Re: Chapter III: The Fall
Posted: Wed May 24, 2017 7:08 am
Tom walked out of the elevator's cabin perhaps a few seconds short of Mary arriving, clad in his usual purple three-piece with charcoal accents. He'd picked a slightly flashier jacket, however; with slightly darker lapels and the kind of microscopic pinstripe effect that usually ended up being murder on sub-4K screens. Cufflinks and a few charged rings had been included, with every sparse item of male jewelry carrying some level of protective magic. The pinky rings would help him ground loose Hellfire, the tie clip could project a medium-sized personal shield able to accommodate a few people, and the one ring he'd slipped on an index finger carried a single-use, if powerful charge for a sleeping spell of his devising. If anyone turned violent, he'd at least be able to subdue one attacker.
Failing that, he'd turn it on himself if any triggered sense of giddiness prevented him from sleeping tonight. Even warlocks could afford to be practical about things.
Otherwise, he'd groomed himself as impeccably as usual, continuing in his ability to make his porcine girth evoke self-assurance and confidence. Also as usual, he had enough class not to elaborate on it.
"As usual, Aislinn, you manage to turn a criminally short deadline into an excuse to look ravishing," he said, briefly cinching her waist with an arm. "I feel like the luckiest warlock on the planet, and I hope your brother knows he's the luckiest selkie ever."
He smirked and winked at the male roane. "One of these days, Mister Man, you'll be taking your Sophia up to my bar. Then you'll be even luckier still."
Tom then rubbed his hands together, wrung them for a few seconds as though arcane proficiency had to be pressed out like juice, and then steepled his fingers.
"Just a quick disclaimer, from a practitioner to a Muggle... Once we go one floor down, you'll feel bad. Guaranteed. Alwyn Frost's murders have permeated the area, and I've spent a few minutes each day pulling from the Pit, making sure there's even more negative potential for us to draw from. I want to make it perfectly clear that none of these bad vibes are directed towards you, Aislinn, Mary, or anyone else here, including those who aren't with us yet.
If you feel like bolting or going invisible prematurely, know that I'm going to take that negative potential within a few minutes of the summons beginning. I'm going to bundle it up and use it to turn those five simultaneous summons into a curse lobbed at our dear friend the Prince. Once it'll be used, it'll be gone, alright? I've already set some water bottles by the elevator doors, down there. If you feel yourself hyperventilating or just panicking, take a few sips, alright? Stay centered, stay focused. Once it's all over, we'll all get to the saccharine goodness involving my frustrated dancer of a friend trying her first pas de deux while looking out of my bay windows at the city outside."
He briefly squeezed one of Ciaran's shoulders. "The day I'll hex you is the day you'll have betrayed Aislinn's trust or mine in some unimaginably profound way. Like, say, forgetting her birthday or my summons' anniversary," he said, clearly joking.
The warthog seemed to have a sudden burst of inspiration. "Think of this as a Pettiness Party. Warlocks are terrific at being petty towards their rivals and enemies, and a summons like this is the equivalent of taking our successes of the last couple days and just rubbing 'em in the Goat's face but good. This is immaturity at its most literate and verbose, and it'll admittedly be Aislinn and I at our least humble. It's all part of the ritual, and it's not meant to be seen as commentary on you or other practitioners."
* * *
A few minutes later, they'd find Father Curran by the altar, with no Bible in sight - but with a small and slightly conch-shaped bowl at the ready. Water rested in it, more than likely blessed hours ago and simply lifted from the holy water basin near the entrance. Marko stood at the ready in front of the altar, looking almost as taut as an Olympic athlete before the start signal. His body language made his combined expectation and apprehension rather clear to see, as freedom would more than likely come with one last exposure to what was the bane of most Pitspawn.
If the fox was still one by definition, then he'd react unfavorably. If he'd accepted his newfound status, however, chances were nothing unexpected would happen.
The former marathoner whispered something to the effect of the liquid still only being water. Marko replied that faith mattered on a level few of the plane's faithful truly understood. If Curran believed holy water could ward off evil - and if Marko had any doubts as to his status as a turn-coat - chances were the fox would be seriously injured.
Not that there was any turning back, however.
"I'd normally open with a few lines from Romans, and might sketch a sermon based on baptism's protective and symbolic values, but we're dealing with someone who was born - or made - outside of all known terrestrial cultures and traditions. Seeing as I can't turn this into a Seminary class, I'll settle with saying that baptism is an admission ticket into God's greater family."
