. you come up to him afterwards, one corner of your lip twitching in to a smirk. as if to say 'so? what did you think?' (or: this is where vernon first thinks he might actually be in love with you.)

📍 The Basilica of St. Patrick's Old Cathedral, 263 Mulberry St.

when you tell him that you're taking him to church for a date, vernon is admittedly a little unnerved. at this point, he's already fairly sure that he loves you. you haven't said it yet, so he tries to keep his own admission under lock and key. a church, though? "are we going to elope?" he jokes to you, trying (and failing) to not sound nervous. thankfully, you roll your eyes and laugh instead of taking offense. "you wish," you shoot back. that puts him at ease enough for him to be completely normal with you in the back of the cab. when you get to the cathedral, though, he immediately puts two and two together. "is this��?" he starts to ask, his mouth agape. there's a smug look on your face as you nod. it's the church in one of vernon's favorite films, the godfather. he's barely even walked past the doors of it before he blurts out, "god, i love you." he freezes. you freeze. and then— "you sure you're not the one who wants to elope, chwe?" you tease. vernon's ears are burning red with shame, but then he hears the quiet way you add, "i love you, too, by the way." (or: this is where vernon learns just how good it feels, to say and hear those three words.)

📍 Staten Island Ferry

throughout at least half of the ferry ride, vernon is convinced you're going to break up with him. he's been a pretty terrible boyfriend. comeback season had been brutal and the upcoming world tour meant that he would have even less time to make up for his shortcomings. he's tried, he's been trying, but it's been hard. and so as the two of you hang on the back of the ferry's lower deck with the manhattan skyline receding, he thinks: this is it. he's going to lose the best thing that has ever happened to him. you start the conversation with "i'm sorry," and vernon resist the urge to get to his knees. you surprise him when you go on to say, "i've been pretty shitty to you lately, huh?" you talk about your temper, your schedule, your occasional unresponsiveness. your voice wavers in the slightest when you mumble, "i understand if you want to—" no. "no," vernon says quickly, immediately. before he can think of it, his hand is already reaching out to hold yours. the surprise and hope that fills your face is almost enough to bowl him over. "i don't want that," he reassures you. "i'll never want that." he means it. he surprises himself with just how much he means it. (or: this is where vernon decides that he's in it for the long run.)

📍 Little Bay Bridge Pier, Queens

vernon's attempt at planning a date on your turf ends up to be an utter failure. you don't see it that way, at least. you're too nice to call him out for the way everything kind of went to shit, from his credit card declining at the restaurant to the museum he wanted to see being closed for renovations. by the time the day is coming to a close, he's desperate for at least one thing to go right. vernon is not a religious man, but he prays, then, to every higher being and deity known to man. please, give me this. he's convinced they all hate him, though, because while the both of you are sitting by the pier— about to try what he researched to be the best churros in queens— a rat steals the snack. vernon briefly considers throwing himself in to the water. he doesn't know if he should be annoyed or relieved that you're laughing it all off. he settles for something in between. "this is not a laughing matter," he huffs, even though there's the smallest smile on his face. it's the only thing he can do to hide his disappointment. then, a little more seriously, he says, "i wanted to do right by you." it's a grace that you know how to deal with him. there's a fondness in your eyes as you press your lips to the back of his knuckles, the action making his heart skip a beat. "hansol," you say sweetly. not vernon, not v. not babe or baby boy or anything else. you assure him, "you're always right for me," and he wants so badly to believe you. (or: this is where vernon changes his prayer; this time, he begs to never wrong you.)

[useless-catalanfacts]

If you visit the Sagrada Família basilica in Barcelona (Catalonia), you might be intrigued by these squares with numbers. Like every detail in the building, it has a symbolic meaning.

These are a very particular kind of magic squares. A "magic square" is a series of numbers on a square grid, placed so that any row, column, or diagonal line always adds up to the same number. Well, to be fair, there is one more rule for the normal magic squares which this one doesn't follow: the squares cannot repeat numbers and must use all numbers from 1 to the number of squares possible (for example, a square of 3x3 would have numbers from 1 to 9, a square of 4x4 would have them from 1 to 16, etc). When this rule is followed, the number that results from the addition will always be the same (in a square of 3x3, the sum of 1+2+3+4+5+6+7+8+9 = 45, and each row, column and diagonal line sums 45/3 = 15; in a 4 x 4 magic square, where the sum of all the numbers from 1 to 16 is 136, the magic constant is 136/4 = 34). For mathematical reasons, the resulting number cannot be chosen, it will always be the same one if we follow those rules.

And here is why this one doesn't follow that rule, and it's on purpose. It doesn’t have all the numbers from 1 to 16 (it is missing the 12 and 16) and some numbers are repeated. And why did they do that? Here's the important bit: the result of the sum isn’t 34 (as would always be in a 4x4 magic square), but 33.

The sculptor who created the Sagrada Família's Passion façade (the artist Josep Maria Subirachs, following architect Antoni Gaudí's vision) took a different spin for these squares. Magic squares have been used as talismans in many cultures for millennia, since ancient cultures including 3rd millennium BC China, Ancient India, Ancient Egypt, Arab, and Greek cultures, among others. For the Sagrada Família (a Christian temple), Subirachs used to hide a number of great significance in Christian symbolism.

Painting Melencolia I by Albrecht Dürer (1514) and a detail from it.

Subirachs adapted a magic square from this engraving by Dürer and changed it so that it would add up to 33: the age that Jesus Christ is traditionally believed to have been when he was executed. A number based on the repetition of another of the most important numbers in Christianity: 3, symbolizing the holy trinity.

The square in the Sagrada Família manages to add 33 by repeating some numbers and skipping others. But it also goes further than adding up 33 in every row, column, and diagonal line. The same number can also be obtained with many other combinations. Here are some of them:

Plus, in the magic square at the Sagrada Família, there is also a sort of hidden subliminal signature: adding up the numbers that repeat and looking at their correspondence in the Roman alphabet, we get the initials INRI (Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum = "Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews" in Latin), which was written on the sign at the top of the cross where Jesus was crucified.

This way, mathematics, art history and religious symbolism all come together in this little symbol.

Photos from Alamy, Martin Leicht, Sagrada Família blog. Text adapted from Sagrada Família blog. All the graphs with the numbers are from that same article.

[raakdos-battlemap]

Phyrexia encounter #004 Path to the Norn's Palace

The Fair Basilica, a white-aligned sphere built in the image of Elesh Norn, decorated with statues and monuments to her. It contains Norn's throne room, though she now resides in the plane's second layer and designates the unification of the plane to Atraxa in her stead. Though no light from the plane's suns can reach this layer, its structures generate their light; the layer's walls, composed of ossified Phyrexian corpses of those Norn deemed perfect, glow white, while crimson capillaries etched into its marble-esque floor glow blood-red.

More variations of this map:

[little-bloodied-angel]

In the very eloquent words of Mera Trishos Lee: SIR YOUR FUCKING FACE??

See this little eye twitch right there? The slight flex of the jaw? That's the exact representation of me when I'm about to fuck some shit up, 100%

That's also how I knew this fucker would own my ass forever, just fyi.

[revelisms]

Back with another Magic Ministry AU story, heavily inspired by a rabbit hole on the Basilica Cistern. I've been working on this one for a while, and it's a bit on the longer side, but I really like where it's ended up.

As a sidenote — I thought this...might be the final push to get Terzo out of my system, because this ended up becoming one big messy character study of him (and how much he needs a hug). But, uh. Time will tell on that, I guess 🥸

light ascending

7k words | Rating: T | Terzo & Sister of Sin OC (Mariella) | OC-centric | CWs: Ritual magic, dark imagery, blood, language, doomed fate, grief, hurt/comfort. Also on AO3

The underground cleansing chamber hangs with a chill putrid as death. The fires do little to aid it, no matter their enchantments. In these halls lay the veins of a howling, primordial creature, devoid of life and devouring—and the cold is only one marker of the souls lost within its jowls. 

In one corner of the chamber, Sister Diana, High Priestess of the new Order, stands by a candlelit table. Her fingers dance delicately over shelves upon shelves of consecrated oils, stored here in preservation from any tarnishing by the sun.

