[IC] Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

[Hero]

---

The sight of a golden sky stretched across a blue sea. The waves glittered as they touched the sand, dampening the sand before returning to the ocean. A woman garbed in white stepped onto the sand, her cloak fluttering around her as the wind gently tousled the material.

“You who reads this seek my memory with the power which She bestowed upon you.”

The sky darkened considerably, cloaking the area in darkness. Only the moonlight illuminated her as she turned towards the light. Her face is largely hidden by her hood, her lips parting as she lifts her hand.

“The truth is only hidden to those who do not seek it.”

---

The princess woke peacefully, her eyes fluttering open. The light around her head faded–her sigil had glowed, had it? She slowly sat up, shivering in the chill or early morning. The sun had scarcely risen above the horizon, the memory of her dream fighting to remain in her mind despite drowsiness.

Belle slowly sat up, watching the blue sky outside. That golden sky made for quite the striking image. She had no memory of ever seeing one in person, but it seemed so clear in that dream.

“Highness, are you awake?” She heard her lady-in-waiting call from the other side of her door. “There is much to be done to prepare you for the Millenium Festival. It won’t do to sleep in!”

Belle didn’t respond, returning her gaze to the sky outside once again. There was something stirring in the air, a feeling she couldn’t quite shrug off. An omen? No, surely it was a dream caused by the stress of this anticipated day. The princess finally rose from her bed, ready to greet the dawn.

---

The sun was just starting to dip into the horizon, painting the numerous white and bronze buildings vermillion. The people came from all over, some from their homes, others from transport, but they walked with a purpose, and they were all walking towards the Cathedra Incepta of Juniperus. The church knights stood at the ready, watching the populace, and the knights within the church donned their traditional armor. Sunbeams filtered through stained glass windows depicting the Goddess and the original Scions, their colors dancing across the floors. The air carried a scent of juniper and sacred incense, giving a sense of peace and reverence underneath the buzz of excitement. Statues of the Scions, carved with exquisite detail, watched all who entered.

What was once considered a holy walk into the Cathedra Incepta was more modernized these days. A grand red carpet was set down from the cobbled street to the grand doors. The path was lined up with an assortment of Templars and church knights, a mixed horde of paparazzi and excited faithfuls who couldn’t enter hoping to catch a glimpse of Incepta’s chosen. The moment the first car came to a stop, the flashes from the photographers began.

The only person on the carpet was a well-dressed man holding a microphone. He stood alone in front of a large news camera with an earpiece and a dazzling smile.

“Coming to you live from Juniperus, we’re here to witness the entrance of the Goddess’ esteemed children,” He boasted, eyes sparkling as he took half a step back and gestured to the crowd. “This evening marks the one thousand year old celebration of Her chosen–her Scions. Accompanied by their Templars, they are the last to appear, and once they’re in, the sermon will be given by Father Bachmeier. Stay tuned for an exclusive first look!”

---

[Obscene Symphony]

---

“The truth is only hidden to those who do not seek it…”

Maya gasped as she awoke, and promptly coughed as her lungs filled with essential oil vapours. When her fit was done, she was momentarily confused as she blinked at her surroundings, but it all came back to her quickly. She was in the bath; specifically, she was in her new, massive, custom-made tub, sized more like a large hot tub than a bath, built into the floor of her newly-renovated master bathroom at the top of one of Juniperus’ most exclusive condo buildings. She was surrounded by glossy black marble tiles, gently illuminated by a host of floating candles, and enshrouded in a dense fog of chamomile-and-rose-scented steam.

She shook her head, reclining back against the side of the tub. That dream again. She must have drifted off in the bath. No wonder; she glanced to her left, where the sky was just starting to lighten in her floor-to-ceiling window, the last few stars finally winking out as inky blackness slowly turned to blue. Normally, the only thing that could get her up this early was a golden hour photoshoot, but ever since that dream came to her in the middle of the night, she couldn’t sleep a wink. Well, until now, apparently.

Maya was hardly one for analyzing dreams - she'd leave that new age stuff to the tiktokers - but it was odd that she couldn't seem to shake this one. She usually didn't remember her dreams at all, or if she did, they didn't usually recur. And this one wasn't even scary or particularly interesting; she couldn't think of any reason it should have stuck with her so firmly. Yet here she was. A bath was supposed to clear her head, not bring the dream back. Although, she supposed it must have relaxed her enough to get a few extra winks, so that was something.

The sharp buzz of her phone on the tile next to her startled her yet again, but it provided a welcome distraction. Maya grabbed it before it could wander into the water, ignoring the torrent of notifications for the moment in favour of opening her camera. Cheesecloth pouches of oats floated around her, turning the water milky and opaque, and rehydrated rose petals from her bath bombs provided a nice pop of colour to compliment the candles; the first few rays of sunlight even made an appearance to give the steam a dreamy glow. She carefully poked one knee up out of the water (quite chastely, of course), making sure to catch the label of one of her sponsors’ products in the frame, before spending a few minutes composing an Instagram post.