He glanced at Abraham. "The exact specifics of one's faith don't matter to our Lord; only the content of our character does. He accepts all those who seek love, peace, tolerance and justice in this world, and all those who would fight for these things. You could've gone to Rabbi Horowitz and asked for this child of God to undergo immersion in a Mikveh, or asked Imam Jarrah to offer the Shahadah to him. You could've asked miss Holloway to bless this child of God by the Four Corners, or followed Summer Fae tradition and spoken his name to the rising sun. You came to me, however, and so it falls to me to induct him into our flock; the one for those of us who cherish the peace we share that can be so callously and so suddenly ripped away from us.
Where some would see baptism as a profession of Catholic or Christian faith, we of Hope have been tempered by war and loss; by our victories and defeats. We know better than to impose a single, unified truth. As my friend Khalid once reminded me, nothing is true. Everything is permitted. As to whether or not we act, and how we do so, that is for us as mortal and moral men and women to decide. For us of Hope, baptism is one threshold among many, one of the several potential archways leading to freedom. We're gathered here today to set this child upon this path."
Curran looked to Aidan. "Aidan Patrick Drake, you've consented to act as this boy's godfather. Will you honor that promise?
- Yes, Father.
- What is to be his name?"
Three took in a breath, sensing how this was the moment several practitioners had dissected; the exact moment where Faith touched the Arcane - and graced a young newborn with the first etchings of a True Name.
"This is Marko Joseph Jenkins, Father."
The young fox took a step forward, swallowed hard, and bowed his head. Curran slowly poured the holy water between his folded ears.
"In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, I baptize you, Marko Joseph Jenkins."
The first drop of water touched the fox's head with the faintest of sizzling sounds, and he could be heard wincing. However, tension gradually left him as the remainder of the small trickle of water simply moistened his fur. He lightly gasped as his name was pronounced, and couldn't stop himself from lightly patting at his right breast.
"Is something wrong?" asked Three.
Marko looked up, smiling faintly. "I think you've done it. I feel... alone in my body. I feel like... Like this is mine. I'll know for certain once I'll have had some time, but I'm certainly safe for now. I feel... protected, somehow. I think I'll be able to tell you more."
As for Curran, he seemed quite satisfied. "Then I'm glad," he said. "There's hope yet, especially for an old friend."
That made Marko look concerned. "You mean the attorney. I'm sorry, Father, but the Prince won't let him go. The only way to beat him at this point is to glut him with his own pride. To do that, you'll have to lose once."
Failing that, he'd turn it on himself if any triggered sense of giddiness prevented him from sleeping tonight. Even warlocks could afford to be practical about things.
Otherwise, he'd groomed himself as impeccably as usual, continuing in his ability to make his porcine girth evoke self-assurance and confidence. Also as usual, he had enough class not to elaborate on it.
"As usual, Aislinn, you manage to turn a criminally short deadline into an excuse to look ravishing," he said, briefly cinching her waist with an arm. "I feel like the luckiest warlock on the planet, and I hope your brother knows he's the luckiest selkie ever."
He smirked and winked at the male roane. "One of these days, Mister Man, you'll be taking your Sophia up to my bar. Then you'll be even luckier still."
Tom then rubbed his hands together, wrung them for a few seconds as though arcane proficiency had to be pressed out like juice, and then steepled his fingers.
"Just a quick disclaimer, from a practitioner to a Muggle... Once we go one floor down, you'll feel bad. Guaranteed. Alwyn Frost's murders have permeated the area, and I've spent a few minutes each day pulling from the Pit, making sure there's even more negative potential for us to draw from. I want to make it perfectly clear that none of these bad vibes are directed towards you, Aislinn, Mary, or anyone else here, including those who aren't with us yet.
If you feel like bolting or going invisible prematurely, know that I'm going to take that negative potential within a few minutes of the summons beginning. I'm going to bundle it up and use it to turn those five simultaneous summons into a curse lobbed at our dear friend the Prince. Once it'll be used, it'll be gone, alright? I've already set some water bottles by the elevator doors, down there. If you feel yourself hyperventilating or just panicking, take a few sips, alright? Stay centered, stay focused. Once it's all over, we'll all get to the saccharine goodness involving my frustrated dancer of a friend trying her first pas de deux while looking out of my bay windows at the city outside."