"He's particular about his anointments," she is saying, twisting the seal free from one decanter. "Even more so, of their properties."

Not far behind, Sister Mariella, priestess-in-training, stands with hands clasped, her fair hair loose about her shoulders. Per tradition, she wears the plain black of their ritual robes: no paints, no gloves, no shoes: only a trace of sage-smoke on her silks and rosemary on her fingertips.

"Because of the Sight," she thinks aloud, "right?"

Diana turns over her shoulder. Her cropped fringe frames her face in a dark curtain; beneath it, a glimmer of hazel. "In some ways, yes." A smile plays at her mouth. "Not all."

The Sight is just one vessel of their Highest's magic, if the most sacred—powers granted only to the half-human, half-demon, half-Realm infinite. 

Some claimed that those in the papal line were descendants of Lucifer, himself, marked with the light of the Fallen. Others, that they were just unlucky children, sewn into the tapestry of a puppeteer's scheme.

She'd seen the Cardinal—Papa-elect now, formally, as of last Tuesday—enough times to think he was neither. 

Some unnamed thing between them, maybe.

Diana's hands clink through a set of pipettes. Vials are drawn and deposited: mixtures of amber, mugwort, chrism. Mariella's attention stays fixed over her shoulder, dutifully attentive. 

"It takes years to temper," their High Priestess continues. "For any variant, it could take a lifetime. But, where premonitions are concerned, the upper clergy are...I'm not sure if hesitant is the right word." 

As if any words were right for those black-robed bloodhounds beneath Sister's claws.

Mariella sneers. "Tight-assed?"

A chuckle rings bell-like off the walls. "Close."

"Does the variant matter, really?" Mariella wonders. "Even with Papa Secondo's ascension, they were asking questions."

Diana's fingers clatter through a wooden drawer, pulling out a jar of dried pine leaves. "The past is a clearer path, to most. What we could call the future is...contested, in the Order." She crushes one sprig between her fingers. The scent of a sweet forest snaps over her breath. "I've gathered that Bishop Alessandro thinks of it as inevitability. Cardinal Luca has always held the thought that it should serve as a guide; a mould to confirm to." She pauses, glances wryly back at her. "Monsignor Emeritus would call that dangerous thinking." 

Primo would call most things that, these days.

It's been years now since he retired to Ordained Lead of the Philosophical Doctrine—and, as such, overseer of the ritual proceedings. He'd held the title of Papa Emeritus when Mariella first met him, and he'd had the most foreboding presence she'd ever felt: a wraith louring on the Ministry's front steps, his paints jagged as shattered glass, to greet her in all her rain-drenched, luggage-toting misery.

(Ah—you are a blessing to an old man's eyes, Sister. I am pleased to see you have found your way to us. My priestess has told me much of you. He'd turned on his heel, fanning a gnarled hand. Come, come—we have spezzatino going in the kitchens. A room is already prepared for you.)

He was gentler than she expected, but that gentleness cloaked a cynicism that was unyielding as a steel bar. 

He had plenty to say about the flippancies of the new Order. Plenty more to say about the younger faces in the line of his succession—and the third-youngest, with his grandiose visions of reformation, most of all.

"To walk paths unseen is to walk blind in a tunnel," Diana murmurs, and Mariella can hear Primo's inflection in the words, "latching to any light we may find." Glass tinks beneath her fingers. "But that light is not always the surface."

There's a litany of meanings laced between that: that their Order isn't always as it seems; the handed paths, not as distinct as the texts deem them; their Exalted, themselves, not the broken horses they claim to be.

That unknowingness is perhaps the only Truth they have. Their own lowly Sight into what is inherently unseen.

But curiosity has often gotten the best of her.

"How do you know the difference?" Mariella hushes.

Diana turns. Her strong features are softened by the candlelight, sympathetic. "You don't." She lays a warm touch against her temple. "But that is not your burden to bear." 

Mariella worries over her thumb.

With Secondo's own purification, it couldn't have seemed farther from the truth. He was impatient, eager—her own knowledge and magic, one means to a rapid end. The papal seat had been his birthright; the rites, a rancid detour. But he'd been kind, despite his impatience. Forgiving as he could be, for her nervousness.

Diana's thumb smooths over her cheek. "You'll do fine, dearest," she continues. "Remember—you are a conduit. Nothing more."

Swallowing, brow pinched, Mariella nods.

The final stages of their work move quickly: decanters squeaked, vials sealed, a parting slew of advice before the flurry of their steps fall still. 

"Keep the Veil tight about you—you know what will happen, if you don't."

"Right."

"And hold your ground. These halls can be...restless, at such an hour."

"So long as the All-Father isn't sleep-walking in his slippers."

"Mari, be serious."

Mariella's smile blooms, impish, and softens. "I know," she says. "I'm just..."

Green-gold eyes linger over her, steady in their understanding. She reaches down, folds her cool hand within her own. "Have patience," she whispers. "I know it's hard, being so close to the ceremony. But you have nothing to prove, now, right? It's just for formality's sake."

Mariella can't help the bubble of frustration. Her mind locks back on Secondo's stony frown, soaked in a pool of magic ocean-green and effervescent: on the taste of the Past gnawing at her blood.

"And theirs," she says thinly.

For weeks, she's endured a sea of gossip leading up to this ritual. Her peers were convinced that she'd walk away from this with her heart half-eaten, or her sensibility in shreds, wrapped like a ring around their Exalted's finger.

The third heir, notably, was not his brother—not at all, where his coyness was concerned.

Diana battles with her words. "With the Cardinal...I know the other siblings have their, well." Her brows twitch towards her hairline. "Opinions."

That he was a revolutionary, with sermons sharp as a blade, who carried an unsettling edge of authority even the upper clergy, superstitions be damned, dreaded to go toe-to-toe with.

(And, in the same breath, that he was an egregious flirt, and a fool: one who seemed fond of waving at tradition—and any concept of a schedule—from the farthest reaches of the pews.)

Diana plucks the thought from her, clean as a doctor snapping off a leech.

"But," she continues, a touch exasperatedly, "give him grace." Her words falter, stiffen. "Our Order isn't always a kind one," she reminds her, "but we are tasked to carry it out, all the same. So is the Way."

There's a purpose there, beyond any concept of walled rooms and machined profits. One that, for better or worse, has claimed her.

A Veil of magic and tight-controlled chaos, guiding as moonlight and punishing as a forest fire.

So is their role in this blood-bittered, spell-stained sanctuary.

"So is the Way," Mariella echoes.

Diana smiles. Their eyes cling to each other: a final blessing, silent and still, before the cavern of these halls swallow them whole. Then, she slides her hand back to her side.

"Unblessed be with you, Sister."

And, like a shadow, she's gone.

Their Cardinal's reputation, predictably, precedes him. 

It takes an age for Brother Marco, glasses flashing, the scent of rosewater still etched into his robes, to scurry down the North Stairwell and announce that the second cleansing had been completed.

Patience seems all but a foreign concept to Mariella, now—but, willfully, she finds it.

"Thank you, Brother. Will he be able to find his way down?"

"I believe so."

"Then let him know that I am ready for him."

"Certainly."

Marco's footsteps scuff hurriedly back down the hallway and up the crooked stone stairs, happy to avoid any moment in these chambers more than necessary.

Alone again, Mariella fidgets. 

In her hands sit the triplet of vials, fitted into a wooden case to carry. Only candlelight stands to greet her. The walls are threaded with shadows and staccato-bursts of orange flame, damp-dry air mingling off the stones. 

The Ministry's underbelly is unnerving as a crypt. In every web of its grouting lies an ancientness even the scholars of Olde struggle to define. The fires hiss like living things. The archways breathe like the mouth of a giant. In the maze of its passages, magic pulses like blood in a clotted vein.

It takes her a moment to steady herself, remember the route. Her feet carry her in silent strides: two lefts, two rights, one left ducked through a narrow passage, and another, before the corridor opens into the final vestibule of a man-made cave. 

Here, immense as a hall of kings, sits the cistern: one of several thresholds to the Realm beyond. 