“Soaking up the last sunrise of the millennium ☀️😊
How are YOU spending the last day of the 900’s? 👀
#NewYearNewMe #MillenniumFestival
#Bathfluencer #FlowUp”

She made sure to tag the manufacturer of the bath kit she used, as well as her skin care partners and her own new collaborative line of scented oils, attaching shop links to the relevant parts of the photo with practiced ease. After all, if she was going to be up this early, she might as well make it worth her while.

~ /// ~

Maya’s freakishly early start made a long day even longer, but she couldn't argue with the results: By the time her limousine rolled up to the Cathedra Incepta, she had enough sponsor placements littered through the day’s content to pay her security budget for the coming year, and a couple of emails from new brands with collab pitches that Maya intended to leave unread for the next several days at least. As a bonus, she already had #SeenAtTheMillenniumFestival trending, and her followers were positively teeming with anticipation for who she'd find to collab with throughout the night. She was dressed to the nines in a new dress from a new designer she was working with, and Edmund was even looking presentable, and all with only a couple of hunger-induced outbursts.

Not bad for a day’s work, in her opinion.

And her designer did not disappoint. When she stepped onto the red carpet, she was the very picture of glamorous elegance. Her dress was nearly black, the only indication of any color being ripples of dark blues and turquoises on the skirt and the dearest rim of white along the hem, like a tiny cresting wave. It might have looked plain, but the true character of the dress came out when Maya stepped out of the car: In the light, previously invisible black-on-black embroidery shimmered to life, depicting the gnarled and curling arms of a sea monster unfurling around the bodice and down the skirt, lurking just within the dark fabric. The dress had a high neck, but no sleeves, kept modest by a black fur stole wrapped around Maya’s shoulders. A black gossamer veil completed the look, invisible save for the matching crystals that made her long black hair look like a night sky full of stars.

It was with some displeasure, then, that Maya realized she might have been the first Scion to arrive at the cathedral. Dammit, her early start got her ahead of schedule, but she didn’t think she’d be this far ahead! Ugh, half the audience wouldn’t even be watching the ceremony broadcast this early; she didn’t put all this work in just to be missed by people still busy making dinner!

But it was too late now; she was out, and the cameras were on her. Maya met them with a flawless smile, of course, stalwart in the face of this unfolding disaster, and comforted herself with the thought that this would make her look like the most pious of the current crop of Scions.

She was already mentally composing a tweet about being so lucky to spend an extra few minutes with the Goddess when a reporter met her on the red carpet. He flashed a treatment-white smile at Maya and shoved a microphone in her face. “Scion Maya, it’s big news that you recently became the biggest account on Instagram, breaking a ten-year record for highest follower count. What’s your secret, Your Holiness?”

Maya returned the reporter’s smile with a winning one of her own, looking positively radiant and completely humbled. “Honestly Drew, I don’t think I have a secret,” she replied sweetly. There was about a 60% chance that this was the reporter she thought it was. “Everything I have comes from The Goddess, and if She’s choosing to reach out to the younger generation through social media, then I’m just honoured to be able to facilitate that.”

“Wow, what a beautiful sentiment,” said the reporter, glancing at the camera. Either he was the one Maya thought he was, or he wasn't willing to correct a Scion on his proper name. Either option worked for Maya. “Thank you very much Your Holiness, and enjoy the night!”

“Thank you so much, Drew,” Maya added intently, turning to the camera herself to blow a kiss. “And may the blessing of the Mother go with you and all your viewers in the new year!”

The reporter moved on to the next Scion arriving, and Maya took advantage of the momentary distraction, slowing to walk beside Edmund and producing her phone.

“Hang back and get a good shot of me going through the doors,” she whispered, tapping his forearm. “It’ll be perfect to close off my Year in Review.”

She gave Edmund a knowing smirk and walked on again, making sure to strike an appropriately awed and pensive pose under the imposing arch of the cathedral’s historic doors before proceeding inside. She didn’t bother to look behind her, quite confident that Edmund would get the shot.

---

@webboysurf

[Mcmolly]

---

A file cabinet had exploded in the back seat of the car. Manilla folders spilled their guts across the upholstery, staples and paperclips littered the floormats, and with every bump and turn along the road to the Cathedral, the car filled with the sounds of shifting paper.

Penne was a fast reader, and despite the apparent chaos around her, she knew exactly what she was looking for. Bright, wide eyes scanned a page, doubled back for any compelling bits or bobs, then it was tossed aside into the passenger-sized pile of information beside, beneath, and at times fluttering down from above her. She hadn’t read all this on the way to the ceremony of course—the trip wasn’t quite that long—but there was time enough for a refresher, for a last-second check over the points of interest she’d put a pin in on their way down from Lorenzia.

A bit fraying on the nerves, if she was being honest. Her fault though. Waited too long. Didn't socialize with the others. Too much moping in the early months; self-pity was rust on the joints and miserable to clean off.

“Ex-military...” she mumbled, mostly to herself. She took a bite from her sandwich—another ball in the juggling act that was the back seat—finished the page, then flapped it at the front seat to get Alasdair’s attention. “Fire Scion dropped out of the military. Not discharged. Then disowned. Family trouble? Mm. Always family trouble.”

