[hr][hr][h1][b][i][color=c0c0c0][center]Sister Mary Hale[/center][/color][/i][/b][/h1] [center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/6f4cc1bf-4142-4feb-a2dc-2df146ed7605.png[/img] [sub][color=c0c0c0]Grr, Mondays.[/color][/sub] [/center] [hr][hr] [hider=St. Etheldreda's Church] [center][img]http://cdn.ltstatic.com/2009/March/NL277860_942long.jpg[/img] [sub]A scale model of St. Etheldreda's Church, as it stood in the 1820s. It is located in the Holbrook district, sandwiched between the mercantile West End and the poorer Cheapside. It was constructed before either was a borough, long before London annexed the surrounding area.[/sub][/center] [/hider] [hr][hr] [hider=The Dream (Warning, it gets long.)] The Basilica of our own Saint Peter, the first Pope as anointed by Jesus Christ himself. The act simultaneously created the first central authority of the Church, in his name, with the words, [i]"And I say also unto thee, that thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of Hell shall not prevail against it."[/i] Mary had been to this place many times during her training. It was warm, full of life and feelings of the certainty that God was with them. But not so today. [i]Not so today.[/i] Emptiness and dread met her as she warily put one foot in front of the other, the sound of her footsteps echoing back at her no matter how quietly she tried to walk. Her halberd, one of the trappings of her station, clacked hollowly upon the stone walkways as she used in the manner of a walking staff. The noise of it annoyed her at first, but as her anxiety grew (anxiety in the Basilica?) she took to carrying it leaned over her shoulder. The only sounds in this holy place were the ones she brought with her, ones that co-mingled with her rapidly increased breathing. Mary was not the type to spook easily, but this... This seemed to touch upon something primal. Nothing. Nothing upon top of nothing. Not only the lack of presence of the faithful and the Swiss Guard, but the lack of a more ecclesiastical presence was even more troubling. It felt like God had vacated this place, this holiest of monuments to His grace. The architectural representation of the rock upon which Peter built His church. St. Peter's Basilica had its soul removed from it, and it was troubling in a way that defied expression, in the way that happens when the horrifyingly impossible is performed directly in one's line of sight. This was inconceivable, in the most prominent of psychological scarring. Tentatively, Sister Mary continued on her path, afraid to continue, even more afraid not to. This place has been removed from God's sight; the very definition of Hell. That was a sobering thought. Hell. What if this was Hell, not the place of fire and more physical tortures? To be taken from the presence of God without hope of ever feeling His gaze again, utterly and completely. Already the cold dullness of His absence grew like a poison, extending from Sister Mary's heart, engulfing her soul with cold, penetrative strands of sadistic [i]nothingness[/i]. Could she even be called [i]Sister[/i] Mary Ignatia Hale again? No, no this couldn't happen. She panicked. Running, blindly almost, Mary searched desperately for anyone, anything that could give her a scrap of familiarity or comfort in this place-which-used-to-be-holy, from the vestibule to the Seat of Petri, around and around the Papal Altar, hoping to glimpse the sight of anything still bright and unmarred. In this fervent, growing urgency, Mary ran down, deep into the catacombs beneath the Basilica proper, down to the tombs of the more notable Holy Fathers past. Surely in this place, there would be the last flicker of deliverance? In the depths of this lightless place, a location that Mary knew quite well, a speck of brilliance shone in the darkness, beckoning her onward. Tears of relief streamed openly from her eyes, a tortured smile of dwindling hope hanging on by a fragile thread. It was something. Something was enough. Cold light, certainly, but illumination that drove her forward to it; the last piece of her Lord's Grace in this hollow and bereft structure. She could feel the light upon her now, not quite the blessing she had hoped it would be, but enough for her to accept. As she merged with this light, Mary closed her eyes, taking in whatever it had to offer her chilled and beleaguered soul. It was a comfort. Sister Mary opened her eyes, ready to extend love to whatever lay before her. But there was still nothing. This was no longer the Basilica. The paintings of the Renaissance hinted at what it might be, but this could not be possible. A long line of things which should not be. The Seat of God, but without its brilliance. No great fire of creation, no six-winged Seraphim flying circles in the air, singling "Holy, holy, holy", no recitation of the Word. Nothing but a great, white throne surrounded by blank monochromaty. But upon the throne lay a true abomination - the Crown of Thorns, the dying symbol of the earthly coronation of Jesus Christ, burned and blackened. Mary felt spiritually numb, and tired. So very tired. The absence of God, even in his seat of power consumed her. She drug her halberd behind her, dropping it to the ground as she neared the throne. Delicately, Mary picked up the crown, and wept. Truly wept. For how long, she could not tell, for how do you count time in eternity? She slumped down upon the great Seat and squeezed her eyes shut, truly devoid of hope. When she finally opened her eyes, she sat staring up at herself; sitting there on the throne, staring back at her from above. The Crown was upon the Other Mary's head, and her eyes were a sullen, sunken black, taking in all light around them. The Other Mary smiled, a vision of jagged teeth and blood, and reached out to her... [/hider] [hr][hr] Mary sat bolt upright in her bed, taking in a gasping breath. [color=c0c0c0][i]"A dream."