Prisms of stone arches stand like golems in the dark, all bearing the reddish gleam of an enchanted flame. At their feet, a pool of water little deeper than a hand trickles from the roots of the mountain's springs. It covers the entire expanse of the cistern floor like a sheet of black-blooded glass. Farther towards the center of the room sits a basin, deep enough to stand at one's waist, where already Diana has placed the initial items for the purification: the Book of Rites, unlit black candles, shards of selenite and quartz.

Thumbs pinched, Mariella makes a mental tally.

In the cleansing chamber, she'd laid out his vestments with the usual care. Thumbed through the unholy texts and spoken her own tithes for using so sacred a place. Asked Lilith's blessing for this final rite, final step into the Path.

Now, she can only wait.

The flames stutter to stillness, and breathe again. Ghosts seem to fade and appear at every turn. 

After so many minutes, the lights have played enough tricks on her—so she pays no mind to the silhouette that hovers just within the vestibule's archway. One that, for not the first time, has a face. 

This one is more severe at the edges: near-feline in its angularity. A face tousled by dark hair, dead-socketed with a white eye.

Mariella nearly jumps out of her skin. "Cardinal. Saints—you're quiet as a cat."

A crescent of teeth blinks back at her. "Eh—sorry, sorry," burrs a low voice. "Habit of mine, it seems."

"Not the first time you've scared the shit out of someone, then?" 

"You talk about shit, Sister? In here?" His grin slants fully at one side. "Blasphemous."

As if a near half-hour delay wasn't blasphemous enough.

One wrist flicks laxly through the dim. "I am late, yes, I know," he prattles on. "Apologies. All the fastings and feastings and washings and rewashings—it is extensive, no? One big glorified bath, they should call these things."

"At least a bit relaxing, I hope?" 

A huff comes before he dislodges from whatever muck has kept him in place. "A pinch. Pinprick, perhaps." He saunters more than walks: heel-toed lazings that draw him, head tilted, into the light. "Though, I don't suppose I would call it relaxing," he grumbles. "My definition of pampering, Sister, means wine and, ah...quite a few other attentions. Chocolates, also—chocolates are good, no?"

She lifts her brows, bemused. "I suppose," she says. "More a fan of panna cotta, myself."

"Feh. Hardly luxurious enough."

The banter only lasts so long. His eyes have strayed to the waters—and hers have turned to scrutiny. 

He's appeared to follow the required conduct, closely enough: the weathered lines of his face bare of any paint, the dark varnish so often chipped on his nails scrubbed clean. He, similarly to her, wears no shoes, no overcoat, none of his usual layers of black upon black upon black—only the white sheen of the Order's purification vestments, embroidered ornately with purple and gold. 

The colors will soon become his, as other colors had ordained his brothers before him.

Colors for penance, absolution, humility.

For sacrifice.

"Tomorrow is a big day for you," Mariella says, after a pause.

Terzo's eyes stutter back to her. "Ah—you must remind me, mh?" Dimples crease in deep-set hooks around his mouth. "Another day and a half of ceremonialness. Satan, I will be decrepit by the time they are finished."

"It's that bad?"

"Darling." He cocks his head on his neck, sharp-browed in silent emphasis. "Have you any idea long the Ascensions last?" 

Mariella can't help the smile that starts. "I can imagine."

"Heh, you can imagine. Forget decrepit—they'll have me in the crypt."

Another shake of his head has thrown his fringe loose. Idly, he thumbs it back. 

Her eyes follow the motion, the looseness of his hands. They're uncharacteristically ringless, now, gloved only in contrasts: dainty wrists smelted to a laborer's forearms, sewn with hair so black it shadows his skin; delicate fingers stained with nicotine, more fit for toolboxes than piano keys.

In another life, he may have been a tall, striking thing, built with slender bones and dancers' limbs to match the grace he carries himself with. But he isn't. Femininity lays strewn about him like carnage from a battlefield, at war with a ruggedness that is all hard edges and soft-stubborn grit. An orchid in full, spiteful bloom, spearing the cracks of an industrial waste.

From all that she's heard, for all his vanity, he doesn't like the way he looks. Never has.

Mariella, like many, has always found it beautiful. 

"Well," she continues, "it's only another day—and it will be over before you know it." He's linked his hands behind his back. She can smell the remnants of the imbued rosewater on his skin, close as he's come sidling and slow-footed to stand with her. "And this will be over before you know it, too." She swallows. "And then you'll be Papa."

Something unearthly fizzles between them: demon-magick that is his own, demon-magick that isn't; the marker of his father's blood, and of the ghouls even the hours of past rites have not been able to wash free from him. 

In his silence is a heaviness. A muted sort of finality.

After a breath, thumb jittering, Terzo hums. "Yes," he agrees. The word sits on the air like a stone. "Seems I will." His soon-to-be title muddles off his lips, venom-sweet and splintered with shrapnel: "Papa Emeritus the Third, they'll call me. Fitting—Third for the third. Suppose it would be a head-scratcher to have the second title go to the first one, and vicey-versa—the old bastard was a goddamn creative with the names, eh?" 

Mariella watches him sway on his heels. "Very...traditional."

"Traditional," he parrots, curling his lip. "Psh. If the All-Father was a manuscript, you'd need archival shitting gloves to turn the pages." 

"High honors to put him in the archives, all things considered."

He squints at her, teasing the start of a smirk. The slightly crooked points of his canines peek over his lip. "Suppose it is, mh?" 

There must be hidden irony in that, something deeper than the surface-level quips Mariella can dissect from him—but she hardly has the chance to think it through. His eyes have popped back to boyish awkwardness: the smirk licked clean, pulled flat again.

"Sorry. I realize I never..." His fingers flutter at his wrist. "You are, ah, Maria, yes? No. Marcella—"

"Mariella."

"Mariella. Yes, yes—it's a thing with the names, sometimes. They just, eh..." His hand dances to an odd gesture. "Poof. You know?"

A smile twitches at her mouth. "Mari is fine, Cardinal."

"Is it? Well, then—much easier for this old brain." He links his hands behind his back again. "And this...Cardinal this, Cardinal that—these formalities are not needed here. Terzo is fine, Sister." He pauses. "Mari."

"Alright." Mariella pauses too, smiles softer. "Terzo."

"Yes, good. Alright." 

His eyes skirt back to the grand arches domed around them, linger unsteadily on the cistern that ebbs beyond the vestibule's edge.

It sews reason back to her—and pulls at an anxious thread.

There are so many steps needed to be completed. Reports she will need to provide. Countless hours of sleep that will inevitably catch up with her, once she slumps back into the dormitories at such a frightful hour. 

All to fulfill the precedents laid down by their Highest—and by Sister, higher still, above him.

To fulfill the birthright of a man peering at her through a shock of black hair, with eyes unmatching: a green flame turned muddy in the red, a white moon smattered with a blood-kissed edge.

"Saints, I'm rambling," realizes Terzo, dryly. "How long have I been rambling?"

"Oh—no, I—it's alright."

He swats the air again. "No no no—you have a job to do, and I am making it wretchedly difficult for you to do it. I will shut up. I'll try. Promise."

The steamroll of his words washes over her like a torrent.

"It's...alright to be nervous," she reasons.

He forces a laugh, little more than a breath. "My brothers were not nervous about this, I assure you."

"Well—you're not your brothers."

She means it as a reassurance—the straight-lined sort she, once, had needed—but he must take the words like a screw to the gut, quick as his brow twitches, as the music in his hands welds still.

"Oh," Mariella flounders again. Her face burns. "I—no, I meant—it's okay if you are, is all."

"Yes, yes, I..." Terzo puts on a small grin, half-genuine. "Forgive me, if the thought makes me, ah...astute, this evening—the old goat has given me enough lectures on my preparedness for this, is all, and it is—has been a...long day, like I...anyways." He rocks back on his heels again, turned away. "Anyways."

Silence weighs between them, unbearable.

Mariella clears her throat. "It's, um...it's only my second time doing this," she admits. Her heel hushes over the stones: the first step towards the vestibule's edge.

"Is it? That must mean Dino was your first—Saints forbid." Terzo puffs out a low snicker. "You are still alive, it seems." He's moved as though to pat a hand on her shoulder, but thinks better of it. In the ritual acts, only she is allowed to touch him. "That, eh—that is a good sign, no?" 