Then she tossed the paper aside and moved on. This had been her last week—and by extension, her Templar’s last week as well—a thorough high dive into whatever information she could gather about her new divine colleagues and their plus-ones. Most of it was public knowledge, but being public knowledge was not the same as being widely known. Most people didn’t bother digging into online records. Most people didn’t poke the genealogy sections of city libraries. Most people didn’t call old high schools, hospitals, employers, associates, and those who did certainly didn’t have the resources to pry past the awkward barriers one runs into when asking personal questions about other people.

Of course she’d found nothing revealing. There was never anything explicit at this stage, at least nothing credible. But the was the job, the meat of it anyway; you're not supposed to get all the letters in hangman, you're supposed to figure it out partway.

Not that she anticipated hanging anyone. The hope was always for frictionless working relationships, but it never hurt to keep some WD-40 in the glovebox.

She only got half a page into the Wind Scion’s folder before the car rolled to a stop, and they were enveloped by the sounds of paparazzi. Anxiety bubbled in Penne’s gut, which was becoming distressingly common for her. She had half a mind to stay put and finish reading, or at least finish her sandwich behind the comfort of the tinted windows. But tardiness was unbecoming of a Scion, probably, and she’d been given explicit instructions not to embarrass the family on this outing.

So, utilizing a little trickery Alasdair had taught her, Penne dropped her sandwich into her shadow for later, pushed her paperwork to the far side of the seat, and got out.

It was very bright and very crowded. Penne moved with haste, and between her cap, her shades, and the high collar of her coat, she was little more than a small, black smudge. That, combined with the fact that it seemed Ms. Desrosiers had arrived only just before her and had thus soaked up much of the cameras’ attentions, made her trip across the carpet less frantic than it could have been. Unfortunately, an intrepid reporter did manage to put himself just in the way enough as to make it unacceptable to ignore him.

“Your Holiness! Just a quick question! Your Holiness!” And when she stopped, he nodded his cameraman over to bring the lens entirely too close to her face. “You seem to wear the same outfits every time you meet the public. Is this a style you’re bringing into the mainstream? Are you giving your support to a particular designer?”

Penne looked down at herself. Did she really wear the same thing all the time? That seemed possible. The coat, at least, came with her everywhere. It was like a smock that wrapped all the way around, soft inside and almost rubbery on the outside, but not the least bit smothering. She’d worn it all the time while she worked for the family.

“It’s from a butchers’ supply store in Ornell. Hard to stain, easy to clean—it’s very convenient. I’ve only had to replace it once, but that was because it was stabbed, not because of any problem with the coat.”

The interviewer nodded. Penne nodded. Moments passed without comment.

“Okay goodbye,” she said, then turned on her heel and hurried the rest of the way into the Cathedral to wait for Alasdair.

[Lemons]

---

“The truth is only hidden to those who do not seek it…”

---

Axan woke to a headache.

That wasn't particularly surprising; for once Axan had decided to obey the dress code--it was the Millennium Festival, after all--and that meant organizing a great deal of clothing that she hadn't worn in a loooong time. If she'd had her way it would be a button down blouse and pressed trousers, but there was no way she would be getting away with anything less than a floor-length gown, not with her dignity intact. So she'd spent the past several weeks corresponding with several designers and tailors, trying to figure out what the hell she waas going to wear.

For a while, she just let herself lay there. Maybe if she ignored the headache, it would go away. Another ten minutes passed before she let out a long sigh and reached for the painkiller bottle next to her bed, popping two pills and washing them down with a sip from the ever-present cup of water. She let her head fall against her pillow again. Ten minutes for it to take the edge off the headache. Then she'd start to operate.

Half an hour later she reluctantly hauled herself out of bed. She grabbed up her phone from where he'd left it to charge and checked the time. Nine in the morning. Quite a ways from when she had to get going, but still later than she wished it was. It was going to take plenty of time to actually get herelf ready for something like this, she thought. Time enough right now, anyway. She heaved a heavy yawn, then hacked her hair into a haphazard low ponytail. Tossing on a t-shirt, sweatpants, and coat to ward against the New Years chill, she headed for the door. First thing to do was pick up the dress.

---

In the back of a limousine, Axan rolled her eyes.

She'd initially planned 100% on just...walking to the Cathedral Incepta. And why not? She only lived a little ways away, after all, a few minutes' walk ordinarily. But she'd just had to choose to dress up today, hadn't she? And when she was getting ready to start walking, she acknowledged to herself that walking on the street, among crowds, in expensive heels and a brand new floor length gown was...probably a really bad idea. So she'd sent for a limo to ferry her the four blocks from her house to the beginning of the Cathedral procession's red carpet.

It wasn't all bad; it meant that she'd had extra time to do up her hair exactly as she liked it, a high ponytail carefully tied with two delicate braids. It had been quite a long while since she'd worn something like this; hopefully she remembered how the whole thing went. At that thought, the automobile rolled to a silent stop. Showtime.