He briefly squeezed one of Ciaran's shoulders. "The day I'll hex you is the day you'll have betrayed Aislinn's trust or mine in some unimaginably profound way. Like, say, forgetting her birthday or my summons' anniversary," he said, clearly joking.
The warthog seemed to have a sudden burst of inspiration. "Think of this as a Pettiness Party. Warlocks are terrific at being petty towards their rivals and enemies, and a summons like this is the equivalent of taking our successes of the last couple days and just rubbing 'em in the Goat's face but good. This is immaturity at its most literate and verbose, and it'll admittedly be Aislinn and I at our least humble. It's all part of the ritual, and it's not meant to be seen as commentary on you or other practitioners."
* * *
A few minutes later, they'd find Father Curran by the altar, with no Bible in sight - but with a small and slightly conch-shaped bowl at the ready. Water rested in it, more than likely blessed hours ago and simply lifted from the holy water basin near the entrance. Marko stood at the ready in front of the altar, looking almost as taut as an Olympic athlete before the start signal. His body language made his combined expectation and apprehension rather clear to see, as freedom would more than likely come with one last exposure to what was the bane of most Pitspawn.
If the fox was still one by definition, then he'd react unfavorably. If he'd accepted his newfound status, however, chances were nothing unexpected would happen.
The former marathoner whispered something to the effect of the liquid still only being water. Marko replied that faith mattered on a level few of the plane's faithful truly understood. If Curran believed holy water could ward off evil - and if Marko had any doubts as to his status as a turn-coat - chances were the fox would be seriously injured.
Not that there was any turning back, however.
"I'd normally open with a few lines from Romans, and might sketch a sermon based on baptism's protective and symbolic values, but we're dealing with someone who was born - or made - outside of all known terrestrial cultures and traditions. Seeing as I can't turn this into a Seminary class, I'll settle with saying that baptism is an admission ticket into God's greater family."
He glanced at Abraham. "The exact specifics of one's faith don't matter to our Lord; only the content of our character does. He accepts all those who seek love, peace, tolerance and justice in this world, and all those who would fight for these things. You could've gone to Rabbi Horowitz and asked for this child of God to undergo immersion in a Mikveh, or asked Imam Jarrah to offer the Shahadah to him. You could've asked miss Holloway to bless this child of God by the Four Corners, or followed Summer Fae tradition and spoken his name to the rising sun. You came to me, however, and so it falls to me to induct him into our flock; the one for those of us who cherish the peace we share that can be so callously and so suddenly ripped away from us.
Where some would see baptism as a profession of Catholic or Christian faith, we of Hope have been tempered by war and loss; by our victories and defeats. We know better than to impose a single, unified truth. As my friend Khalid once reminded me, nothing is true. Everything is permitted. As to whether or not we act, and how we do so, that is for us as mortal and moral men and women to decide. For us of Hope, baptism is one threshold among many, one of the several potential archways leading to freedom. We're gathered here today to set this child upon this path."
Curran looked to Aidan. "Aidan Patrick Drake, you've consented to act as this boy's godfather. Will you honor that promise?
- Yes, Father.
- What is to be his name?"
Three took in a breath, sensing how this was the moment several practitioners had dissected; the exact moment where Faith touched the Arcane - and graced a young newborn with the first etchings of a True Name.
"This is Marko Joseph Jenkins, Father."
The young fox took a step forward, swallowed hard, and bowed his head. Curran slowly poured the holy water between his folded ears.
"In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, I baptize you, Marko Joseph Jenkins."
The first drop of water touched the fox's head with the faintest of sizzling sounds, and he could be heard wincing. However, tension gradually left him as the remainder of the small trickle of water simply moistened his fur. He lightly gasped as his name was pronounced, and couldn't stop himself from lightly patting at his right breast.
"Is something wrong?" asked Three.
Marko looked up, smiling faintly. "I think you've done it. I feel... alone in my body. I feel like... Like this is mine. I'll know for certain once I'll have had some time, but I'm certainly safe for now. I feel... protected, somehow. I think I'll be able to tell you more."
As for Curran, he seemed quite satisfied. "Then I'm glad," he said. "There's hope yet, especially for an old friend."
That made Marko look concerned. "You mean the attorney. I'm sorry, Father, but the Prince won't let him go. The only way to beat him at this point is to glut him with his own pride. To do that, you'll have to lose once."