Mariella gives him a playful grimace. "One can hope."

His lashes crinkle at the edges: a lopsided grin that loosens.

Reason seems to crawl back to him, too. With it, the gauze of regality, distraction that had been hanging off his shoulders slips, seemingly just out of reach from his fidgeting fingers.

No Cardinal, no Emeritus, no Papa-elect.

Just a stray without a leash, eyeing the waters before him like a cruel hand waiting to fall.

Whatever he sees in this Path must call to him. Terrify and compel him, in turns. 

He is not at peace with it, now—but he will be.

He has to be, to enter this place.

Beneath the vestibule, the cistern trickles in a silent stream, mirrored with flamelight and red-soaked stone.

"I...don't think I ever caught it," Terzo murmurs. At her feet, his reflection slides beside her own. "What drew you here."

Not, why you chose to come here. Not, why you wanted to.

Few had crossed the wards of this Ministry's grounds of their own volition. The lure of this place held a strange magic of its own. In the seat of its teeth, one's will became its own will; one's path, its own path.

"Sister Diana has mentioned snippets, of course," he continues, "but..."

His eyes lift towards her. Mariella pits her fingers against the carrier.

"Our family worked in art," she explains, "I was surrounded by it, my whole life. I've always had an interest—the occult, especially."

He furrows his brows, intrigued. "Creating it, you mean?"

"No," she laughs. "I'm not an artist, by any means. Dealing it. Mother started a collective in the sixties."

"Ah."

She continues, "There was always an expectation my brother and I would take over the business, and we...I...wanted to see it through." The memory of that chases through her, sweet and acrid as vinegar. "Chained me to a desk, for years," she mumbles. "Even with that, it was never enough."

"For you?"

A frown steeples between her brows. "For her." She shrugs, her words muted. "Maybe for me."

She can feel his eyes lingering on her cheek like a brand. Stubbornly, she keeps her own at her feet.

"She got sick a few years ago. Federico—my brother—wanted out of the business, and it just...I don't know. It changed so much." She pauses, chewing on her lip. "Not having her there to...prove to myself that I could do it—that it was worth it." She can't tamp down the chuckle, bitter as it comes. "It's so strange. You want someone out of your life, for so long—but once they're gone, you realize how much of a crater they left. What a void you have to fill, yourself."

For a long moment, he says nothing. His fingertips pitter at his palm.

"So the magic filled that void, eh?" he mutters.

Mariella smiles. "In some ways."

"Not all?"

"No, not all."

Another pause simmers through him, pensive and puzzling. "I imagine there was a...special quality to it. Working between the artists and the curators and the collectors, I mean. Navigating it." He quirks a brow. "Not much different from the Order, eh?"

Only now, the product is not the artwork their congregation produces—but the needs of their congregation, itself. 

Blessings and charms, incantations and spells, all weaved across their waiting hands like feed to a starved flock. A beacon for souls yearning for a light to guide them, from mountains high to valleys low.

Or, in his case: a silk-robed pinnacle to a cavernous pit.

"No," Mariella says again, "it's not."

He hums.

He's come to stand a touch off-kilter from her, staring down at his robes. In an odd, soft-graveled way, he tries to give the reassurance he's staved his hands from.

"It's all just words and waltzes, these things." His eyes tip cattishly over his shoulder. "You will do exceptional, Mari. You know it, yes?"

She does. 

She must.

"I know."

His smile hangs a touch more genuine at the corners. "Good." Gradually, his hand unfolds from his back: waves to the flickering arches before them. "Well, then?"

It's all the permission she needs.

The water envelops her steps with pinpricks of sensation, slow-slipped and glittering. It calls to her, sings to her: a vessel of endless possibility.

This is her Path. Her purpose. Her home.

Behind her, soon to be, her liege.  

She can hear his footsteps trailing the shadow of her own, his vestments a silken hiss off the water's edge. As it had for his predecessor before him, the cistern hums in its greeting: a millennia of lifetimes past stirred to welcome the presence of the Unholy, of its Keeper.

Hellfire bathes them with red. It sets an eerie glow to his undead eye, blistered in white and gold. For a breath, it's hard to remember that he is human, at all: that the light hasn't stained his skin in blood, taloned his nails with black, twisted his robes to wings claw-tipped and leather-thin.

At the basin, she pauses. He falls still with her—staring down, down at the ebbing coil of waters they come to stand beside.

His throat ripples. He sets his jaw, the dark lines of his lashes lifting. Mariella holds his stare like a rabbit eyeing a wolf from the weeds; like a cub before a lion.

"You've greeted me, in the Olde Way," she says quietly, "and, by Lilith's blessing, will be Renamed. Do you accept it?"

Terzo takes in a breath, nods. "Yes."

"To be the Gate's ward, now and forevermore, until you are called?"

"Yes," he says again.

"To be bound to your summoned, and your summoned only, until they are reclaimed?"

There's a forced calmness to his face, though she can sense the frustration beneath it: proof of battles she has not been privy to, and may never be. "Yes."

"Then we will begin."

First are the black candles—twin flames lit to represent the handed paths. She sets them on the footholds of the two pillars closest, crafting the symbolic Gate between realms, and speaks a low incantation. Then comes the oils, their vials a cold sting against her hands. Each mixture is strategically placed: drops of mugwort to his slow-lifted palms, a thumb-kiss of amber to each temple, the Chrism dotted at the crown of his head.

She can smell his magic, this close: awakened, shivering, unbound: the ashen smoke of a snuffed flame and the sweet tang of clove, spiked with a metallic edge. It has grown stronger since his Exaltation; ignited. It leaves her head heavy, her hands sluggish. There is Future on his breath, and Death in his eye. Beneath his robes, inked across the branches of his heartlines, a glimmer of snapdragon pink.

She fights to ground herself, for a moment. Her palm lays slow, slow upon his breast: feels the power in him straining at the seams.

"Astraeus—Nyx—Perun. These names have adorned you, before. With your Awakening, they will adorn you, again."

He is so warm, always—they all always are—but with the loss of the Veil, he is burning brighter still. Mariella swallows, fighting to keep her aura about her. Her own blessing seeps like mist beneath her hand. 

"Our Lightbringer," she whispers on, trapped in red-green and blood-smattered white. "Our Morning Star."

Terzo's eyes skim between hers.

He is nothing human, now, not with magic so ancient in his veins—as ancient as this place, and the markings of its wards: as wild and cosmic and suffocating. 

Oh, but he feels young. Heartbreakingly young, for the smallest instant.

A child and a Devil and a man, his heart half-beating in his hands.

"Do you accept it?"

Her Cardinal, her Papa-to-be, her Path does not smile, does not look away—not like he had before, in every babbled distraction leading up to this. And, in it, she knows—regardless of whatever his Sight may show him—that he will succeed: that the cause of this Ministry will reach heights never-before seen beneath his hand, and lay the groundwork for even greater heights in his absence.

Mariella does not shy away from his stare, though the spellwork within it threatens to pierce her through. "...Do you accept it?" she whispers, again.

Terzo blinks: green and white and human. His chest swells a slow breath beneath his vestments, ebbs into a silent sigh. "Yes."

The last confirmation. The final rite.

She smiles. "Then only the Realm waits for you."

He looks at her as though he is both lamb and executioner: waiting to be led to slaughter, and to drop the knife.

Her hand hovers before her, a silent offering. 

Slowly, skin soft-roughened and molten, he takes it.

The basin pools around her steps. Her robes tangle stubbornly at her knees as the chill needles through her, slicking the silks to her waist. He follows her unsteadily, his fingers tight through hers.

She can sense the weight of the anointments on him; the wavering of his presence. Half-here, half-wandering, half-living.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

He clicks his tongue. "Alright as I can be."

"Not too torturous, is it?"

"The cold, or the medical proceedings?" Terzo's mouth slants at one side, a wicked glint striking briefly back into his eyes. "I jest, I jest—an image of composure you are, truly. You'll be leading the ceremonies in no time, yes?"