While the proper procedure was probably letting someone else open the limo door for her, she ignored that, popping it as soon as the car stopped moving fully, turning in her seat, and rising to her heel-clad feet. As she emerged into the open, the sunset caught the fine white satin of her gown ablaze down to the lace fringe of the long sleeves, and the cape of red-orange tulle that floated behind her looked for all the world like wings of fire. All just like the designer had predicted; man, he'd really earned his paycheck. The clicking of her heels was swallowed by the plush carpet as she swept along. Paparazzi heads rotated, a few sporting nervous looks as they tracked the sheathed sword that she rested comfortably against her shoulder and had no intention to let go of. She stopped moving only when she came to--

"Your Holiness, Scion of Fire Sturke! A question!"

--A reporter. She let out of a faint sigh as the microphone was shoved straight into her face and wished that she could reach up and shove it back down again. "It's no secret that you have a contentious relationship with the rest of the Sturke family. According to the guest list, the Honorable Yulian Sturke will be attending the party after the ceremony. What are--"

He was interrupted by any pretense of solemnity dissolving into the huge smile that bloomed across Axan's face and the unexpected warmth in her voice. "Yulian's coming? Really? You're sure?" She tossed her head back in an exultant laugh. "Ahahahaha, oh Goddess, thank you! He's going to look SO stiff and awkward in formalwear, it's gonna be hysterical!" Her free left hand reached up and tossed her hair as she stared straight into the lens of the camera. "Haven't seen you in ages, Yuli! Let's get together over dinner tonight, hey?"

With an exaggerated wink, she brushed past the reporter, leaving him somewhat bewildered in her wake, then trotted up the stairs and into the Cathedral proper. Wouldn't be too long before Marqué showed up now. She'd get him to crack a smile this time for sure.

[Hero]

The room was, in a word, chaos. Organized chaos, granted, but still chaos. And within the eye of the storm stood Belle, barely watching the half-dozen ladies fuss over her. This would not be the first or last grand event, though she knew that the Millennium Festival was a touch above the rest. It wasn't often that her mother insisted on certain family jewels to be worn–after Miss Perfect Maribel had her choice, of course–but Belle hadn't expected Scion Rosaria's tiara to be in the mix. It was a humble thing, made of silver and emeralds, yet beautiful all the same. It stared at her from its pillow, glinting quietly. She almost felt it was judging her for some reason. The emerald gown she wore was made for this day; it was a tulip sleeved gown made from a material that shimmered like silk with every movement she made. Her makeup highlighted her green eyes, with the exception of her red lips. There were an assortment of buds on the dress and in her blonde braid, though she would leave them as-is until her arrival.

As the maids put their finishing touches, Belle stepped down from the small platform and walked. She half listened to her lady-in-waiting, Lady Joanna, as the woman rattled off the evening's program. A sermon and then the gathering at Duke Giles' manor. The latter was interesting, to say the least. The duke had been quite pleased to host and was eager to rub elbows. From what she heard, the duke was trying to marry off his daughter to the crown prince of Veradis. Perhaps he hoped he could achieve this through socialization? The security detail must have been a nightmare with the many royals and nobles and those of import gathering all in one place.

Belle had let her mind wander, keeping quiet for the car ride. If she was honest, she felt a little tired. She had hoped to recover some energy as the day passed, but she felt drained for some reason. She chalked it up to the excitement of the day, but this was the first time in a long time that she wished she could have snuck in a nap at some point. Alas, it was not meant to be, and as the car came to a stop, she knew it was time to face the public.

She gave Guy a quiet 'thank you' as he offered his hand, taking it as she stepped out of the car. As she stood, she exhaled a touch, letting her mana blossom each of the buds on her dress and hair. The variety of flowers made for a fun spectacle, the photography flashes increasing as she walked. Belle closed her eyes for a moment, figuring that was enough to please the masses, only to open her eyes to a microphone in front of her.

"Your Highness! Is it true that you lost out on the Belle Rêve Beauty Line to Scion Maya Desrosiers?!"

Ugh.

Belle's perfectly manicured smile didn't flinch. "It is, yes," She replied softly, widening her smile before carrying on, leaving the reporter bewildered at the lack of an explanation.

[Raijinslayer]

Marqué

---

speaking to: @LemonsScion Axan

"Your Holiness, I would ask that you refrain from the potential angering of your family with such comments." The voice of her Templar rose like a whisper behind the Scion as Marqué stepped forth from a nearby procession of Church Knights onto the redcarpet, donned in the basic formal wear required of his station, decorated with dull amber jewelry to show his dedication to the Scion of Fire as her Templar. Without another word he stepped forth infront of the reporter and stared up at them with an unreadable expression. "As for now, I believe any questions of Our Holiness Axan will have to wait until a later time when such questions are more appropriate. I am sure you can understand."

"Bu-" *The reportered started but Marqué held up a hand to stop them as he pointed towards the other Scion's present at the event.