[/i][/color] she thought, cursing herself silently. [color=c0c0c0][i]"A silly dream for a silly girl."[/i][/color] Of course it was a false vision, probably brought on from overexertion the previous night coupled with that suspect block of havarti. She should have known that it was all some fanciful nightmare; the existence of all things hung upon the simple truth that God exists, his word the creating force behind everything that was and ever will be. His absence would be the undoing of all things. The Basilica would cease to be, [i]she[/i] would cease to be. The concept of Heaven and Hell would likewise cease. But that simply could not be. God is infinite. He is "He Who Is Called I Am". No force can supplant that which is infinite. She felt foolish. Also taken with a sense of vigilance; if she had doubts, even in a dream, there must be some spiritual weakness within her. She needed to pray. Now, the way Sister Mary Hale prayed differed slightly from that of your average Apostolic Sister. It began simply enough, the young Sister poured herself a glass of water from a bedside pitcher, drank the contents quickly, and produced her long, chain rosary. The Prayer of the Rosary was fairly standard, a simple few minutes starting with the Apostle' Creed and ending with Our Father, moving her strong, dexterous fingers up the links as she counted off the requisite number of repetitions until she felt comfortable enough to rise, and begin her religious constitutionals in earnest. She dressed simply in white breeches and a long, buttoned blouse, grabbed her working bag and halberd, then exited her room for the courtyard. At a [i]run[/i]. Flying down the stairs, she passed by one of the few cloistered caretakers of St. Etheldreda's Church, also up at this early hour with laundry in mind; she appeared to be carrying a load of clothing up to her quarters, prompting Mary to give a quick [color=c0c0c0]"Thank you!"[/color] in passing. Down one hallway after another, making a circuit around the interior of the Church (minus the chapel proper) with special attention to maintain soundless steps going through the greater living quarters. She was on the ground floor now, with the courtyard in view through numerous outdoor archways. She kicked off of the wall next to her, instantaneously changing direction while simultaneously keeping her pace at a dead run. She made for the nearest archway just up the hall, and hurled her body through it. She sailed into the grassy, grey-lit exterior with a slight rotation, just enough to press her polearm against herself and hit the ground in a controlled roll. The inertia was utilized in a practiced maneuver, rolling once and springing up. She dropped her bag and weapon, and continued her run around the courtyard, enjoying the changing, less even terrain of cobblestones and grass on her bare feet. After a punishing while, Mary stopped on the stone walkway, and dropped prone. She pounded her knuckles into the uneven rock beneath her and shoved herself upward, again and again, performing aggressive pushups and counting them off in Latin. When she got up to octoginta (that's LXXX), she paused, set a knee down, and allowed herself a moment of rest. Mary looked to her halberd, now resting peacefully in the soft morning light. She got up, retrieved her weapon, and jogged up to the nearest archway. She hung it up between two tapestry hooks and began a series of pullups, curling her knees to her chest and reciting single lines of The Lord's Prayer with each lift. Rather than take the easy route, Mary alternated lifting her head on either side of the weapon's haft. Finally, her arms began to show fatigue. She dropped to the ground and took a knee. Mary made the sign of the Cross before her, finished her last recitation of prayer through controlled but ragged breath, and finished with a solid [color=c0c0c0]"Amen."[/color] Morning observations concluded, Sister Mary made her way back up to her rooms and cleaned up with the basin provided her, then changed into her working garb. The black cossack, gilded at the cuffs and collar, and various trappings of her profession looked both ecclesiastical and militant. She was a Dame of the Holy Order of Saint Sylvester, but try telling anyone that in jolly old England. Here, the Anglican clergy and lay folk tolerated her presence for the most part because of her role as a [i]Venator est Inanimatum[/i], or Soulless Hunter. Her people still could not hold Mass in this country. It made observing the Sabbath more difficult than it should have been. Still, London was her assignment; until she resigned her station and broke her vows, else was ordered away, this is where she lived. And as long as she lived here, she was going to make the most of it. Mary buckled on her various weapons; matched, custom shortswords, her chain rosaries, a formidable hand cannon, and of course hefted one of her Swiss Guard halberds. Her status as a Catholic in a Protestant nation could be ascertained from a great distance. Luckily, the people in the surrounding area didn't seem to mind. Most of the time. To be slightly less obtrusive, she donned her familiar and favorite robe; a hooded white one with red accented trim. She pulled the hood up, allowing a tumble of wavy red hair to spill from the front, and departed. On her way out of the Church proper, she grabbed an apple, content in its fresh simplicity to serve as her breakfast. Within short minutes, Sister Mary Ignatia Hale was mounted atop her dappled grey stallion, riding out of St. Etheldreda's stables in higher spirits, on her way to the West End Market. She had a friend to say hello to, and quite possibly a guest for Tea later. She wanted to procure something special for the event.