His humor is a flat shield to the tightness in his lungs. His hand swallows hers, hard enough to sting.

"Yes, you'll be fine," he's mumbling on. His eyes are unseeing. Clove and bloodmetal itches in her throat. "You'll be fine."

"Terzo," Mariella warns.

He snaps his eyes shut. Squeezes them. "Sorry." Slowly, stiff as a marionette, his fingers pry their way free from hers. "Sorry, I'm fine." He sighs, blinking. "It's the, eh...it is always like this. It'll pass. Not your fault, darling."

She shouldn't prod, not now. 

But her heart hammers, blisters, bleeds. 

She can't be sure if it's her own.

"What do you...see?" she whispers.

Terzo's eyes flick to hers. His mouth pinches at the corners. "Nothing. Nothing to worry about."

She hesitates. Diana's cautions float across her conscience: the Veil fraying at the seams, close to his own being as this. But, gingerly, her hand lifts from the water, finds his cheek. 

"Any path is Nothing. And any path is All," she says. "I know you know that. You can see it." His eyes fall unsteadily on hers, and Mariella waits, her fingertips skimmed over his skin—worn beyond his age, but soft, still. "You can see that," she says again, "can't you?"

The dark line of his lashes twitch, a beeswing flutter.

Lilith's own, that look must have been the same as hers, all those years ago. The same hope, same hate, same boneless relief.

"You see me," she continues, softly, "don't you?"

His breath mingles with her own, light as a prayer. "Yes."

There's no desire in the way she leans to meet him; no surface-level adoration or simmering need in the touch of her brow to his. Her other hand raises, cups a wet touch over his cheek.

"You'll do fine," she says firmly. "You will."

His brows wrinkle to a knot against her own. He fights with a smile; lets it sag like a stone. "For as long as they'll have me," he mutters.

The inference tears her heart to her feet.

"Don't say that," hisses Mariella—and he's not supposed to touch her, but, at long last, he does: a sunspot warmth of fingertips at her neck, thumbing shaky and half-minded beneath her ear.

A sigh quivers against her lips. "Sorry." The waters are so frigid, but he's warm as a flame in her arms, burning deep as Hell itself. "Sorry, I—"

She shushes him. Holds him—as tightly as she needed to be held that day the call from the hospital came; as tight as she can, for the smallest moment.

Hell below, he feels so small to her now.

Stifled.

His throat hitches against her cheek—but he holds his ground; holds her, hands rough but gentle as he can manage, lost in the sweet tangle of her hair.

"You'll do fine," Mariella whispers again.

There is Future in his touch, and demon-magick in his blood, and hope as much as fear, as wrath, as love.

"I know," he whispers back.

He will. 

He must.

Slowly, they untangle—and though there is still a hand at his cheek, one of his own turning to keep it there, there is nothing more to be said, now. Nothing more to be done.

His Path blazes before him, inevitable.

In her own power, the mould.

"Ready?" she hushes.

Jaw tight, Terzo closes his eyes, nods again.

Her hands slide to his chest, to the back of his head. A cradle and a coffin in one. 

Mariella clears her throat, continuing: "In this final Act, I release you from the realm of the living; I bind you with the realm beyond. In this, you will emerge the Eternal. In this, the Way is sealed."

His magic is fizzling. The cistern is singing. Beneath her hand, tendrils of lilac-fuchsia glisten and glow.

"Unholy be thy name: Revered be thy power." Her palm splays firmer into his sternum. "May you be blessed in the way of the covenant, now and evermore." Terzo takes in a breath, lurched quickly beneath her fingers. The water laps across his shoulders, spills across her wrists. "By his grace, be it commanded." And, in a drowning hush, consumes him.

Unreality pricks at her skin. 

For a heartbeat—fire beneath her palms, and beauty, and nothingness—there are countless paths gnawing at the edges of her consciousness: but she knows, with certainty, there is one—and it is all and nothing and everything, it is Diana and Mother and Primo and herself, dead and alive and dead again, and this man-demon-spirit all omniscient in the tide, and she can't breathe, the Veil spilling like silk from her being, can't separate herself from it—

But she must. 

She must—

Only stillness surrounds her: lightless as the heavens, silent enough to hear a teardrop fall.

She is emptied in it.

She is him, and he is her.

The edges of her magic are wrangled: wrenched back, back around her, tight as a wire—and the tether snaps. Blisters with the breaking of his own body from the basin. 

Together, they breathe as one, a slow-sucked gasp that heaves out thin and clean. 

The light is blinding. There's blood in his eyes.

Mariella, trembling back into her bones, clasps her hands and bows her head low, muttering a deluge of thanks for all that was given and all that remains; a prayer for his strength and sanctity; a cleansing whisper of her own.

His soul is still peeling free from hers. His magic still scalding her hands. 

She won't dare open her eyes again—not yet. What she may find could hardly be called human, in such a state.

But he is—a human with purified waters slicked off the the dark mop of his hair, off the strong bones of his features, off the glimmering silk of his vestments; a man with one eye gleaming moonbeam-white and Hell fading in his veins and breath beastlike in his chest.

"Unblessed be," Mariella whispers. "It is done. It is done."

A hand has come to lay upon her head, heavy and molten. The nails are pointed. The Olde Tongue fangs coarsely off his teeth, commanding the Realm's hold to free her. 

The essence of his magic flees from her bones like a stripped sheet. Air staggers into her lungs, wet and spluttering.

"Sister," Terzo says sharply—and he is as he was: his brow furrowed in worry, human and whole, his palm braced at her temple. "Sister, are—? Mariella—"

"It's alright," she rasps, lacing her fingers through his sleeve. She has to take another breath to steady herself, blinking slow. "It's okay."

His lungs swell beneath his robes. His eyes cut swiftly between hers, denying it still—but, gradually, his shoulders loosen. "Alright." He traces a lock of her hair behind her ear, half-minded. "You are sure?" he presses, anyway. 

"Yes, it—Diana warned me. It's happened before. I let the Veil fall too loose—"

"No, no—you did wonderful. You were clear. You were right there," he says, thumbing her jaw. The shivers are still coursing through him; settling down, now. After a pause: "It is, eh...it is all finished, then?"

Until the tomorrow's ceremonies: the formal ascension, with its blood-marks and dressings, where his body will be kneeled before a black altar and crowned.

But, for tonight, at least—

"It's done," Mariella says again.

The relief washes through him like rainfall: melts the nervousness off his face like sun-warmed snow.

She can smell the exhaustion that ebbs into him; taste the flurried comedown of his spellwork, ashen and bloodied and bright. But it buzzes, burns still.

"Good," whispers Terzo. Twitch-smiled, weary, he drags a hand through his fringe. "Well, eh," he grouses. "Let's get out of this mess then, mh? Freezing my goddamned balls off, in here."

All Cardinal, all Emeritus again.

Primo's office is lit only by moonlight and the glow of a hearth, crackling and warm before him. He's known for a nocturnal mind, and for working by near-vampiric conditions; at such a late hour, the sight hardly comes as a surprise.

Folded behind his desk, his pale hair drawn back, his eyes linger on her, beady as a hawk's. "Well?"

Her last sight of Terzo had come at the threshold of the Ministry's kitchens. He'd insisted on a post-ritual raid—another supposed habit proven true—and, in mutual silence, she'd warmed her hands on a cup of black tea while he wrangled together an unceremonious take on a negroni, orange slices and all, in an old coffee mug. He'd slipped a package of biscoff in her pocket and a cigarette from his own. Around a snap of violet flame at his palm and a final sip of her tea, they'd given their partings.

"If you...need anything at all," Mariella had hushed, "you can—"

"I know." His mouth had wavered at a smile. "Thank you."

Part of her had wanted to lay a hand on his arm. Say something else, anything, to not just leave it at that. And, were it a different night—or if she was a different sibling—he may have slid the invitation over, for her.

But the warmth of his body had shifted, ever since he dragged himself out of those waters, reclothed himself in a thrush of black. Cold and closed as a cage.

The man she'd held was in the cracks of it; boxed away, now, to make room for another, still sketching the edges of itself in his skin. But, in its chrysalis, she saw bitterness—in his distance, the fanged thing their clergy so seemed to loathe—and, on some hare-boned instinct, found herself leaving first.