"I am certain that the other present scions will be more receptive to your questions, particularly Our Holinesses Isabella Lanvaldear Rosaria and Miriam Grâce Desrosiers. In either case, Holiness Axan is not available for questions at this time and must prepare for the festivities at this time. Is that clear, Sir?" Any attempt at a possibe rebuttal was stopped in the reporter's throat by the dead-pan stare that the Templar gave, almost daring the man and his camera to continue, until with a bit of shrug, he moved on to bother one of the other scions.

It was only after they were out of earshot of any immediate reporters that Marqué turned to his Scion with a small quirk to his brow, as close as he game to an expression of discontent aro8und her as she'd ever seen.

"I shall not be one to question your decisions, Your Holiness Axan, but I would appreciate if you would well tell me when you plan to go to functions such as this one, rather than to leave me guessing as your potential arrival or departure times. Granted, I made certain to awake about two hours earlier than usual and scope out any potential dangers on the several routes your limousine could hjave taken before awaiting your arrival, but it would be much preferable to arrivie with my Scion rather than ahead of her."

As he spoke around a possible condemnation of her behavior, however, the Templar also made a nod to the Church proper and continued on.

"I have also found routes of egress from the Chruch that are unlikely to have much in the way of media attention, if you wish to avoid it. Granted, from my studies, this will likely cause more attention to be focused on your for a while. It is your choice as always, Your Holiness, but I figured it best to keep you informed. Also, you mentioned some distaste for the typical drink found at these events, so I've worked with a few of the supplies before hand to set aside a few stronger brews to be collected, should you still hold that opinion."

A small pause.

"Before you ask, no I will not be telling you where the spirits are located on the premises nor will any of the servants you talk to know. As this is not a Rodionian affair, I think your typical consumption of spirits would be more. . . disruptive than what one could expect. Especially given your familiy is around to stoke some irritation."

[Scribe of Thoth]

---

“The truth is only hidden to those who do not seek it.”

Bright light beat against Noah's eyelids, causing him to stir from his troubled slumber. The source was immediately apparent as his eyes blinked open; the golden radiance of his sigil shined right against his face from the awkward position he'd slept in.

"Mother...?" he mumbled, voice raspy from sleep. The dream was not spun from his own mind, then. That explained the clarity with which he remembered it, though the contents were puzzlingly cryptic regardless. It was certainly auspicious timing. Did the Goddess intend to speak with Her children again, as she did in William's day? Did She intend to speak with him?

Noah sat up in bed with a yawn as he turned his attention to the bleary room, cloaked now in only the morning's gentle luminance rather than the brilliance of Incepta's Light. It was tempting to go back to sleep, but a servant would surely burst in soon to inform him of his family's preparations for the evening and urge him into action, as if Noah really needed to do anything besides get dressed. Perhaps lesser men needed to psych themselves up in the mirror before such an event, but the Scion of Light was not cowed by small talk with brown-nosers or the daunting thought of mustering the fortitude to stay awake through lengthy state events.

The door burst open.

"Good morning, Your Highness. Prince Rowan bade me summon you for-"

Ah, right on time.

---

Noah checked the time on his phone as the city drifted leisurely past the window. That should be long enough. He'd grown briefly worried when talk of the Scion of Water took social media by storm far earlier than Noah had expected - to give her more time for pictures, no doubt - but thankfully most of the staff had learned that Noah was a just and magnanimous liege that would absolve them of any and all responsibility for their complicity when his father inevitably chastised them for their role in his schemes, and thus talking them into things wasn't the chore it had been when he was younger.

"You can bring us in now," he called to the driver, who was professional enough to not look outwardly relieved. Noah had demanded they take the scenic route through lovely Juniperus, and the traffic generated from the road closures around the cathedral certainly did not disappoint. As a Bachmeier, Noah was no stranger to sitting in the Cathedra Incepta for unconscionably long periods of time in anticipation of one inane event or another; he didn't need to arrive early just to listen to his cousin prattle on for the cameras.

Noah's head lolled back to the window as the limousine approached their destination, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the way all the reporters' heads popped up like dogs that just heard the word 'walk'. Silently, he cursed himself for not having the forethought to ask if the press were allowed anywhere near the afterparty at Duke Whoever's manor. He only had so many of these performances in him in one night.

As the car rolled to a stop, he straightened his posture and prepared for his departure. The door was opened and Noah stepped out, his eyes briefly scanning the crowd as if he hadn't already been doing so immediately prior to his exit. His outfit wasn't particularly showy compared to the preceding Scions, and were he not easily recognizable to every soul in attendance, he could've almost blended in with one of the mundane guests. Almost.

It was a simple evening tailcoat, tailored very traditionally from black fabric. The lapels were trimmed with real gold thread and decorated in some ridiculous art deco pattern that his tailor assured him was 'in' right now (and, admittedly, he thought it was kind of sleek). The underlying waistcoat, though white, was likewise lined in gold, but the remainder of his outfit remained unostentatious in presentation. The only sizeable splash of color was the translucent orange of the magitech visor still present on his face, which Noah petulantly retained despite the occasion.

The prince started toward the door with casual ease, as if he couldn't predict that he wouldn't be allowed to enter without being accosted. Predictably, a reporter shoved a microphone into his face before he'd even made it a quarter of the way down the carpet. Noah was tempted to pretend he hadn't seen the man and keep walking, but that would probably end in more trouble than it was worth. Instead, Noah glanced toward the camera for a brief moment, then settled his gaze on the reporter, who at least remembered to bow his head late rather than never.

"Your Serene Highness, I think I speak for the nation, if not the entire Federation, when I say we are all interested in the upcoming end of the regency when you are of age. Do you believe you're adequately prepared to step into the role of sovereign?"

Noah resisted the urge to make a face. He also resisted the urge to ask the man if he was an idiot. Not because it would be impolite, but because he was a journalist, so the answer was already obvious.

"I think the people of Veradis can take solace in the fact that we, over any other nation, have a head of state most directly chosen by the Mother," Noah began with a pleasant smile on his face, "The Prince of Veradis is not crowned by Her subtle guiding hand working through the actions of men, but through Her explicit bestowal of the blessing of Light through the line of William. That is to say, of course I feel ready. The Goddess does not give us battles we cannot win."

That should do it. Noah could answer any follow up questions with an implication that this reporter was daring to question the will of the Mother. Fortunately, he had either gotten the hint or his desired soundbite, and thus the reporter turned away with a formal farewell to prattle on to the camera more.

With that handled, Noah made his way leisurely up the stairs into the Cathedral. Royalty should arrive last, after all.

---

[Xiro Zean]

---

"..The truth is only hidden to those who do not seek it.”

The young man who awoke in the dead hours of the morning, when not even the birds had arisen from their nests to greet the rising sun, slowly opened his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. While, chilly, the air was warmer than what was expected in the cold regions of Rodion, reminding the figure that he was in another country entirely. Slowly, he sat up from the mattress of his bed, blinking away the light that shown from his left eye until it no longer illuminated the dim room. With a sigh, he rose, stepping toward the dresser's mirror to prepare himself for the day.

Sorrel Gran had developed shaded eyebags over the course of the hectic week, the multitude of life-changing events collapsing around him without a moment to catch his breath. The previous Lord of House Gran was still warm on the ground when he'd been given the right of succession, and no time was spent to watch vigil upon the man's burial site before the young heir whisked away to Veradis to cement his new position as the Scion of Storms. With his own personal misgivings on various matters unable to be dealt with healthily on top of that, it was no question that his mental and physical state had taken a toll.

There was too much to be done in his homeland, restructuring the internal hierarchy, completing his studies of responsibilities as the new lord, flushing out the rats that dare to infiltrate the House of Gran during the transfer of power. Sorrel could only rely on his father's retainers- no, his own retainers now -to deal with things while he was away. It could not be helped, after all the will of the Goddess was not something for mortals to ignore.

Applying concealer beneath his eyes, even a young lord could not be found wanting in his weakest state, the redheaded noble strapped on his training gear before heading to the door. Though it was three more hours until sunrise, there was no better time to revitalize himself with a bit of exercise. However, as he approached the door frame, his gaze lingered for a moment upon the sword propped against the far wall. Narodu, the sharpest fang of Gran, a blade that was now his by right.

He left it behind. He was not worthy to wield it for such a frivolous reason.

---

"Halt," the young lord ordered the coachman, slowing down the horse-drawn carriage as they approached the site of celebration. Though the modern age had come, and with it the transition from carriages to motor vehicles, the members of House Gran preferred the transportation of old. A warhorse cared for and trained over many years was more reliable than a machine they couldn't trust with their lives.

The reason they had delayed their arrival, however, was unrelated to such matters. Rather, it was the sight of a familiar limousine that made Sorrel pause, watching as the vehicle rolled in front of the where the Millennium Festival was being celebrated, and though the figure was but a speck in the distance, the nobleman couldn't help but feel a hint of nostalgia. The Prince of Veradis had arrived. He waited until the dirty blond hair disappeared in a sea of paparazzi before Sorrel signaled the carriage to continue onward, not wishing to steal the spotlight from his former... friend? Acquaintance. A person he knew through happenstance rather than a connection he forged on his own.

As he approached the building, the reporters beginning to buzz as they noticed the symbol of his house- more likely for his position as a Scion rather than caring about a Rodion noble -the young noble cracked his neck, shook out his limbs, loosening his body in the time it took for the carriage to reach its intended destination and the coachman to move to open the door. Even when expecting it, the inexperienced heir couldn't help but wince at the sudden onslaught of flashing lights, taking a second to allow himself to adjust before taking his first steps down.

With each movement, Sorrel felt his clothes tighten around him, clothed in a red and white suit with tunic that suited a knight more than a noble, draped in a mantle sewn with wolf furs that covered his back and flowed near his boots. An attire that wouldn't look out of place in Rodion, but was a step too casual for an event such as this. Yet, the noble heir wore it anyway, even with the few places that would be visibly re-sewn if one looked closely enough.