"Goodnight, Papa." 

She'd said it reflexively, already knee-deep in the coming customs of propriety. 

Over a pop of blue smoke, hissed lightly through his teeth, he'd looked away. The tobacco was the same that stained the air in Sister Imperator's office: woody, cheap, earthen.

"Not yet," he'd rumbled. His lips twitched around the cigarette. "Tomorrow." His stare had haunted her steps, seeing and unseeing. The smoked husk of his breath had chased her off the walls. "Night, Sister."

Now, as ordered, she's returned the required items to Primo's care. With it, a report.

"The proper precautions were taken," she says. "All in all, it went as predicted."

Primo ticks a thin brow. She can feel the cold claw of his Sight in her, rummaging through her mind like clothes on a shelf. "And how was the offering received?"

Mariella swallows, thinking back to the Realm's magic, the spellwork beneath her hands. "No changes from the previous purification."

Idly, Primo glances at a set of a files on his desk; skims one sheet a touch higher. For a moment, he stews in his thoughts. Then, clean as a dagger: "Is he confident?"

Her eyes snap up. His own, silver-blue and white, meander to meet them.

"Yes," she says steadily.

He squints at her. Winter frost in her lungs, winter eyes piercing her through. But, eventually, she is freed from it.

"Very well," he mulls. He gathers up the sheets, settles them into a clean stack. "Then I will see you bright and early, my dear. Another long day ahead of us." 

Mariella nods, pinches her nails into her hands, and moves to stand from her seat.

Before she reaches the door, he speaks again.

"Mariella." She glances back at him, hunched like a strange, battish thing over his desk, his bony hands folded. He studies her like a portrait littered with fine details: one of many in a precious collection. His mouth makes an odd twist. "You did well," he lands on, eventually.

"Sir...?"

A smile blinks, cool and plain. "It is not an easy Sight to bear. There is a certain strength required to carry it. More, perhaps, to guide it."

The admission weighs strangely on her. Picks at her.

He unfolds his hands, weaves them again, before reorienting on his work. "Sleep well, Sister."

Slowly, Mariella turns back to the door. The handle stings beneath her palm. "Goodnight, Monsignor."

The morning's gossip will claim that Primo stalked the gardens that night, winged as a beast. That an apparition trailed his steps, feline-footed and hazed with blue. That their Papa-to-be was seen crawling out of the ghouls' chambers at dawn, reeking of celestial bodies and muddied magic.

Mariella won't give it any mind. She's learned enough now to take such chatter with a grain of salt.

All that will matter will be her hand on the chapel door, Diana's light a calming grace beside her: bathed in the sun's glow, freshly robed, carved in black and white; the two of them, and a sea of others, there to greet the sanctity of their Beholder.

Her skull-paints will match the adornments of his own. The black leather of her gloves, a mirror to the claw-tipped pair that will gloss across his knuckles. He will wear vestments dark as ink, adorned with Death's imagery, lined with a purple fit for kings—and at her side, he'll pinch a soft touch at her wrist. Flash a smile.

Back in his bones, in full.

Glittering and golden.

"Hello, Papa."

His lashes will crinkle at the edges. "Enchantée, darling," he'll purl. "I mean, eh—Sister. Marcie, right? No. Marnie—"

"Mari."

"Mari, aye. Right, right, right."

Still Cardinal, still Emeritus, always.

[incomingalbatross]

I was raised in St Louis and never went inside the Basilica bc it was "too catholic" 😭😭 so I def need to go back and visit sometime

to be fair it IS very Catholic. :P I also think it is absolutely stunning, though (it's very often listed as one of the most beautiful churches in America) and I've never gotten over it. Do visit if you get a good chance!

[rubynymphyy]

Pokeddexy Day 28: Cutest Pokemon~

Considered Tinkaton but she ended up as Steel so here are... two members of the blue division of the postal service! It's not. QUITE fair to call the blue division the nepotism division but boy howdy are there a lot of-

ANYWAY here are nepo babies Summer and Holy. They're approximately... 30th cousins? Holy's well known for his actual work ethic despite the fact that he got parachuted by his family almost directly into managerial work and the not-so-hidden secret that one of the higher ups desperately wants to be his sugar daddy. so he got landed with managing teen delinquent Summer, who is absolutely not thrilled to be voluntold to work at the family business.

Postal service main office is the Basilica in the old part of town; most of the blue division management is located there, while red management is spread across the city because they need to fly the flag and have more firepower available locally at any time. Is the postal service blessed or are the toge-bloodlines blessed..? They’re so intertwined at this point it’s impossible to say. 

Red division’s work is probably... that kind of 'red' or 'black' if you feel me [i also don’t know anything more specific]. While some postal workers act entirely on the blue side of the business, promotion to managerial status requires that you at least be able to defend yourself. for obvious reasons nepo babies are not generally sent into the red division, but there are some toge-families that believe in the school of hard knocks.

The jacket is regulation for management! So are Summer's boots + bag- he's supposed to wear black gloves with it, but he thinks punching with anything but your bare fists is for wimps. one day maybe he'll learn. He absolutely tossed his uniform hat off a bridge the first day he started. I have another Togetic who actually works for the red division but I can’t spend all my energy on postal workers when there are still three more days of Pokeddexy!

I made up all of this background today so nobody quote me on this if i change my mind again tomorrow. I thought I was just going to do small doodles in this style and then something more detailed but. that is not going to happen

[du-buk]

8:11 Q&A Part 4

Thank you all for the questions once again! 💙💙💙🦭

General asks;

Hmmm...... I’ve dabbled in the arts of some trans headcanons(Vittorino, for one lol), but, I’ve never made anything official. My only transgender-canon character is for another project, who fans might know him as Ambrosio, but his name will be changed in the future. That being said....... do whatever you please, anons 👍✨ If you want to draw and/or write the entire cast as trans, then, just have fun and share your theories! I’m sure many others would enjoy those things, so, who is to stop you?

No worries anon, thank you for asking! All is okay, as long as these things are made with positive intentions 👍✨ If anyone does make bigotry things of 8:11, the best we can do is just ignore it and move on.

I am 100% okay with that! Just have fun, and be creative 👍✨ I don’t know much about these things but it seems nice.

Hmmm......

Ever since the rumors, disappearances, and strange supernatural occurrences, religion in Rosso is on unsteady grounds. The bastardization of Catholicism and Christianity in 8:11 might have some shared holidays, and a few made up ones, so Christmas might be a thing. Is it celebrated by the people in Rosso? Highly doubt it. Plus, I’m sure there are other holidays being celebrated by some characters...

Ryker and Leon might have celebrated something similar to it in France, but, couldn’t afford presents for each other:( If Christmas WAS celebrated in Rosso, it would be a holiday surrounding gift-giving and cherishing family and loved ones, etc etc. But with much less snow (but lots of icy cold winds and rain), warm cookies made by Accardi, Vittorino getting more scarves from Amalia, and everyone most likely spent the holiday at Gabriel’s house. Everyone falls asleep accidentally in one big pile, under some warm blankets, and by the fire place:)

Thank you for playing!  I’m glad you enjoyed the game. I hope part 2 intrigues you!

Are you referring to this video?

This is not an alternate ending! This was just something random I made for the release of the game. There’s only one ending for the first game, as, the second game takes place right after the first game.

Ryker;

Ohh..... Honey flower is very cute....... I think Accardi would love giving nicknames to his partners, and does it naturally out of habit.

Ryker is caught off guard by it, at first, but warms up to it. Eventually Ryker will call Accardi nicknames, and Accardi would love it all so much......

Secretly though, Ryker will never tell Accardi that the best they could come up with was just calling Accardi random French items/flowers/etc.

No worries! I pronounce it differently from time to time, but, I think the French pronunciation would be “more fitting”?

To be fair, I think Ryker would state their name to the people in Rosso, but, everyone might pronounce it incorrectly. (And it makes them upset hahha)

I believe it was this, but, I might be wrong anon!

Leon;

Is this a creative work around to get spoilers? Cleaver idea anon, but, you’re not fooling me.

No worries anon! Thanks for enjoying the game!

We do not know exactly why Dante killed Leon. There’s a lot of mystery surrounding this; why Dante killed Leon, and who exactly Dante (and Leon?) are. Any tie-ins with Francis are unclear too.

Dante hmmmmm...... I don’t know if he would care about sweets in general. But if he HAD to eat one........he would prefer dark.

Accardi+Vittorino+Juliek+Susan;

Errrrmmmmm maybe. Or maybe he will trip and fall down a flight of stairs and never be seen again. Who knows! :)

Hmmm.... Good luck anon! Accardi and Juliek have never met the Francis we know of. Technically. Accardi might have an idea, but, Juliek most likely has forgotten who that was since he wasn’t so connected to the Basilica.

Hmm........ever wonder how Ryker hasn’t had the chance yet to ask Juliek if he knows anyone by the name Francis or Dante yet? Strange, isn’t it?

1. Uhmmm....... Well. I usually don’t feel inspired to draw hair, so, if you had an idea for his entire outfit then I might hahahah. Or money. Commissions are always open. 😏

2. Uhmmm........ Who knows! Sorry. Maybe naming conventions are different in this universe. Kinda funny. But I’ll never tell.

Possibly, for streamers. But also, the sex scene will be so surreal and not show that much penis and what not. But my stories are also unapologetically LGBT, and that includes unapologetically having gay sex. ✌️

Others;

Those two guys? Those two little fellas? Hmmmmmm perhaps. :) Maybe, maybe not. If they want to return they will find a way.

Hmmm.....I have thought of changing Wankou’s tattoos actually!

I think Dakota just likes traditional tattoos, and will place whatever he thinks is “cool” on him. Every tattoo gets meaning for him,whether because Wankou did it for him, or, the inspiration behind the tattoo reminds him of his family/a happy memory. The millipede and scorpion were most likely chosen because they were “just cool”, nothing more to it, hahahah.

I would like to change Wankou’s tattoos to something below, or a more “black out” look.

[wind-to-your-sails]

The Domini of New Phyrexia: An Elaborate Headcanon of my Own Design

The wounding of a world-soul is not an easy thing. It is a dark and awful deed, and cannot be done the same way that one might wipe away a continent. To scar the soul of a world is to change its very nature, to rewrite laws so fundamental that they are scarcely thought of as laws. In the past, such monstrosity was considered the realm of gods alone; Amonkhet, Lorwyn and Zendikar stand as testament to the consequences of such a deed, and the weakest of those who dealt the scars was still a planeswalker of the ancient tradition.

But now, we know better. We have beheld Phyrexia, and the march of the Domini. The worlds of which I have spoken, they bore their wounds and retained much of what they had been. But Phyrexia did not simply wound their world-soul, they broke it.

Their hideous works reforged the world, tearing the domains apart and sequestering them to separate spheres of existence while they erased all knowledge of the rituals that had kept the land hale and hearty. And then, as if to prove that the arrogance of Norn did not know limits, they covered the ruin of the old world with a hideous porcelain shell that blocked out all light of the world-shaping five suns of Mirrodin.

And so the world-soul of Phyrexia emerged, split into five parts and scattered across five spheres. These are the Domini, the mutilated voices of a vivisected planet.

Mondrak is the Dominus of Glory and resides within the Fair Basilica, the Seventh Sphere of Phyrexia. Born with seven mouths and no ears, Mondrak wails an unceasing hymn in praise of the majesty and supremacy of the Machine Orthodoxy. It is said that to hear her song is to understand Phyrexia, and perhaps even worse, to believe in it. The truth of this superstition is difficult to verify, as the volume and tone of Mondrak’s voice induces paralysis and disorientation even at distances where the words cannot be recognized.

Called the Breathless Choir by her fellow zealots, Mondrak is seen as a pinnacle of inspiration and living proof of the infallibility of Norn’s teachings. Despite her voice often proving destructive to the nearby architecture, Mondrak is frequently surrounded by aspirants eager to receive the gospel of the Argent Etchings. As for the Mother of Machines herself, Elesh Norn regards Mondrak as a curious setpiece and a useful resource, a rallying standard that can bring even the mites out in force.

Tekuthal is the Dominus of Inquiry and can be found in the Surgical Bay, the Fifth Sphere of Phyrexia. Having emerged from the oceans of quicksilver with countless eyes and no mouth, Tekuthal poses an endless series of silent and inscrutable questions of the Progress Engine. He communicates with and mimics those around him by shaping the quicksilver into facsimiles, and should they displease him (which they frequently do) he will accentuate the imitation with exaggerated features. Once left alone, these caricatures frequently disintegrate along fault lines that are invariably found to be present in the beings they were mocking.

The Gitaxians derisively refer to Tekuthal as the Prince of Mockery, ridiculing him for his behaviour because his design is beyond reproach. Observation suggests that Tekuthal’s presence invites scrutiny among the ‘scientists’ who are already obsessed with eliminating imperfections, as the idea that there is something to mock suggests that there is something to fix. Jin-Gitaxias has meanwhile drawn inspiration from Tekuthal’s many eyes to create his new surveillance system, and regards the Dominus as a rival who would be much more interesting as a partner.

Drivnod is the Dominus of Carnage and haunts the Dross Pits, the Sixth Sphere of Phyrexia. Born with no flesh of his own and a single eye of baleful fire, Drivnod ravages and flays any servant of the Steel Thanes that wanders too far from the pack. The towering monolith of destruction and slaughter garbs himself in great tapestries woven from his victims, and seems to delight in every scream he creates. Strangely enough, Drivnod appears to be repulsed by worship, shirking away from the adulation he receives in the more populated areas of the Pits.

As in all other things, the Steel Thanes are divided on how to deal with Drivnod. While some are content to leave him to his own devices, others like Azax-Azog and Geth see an opportunity in the Dominus, a potent weapon that could stamp out all opposition to their reign. The rank and file of the Dross Pits are far more united in their perspective, worshipping Drivnod as an idealized manifestation of the proverb that strength is the only power worthy of praise. Some even whisper that he is the Second Coming of Yawgmoth, the true Father of Machines... though none dare say it where a Thane might hear them.

Solphim is the Dominus of Mayhem and dwells in the Autonomous Furnace, the Third Sphere of Phyrexia. Born in a molten body clad in a gown of spears, Solphim is a beast of rabid freedom that embodies the ideals of the Quiet Furnace so completely that she rejects all responsibility for her actions. As though making a parody of the Furnace’s enemies, Solphim inscribes the deep canyons of her territory with draconian and contradictory laws and seems to decide which are worth enforcing on nothing but a whim. The only consistency in her behaviour is a swift and merciless vengeance against any who trespass against the Great Work, most commonly the sycophants of Atraxa.

Declared the Great Mother of Chaos by adherents of the Quiet Furnace, Solphim is openly venerated as a goddess. Her own apparent disregard for this adulation hardly matters, as Dominus worship exists most principally as a rejection of the Argent Etchings and the growing idea of the Flesh Singularity. Urabrask alone regards Solphim as an equal, a deft hand at defence and hopefully an ally in the war to come.

Zopandrel is the Dominus of Hunger and inhabits the Hunter Maze, the Fourth Sphere of Phyrexia. Born with piercing claws at her sides and spitting infectious spores from her face, Zopandrel is an anomaly among the Vicious Swarm in that she hunts with a pack. Unlike the sea of aspiring apex predators that infest the Maze, Zopandrel radiates power outward into her fellow beasts and girds them for battle as not even the magic of Glissa Sunslayer can do. As if to promote this warped idea of community, Zopandrel’s spores impart degenerative phyresis at a staggering rate that can reduce even the most fortified soldier to a ravenous beast in hours.

The denizens of the Vicious Swarm call Zopandrel the Maw of Progress, a slant against Jin-Gitaxias’ failed efforts to present a compleated Ezuri as his answer to Glissa Sunslayer. To these consummate predators, the Dominus’ ability to avoid falling into either their role or that of prey is an intriguing gesture at an infinitely more complex ecosystem. Vorinclex sees in Zopandrel a worthy general that can join him on the front lines, with a strength nearly equal to his own.