It was the garb of a Rodion Lord, one that was worn both during formal events and war, a garment that radiated the pride of a noble as they stood ready for a duel. It was the clothes of Severnyy Gran, his father, and they clung to his body with every step. Perhaps it was merely because he stood an inch taller than the former lord, lacking space as it was hastily repaired for the occasion. Surely, it was merely his nerves, standing before people not as a young master to be pampered but a lord to be respected. Clearly, the slickness he felt was the sweat from stress, and the warmth that came with it was not the memory of blood staining the body that once wore this garb.

"Your Holiness! What are your thoughts as the newly accepted Scion of Storms? Could you-"

"-hat are your plans as Gran's new Lord? Have you any comment on-"

-is timing your arrival after His Highness a political move? What is your stance concerning-"

'With your ill-gotten positions, granted by no effort of your own, how shall you be found wanting this time?'

Ignoring the questions asked not only by the reporters, but by his own subconscious, Sorrel Gran continued up the steps with his eyes affixed forward. He had not been allowed to bring any of his men, who would've assuredly chased off the buzzing happening outside the walls of the celebration, and the lack of a familiar presence made his steps feel all the heavier. The blade he had left that morning was strapped to his side beneath his mantle, its weight and lineage near unbearable for the boy-turned-adult, yet he allowed none of his weaknesses to be revealed in his gait, nor his face.

And as he entered the hall, just in time to see the back of Prince Noah headed further in, Sorrel couldn't help but wonder what his peer thought of him, who now stood where their mutual friend would have if Theodore were still alive?

[webboysurf]

---

Small waves lap up against leather boots, and soaked clothes hang on the man like weights. His collar feels more constricting than usual, gripping his throat like a noose. The water is frigid, chilling into his very bones. The river is murky, and as the man takes his first step into it, it feels more resistant to his advance. He doesn't feel wet. He sees, on the other side of the river, a boat slightly run aground the shallow shore. He sees men in armor approaching the boat, rifles in hand. He takes another step, and he feels something grabbing his leg. The water is too opaque to see anything. The man resists the pull, and tries to take another step. Another hand grips his other leg, and begins to pull him down. More grasping fingers clutch his wrists, his arms, his coat. The man watches in horror as the armored men board the boat. He sees others behind him on the shore, all faceless and wearing the standard Templar armor. Just before he is pulled beneath the waves, he hears a gunshot.

Edmund awoke with a start, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim streams of light that filtered in through the dark curtains of his room. His left hand had quickly found the handle of his revolver on his nightstand, instinct taking hold as his elevated heart rate struggled to stabilize. After a few labored breaths, he set the firearm back down and swung himself into a sitting position at the edge of the bed.

He looked briefly at the guitar resting in its stand only a few feet away, gently reaching out towards it. He lifted it into his lap, testing the strings before plucking out a few slow chords. He hummed a tune under his breath as he strummed quietly in his chamber. ‘Rest heals the body, music heals the soul,’ some noted review of an operetta of Augustus Morello mused several centuries ago. The simple notes Edmund strummed were far from ordained art, but they helped steady his spirit nonetheless. When he was finished, he set the instrument back in its place.

The morning was otherwise regimented. A brief jog where Edmund could monitor the grounds, a morning check in with Maya’s security detail, and another day spent in his ward’s shadow with a perpetual stoney expression he wore as part of his uniform. For all her faults, the Scion of Water had a knack for business and dealings. He remained nearby as she answered emails and went about shilling lavish products. He almost felt relieved by the time he climbed after her into the limousine.

The relaxation was short-lived. Camera flashes, loud shouts and cheers… public spectacles always put the Templar on edge. He had already opted to channel the armor with its helmet on, opting to avoid Maya’s teasing over some misconstrued expression he always flashed when dealing with the paparazzi. He stood within an arm’s length of Maya as she walked the runway, hands delicately grasped behind his back. It was important to avoid appearing too aggressive at functions like these, lest he receive another lecture from Elijah. He nodded thoughtfully at Maya’s prepared answer. If it came from a more devout scion, Edmund might have almost believed her. When she slowed down next to him, he already had a sneaking suspicion of what it was she wanted.

“Hang back and get a good shot of me going through the doors,” she whispered, tapping his forearm. “It’ll be perfect to close off my Year in Review.”

Edmund took Maya’s phone, letting out a soft breath and tapping the crystal at the core of the chestplate. The helmet retracted, revealing carefully combed hair and less stubble than usual. He unlocked the phone, assuming the position as he knelt down to get a proper angle. He adjusted the camera settings, accounting for the lighting and color balance, until he was satisfied with the preview. He snapped a few pictures, changing the angle and position of the phone ever so slightly to provide options. Years of martial training culminated in a career as Maya’s amateur photographer. The goddess loved to test his patience.

He rose back to his feet and quickly followed his Scion into the Cathedral, offering her phone back as the helmet was summoned to hide a small smile.

[Obscene Symphony]

---

“Sir Jannick?”

Jannick jumped, his head whipping around at his surroundings before his brain had the chance to catch up. It was dark, there was snow on the ground, there was—

“Ah!” he hissed suddenly, his hand jumping back from the cigarette butt that had burned down low enough to singe his fingers. It fizzled out in the snow at his feet, accompanied by a comedically long column of ashes.

“...Sir?”