[phyrexian-phucker]

norn made the fair basilica so incredibly yonic and i love it for her. queen took serving cunt to its most over the top possible extreme

[edwardian-girl-next-door]

Feast Days: St. Bartholomew

Saint Bartholomew, workshop of Simone Martini (c.1317-1319)

Happy St. Bartholomew's Day!

Today marks the feast day of St. Bartholomew the Apostle -- that's right, one of the OG followers of Jesus! Although he has a pretty miniscule role in Biblical narratives, he is one of the twelve apostles, and so has a heavy load when it comes to patronage. He is the patron saint of butchers, Florentine salt and cheese merchants, house painters, book binders, leather workers, neurological diseases, skin diseases, dermatology, shoemakers, glove makers, farmers, curriers, tanners, trappers, and twitching.

A fair warning: this one isnt' so cheerful. Bart's demise, like many of the saints, is pretty gnarly, and it does have something to do with all this skin/leather stuff going on in his patronage. This day is also associated with an infamous example of religious violence, Catholic vs. Protestant. Read on at your own peril.

His Life

Not a lot is known about Bartholomew's life within Biblical canon. He is believed to be same person as the apostle Nathaniel, who appears in John 1:45-51 and 21:2. He is also mentioned in the Book of Acts.

Much of the tradition around Bartholomew details his trips to spread Christianity. This man sure got around! Two ancient texts cite a trip to India, specifically the Bombay region, where he left a copy of the Gospel of Matthew. However, many scholars doubt that this actually happened, and say that he actually went to Ethiopia or modern-day Yemen. Still other traditions hold that he was a missionary in Mesopotamia, northeastern Iran, and/or central Turkey.

Arguably his most eventful missions trip was to the Armenia/Azerbaijan area in the 1st century CE. Along with his fellow apostle Jude (also called Thaddeus), he is credited with bringing Christianity to the region; and as such, both are venerated as the patron saints of the Apostolic Church of Armenia. His luck ran out here, however, and he was martyred in the region in horrific fashion. Legend holds that he converted the king of Albania, Polymius, to Christianity. Polymius's brother was not a fan of this, and fearing a Roman backlash, and ordered Bartholomew's torture and execution. There are three main stories about his manner of death. The most popular says that he was executed in Albonopolis in Armenia by being flayed (skinned) alive and beheaded. The second account says he was crucified upside-down, and the third that he was beaten unconscious and thrown into the sea to drown. The first legend captures the imagination much more vividly, and as such Bartholomew is most frequently depicted holding his skin -- sometimes he has grown a new skin, other times he is still a skin-less meat man. Many times the old skin still has his face. Woof.

Bartholomew has also come to be associated with the field of medicine, for two main reasons. Firstly, artists past and present have taken advantage of Bartholomew's flayed state to execute detailed anatomical studies of the human body. Secondly, a portion of his relics are stored at the basilica of San Bartolomeo all'Isola in Rome. This was the old site of a temple to Asclepius, which was an important Roman medical site (Asclepius is the Greek god of medicine). Thus, over time, Bartholomew and medicine came to be connected.

The St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre

A depiction by Huguenot painter François Dubois, who was possibly an eyewitness (c.1572-1584)

This series mainly focuses on saints' days in the UK, but one does not simply discuss St. Bartholomew's Day without discussing the massacre. This outbreak of bloodletting was part of the decades-long French Wars of Religion, which was fought on and off between Catholics and Huguenots (French Calvinist Protestants). As religion held such an essential role in society and in the machinations of power, the 'type' of Christianity embraced by the state was literally and frequently a matter of life and death. With autocratic governments, unity of church and state, and much less effective means of communication and law enforcement, it was only too easy for hate and violence to take over, and for those in power to turn a blind eye or even participate. There are many contemporary examples we can look to as parallels to this event, and I think with the same conditions, it could happen a lot more often.

The massacre took place in Paris on the night of August 23rd-24th, 1572. Although the causes for the riots are complex and deep-rooted, the main inciting factor was the marriage of Henry III of Navarre, a Catholic, to Margaret of Valois, a Huguenot. They were married on August 18th, and many rich and famous Huguenots gathered in largely-Catholic Paris to attend the wedding. Tensions erupted in scenes of horrific violence, with Catholic mobs attacking, trapping, and hunting down Huguenots in the streets. The violence lasted for several weeks, spreading out through the provinces and other urban areas. Sir Francis Walsingham, Elizabeth I's ambassador to France at the time, was in Paris during the violence and barely managed to escape with his life. Modern estimates cite the casualties from anywhere between 5,000 and 30,000 people. Although the Catholic reaction to the slaughter ranged from outward glee to sickened horror, Protestant countries obviously panicked, and the massacre was used as anti-Catholic propaganda for centuries, 'justifying' Protestant reprisals against uninvolved Catholics. It was yet another terrible event in the brutal European Wars of Religion.

St. Bartholomew's Day and its Traditions

On to more cheerful things!

This day is also called Bartlemas or Bartelmytide.

Emma, the wife of King Canute, supposedly brought one of Bartholomew's arms to England in the 11th century, and it was venerated in Canterbury Cathedral for many years. Most of the information on this is in the past tense, so I assume it is no longer there.

Depiction of Bartholomew Fair, Rowlandson et. al., c.1808

August and the time around St. Bartholomew's Day is the traditional time for markets and fairs. One of the most famous was Bartholomew Fair in West Smithfield, London. A massive spectacle, it served as a place for serious trade, becoming the main cloth trading event in the country; but it also offered entertainment like dances, tournaments, musicians, international curiosities, food vendors, conjurers, wild animals, circus acts, and an all-around good time. It began in 1133 by a charter from Henry I, and originally lasted three days, but during the 1600s it could go for two full weeks! With the change in the calendar in 1753, the fair was moved to September 3rd, and in 1791 they decided four days was quite enough time. It was ended in 1855 for causing public disturbance and the criminal activity it attracted. A less rowdy street fair is still held in Crewkerne, Somerset, at the beginning of September. It dates back to Saxon times and is even recorded in the Doomesday Book of 1086!

There is also some delightful weather wisdom about St. Bartholomew's Day. One rhyme says, "If St. Bartholomew's be fair and clear / Then a prosperous autumn comes that year". Another is connected to St. Swithin's Day (July 15th), and claims "All the tears St. Swithin can cry / St Bartelmy's mantle wipes them dry". Traditional wisdom holds that rain on St. Swithin's Day means rain for the next 40 days, or until August 24th.

Many areas have their own unique ways of celebrating the holiday, such as blessing mead or baking special bread. It's nice to know that a holiday associated with such terrible things can be made into a nice occasion!

If You're Still Interested

There are a few famous depictions of the saint, including Michelangelo's rendering in "The Last Judgement". However, the whole flayed skin thing makes it pretty gruesome, and I didn't want to spring that on y'all without warning. If you'd like to see it, feel free to Google!

History Today's article that details some specific exhibitions from Bartholomew's Fair, including ventriloquists and a pig that could tell time!

Sources

Please forgive the excess of Wikipedia! It's hard to find info on the internet about this holiday, and Wikipedia has been the most forthcoming. It really can be helpful sometimes.

Wikipedia (Bartholomew the Apostle)

Wikipedia (Bartholomew Fair)

Wikipedia (St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre)

My AP European History class (woot)

aclerkofoxford

The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady by Edith Holden

The Encyclopedia of Saints by Rosemary Ellen Guiley

[bad811content]

hi mod welcome back my life was so so sad without the daily post anyways

i’ve previously said i’ve only watched the gameplays but my friend gave me her itch io account and let me play 8:11 for free dawg i am so happy

the only problem is I DIDNT KNOW RHERE WERE SEVERAL WAYS TO DIE IN RHIS GAME?? Like bro what do you mean i stepped on a mine and got the morbius death screen like huh??

DID SHE NOT GIVE YOU THE WALKTHROUGH THAT'S INCLUDED WITH THE GAME?????????????????????????

honestly fair though. I remember first playing and not knowing that the floor in the Basilica in some places has the integrity of paper mache, fell through it, DIED, and had to restart from Gabriel's head explosion because I thought I was too good at video games to die.