Jannick whipped around again, this time to look behind him, where a generously patient-looking Veradis Royal Guardsman stood by the servants’ door back into the palace. He was holding a manila folder, and looking concerned.

“Oh, sorry,” Jannick mumbled, shaking his head and blinking at the newcomer. He sniffed hard, coming to notice how cold he was. “What’s up?”

The Guardsman looked less than impressed, but was clearly more professional than Jannick was, and said nothing about it. “I have the reports you asked for.”

“Reports?”

“Yes, the ones you requested last night.”

Jannick blinked at the Guardsman, a little slower on the uptake than normal.

“For the security state at the Cathedra Incepta and Duke Giles’ manor.”

“Oh!” Jannick exclaimed, standing up. “Great, thank you, yeah, give ‘em here.”

The Guardsman looked a little skeptical, but he handed over the folder. “Are you alright, Sir?”

“Yes, totally,” Jannick cleared his throat. “Why?”

“Well, you’re sleeping in the snow, Sir.”

Jannick looked between the Guardsman and the spot where he’d been sitting. It was a snow-covered stone bench in the small courtyard neighbouring the Palace Barracks - and no wonder he was so cold, he’d melted an elegant ass-print right into the snow. Funny, he didn’t even remember sitting down.

“All good,” Jannick waved off the Guardsman’s concerns. “Just taking a little smoke break, that’s all,” he insisted.

The Guardsman raised an eyebrow. “At six A.M.?”

Jannick’s leveled the Guardsman with a flat look, his cordiality dissolving. “Is there anything else?”

“No Sir,” the Guardsman seemed to get the hint. “See you at the briefing, Sir.”

“Right,” Jannick muttered.

“The… security briefing. For tonight’s events. Sir.”

“Right.” Jannick nodded. He couldn’t tell if the Guardsman was being snarky or sincerely trying to help, but it was a good thing either way, since he somehow forgot having scheduled a briefing, and now had to prepare one. “See you then.”

---

This was one of those days that Jannick had to wonder if the Goddess thought She was funny.

He assumed she did, anyway. He imagined her yuk-ing it up on high as she watched Jannick fall all over himself trying to fulfill the duties not just of a Templar, but of the head of the Veradis Royal Guard. He wasn’t cut out for leadership at the best of times, and he had to admire the patience of his new subordinates for putting up with all his many missteps, but the Milennium Festival turned what was normally tough enough for him into a real slapstick comedy of errors.

He managed to limp through the security briefing with two hours of preparation, but the rest of the day had people coming to him with questions he rarely knew the answers to. The Royal Guardsmen he could muddle through, but then the limo driver had questions about the alternative bug-out route and the housekeepers had questions about departure times and when the cook finally sent an errand boy to ask about Duke Giles’ caterers, all Jannick could do was shrug.

Bodyguard, he could handle. But he really didn’t sign up for a management position.

Jannick was feeling a newfound respect for his mother's management of their family of eight when he finally showed Prince Noah into the limo, and he was happy for the chance for a brief rest. But the scenic drive through gridlock traffic quickly turned from a welcome reprieve from a hectic day to a white-knuckled exercise in self-control as he resisted the urge to roll down the window and have a cigarette. But, bravely and nobly resist he did — he learned his lesson on that the first time.

When the limo finally pulled to a stop, Jannick was the first one out. True, he couldn’t smoke on the red carpet or in the Cathedral, but strangely, the sight of the crowds and the cameras were their own relief. Originally, the publicity of being a Templar (and Templar to the hereditary Prince of Veradis, no less) had been a nightmare; Jannick had never much liked the spotlight, and now he lived within one every day. But over the past year he had come to realize that the position of Templar had its own sort of subtlety to it. The cameras were always on, sure, but they were never pointed at him. They were pointed at Noah, Scion of Light and future Prince of Veradis. This was actually the first time all day where nobody had any questions for him, and Jannick was glad for it.

Jannick opened Prince Noah’s door for him and shadowed him down the red carpet. He saw the reporter who approached, but Jannick’s eyes were on the crowd. In the first familiar-feeling moment of the day, he scanned the crowd like he had countless times before, looking for anyone who seemed suspicious. He searched for anyone obscuring their faces, who had their backs turned, who held anything suspiciously large… and fortunately, came up empty. The crowd was full of the awed and delighted faces of excited Veradians, cheering and waving festive signs and holding up babies in hopes of a blessing. Everything looked as it should, and Jannick found he could breathe a little easier.

Of course, he knew he needn’t worry. Sticking out above the crowd were several white-clad Church Knights, delicately picking their shining white horses through the throngs of people and keeping a watchful eye out for all the red flags Jannick was also trained to spot. Additionally, over at the smaller side entrance to the Cathedral, none other than the JPD was running a security checkpoint, checking every parishioner for weapons and contraband, ensuring nothing risky passed into the church.

Jannick stared at the checkpoint for a moment, melancholically remembering how sought-after those gigs were and how juicy the overtime must have been when he noticed two of the officers on bag-checking duty pointing at him. Squinting, Jannick recognized them as Fink and Hofmann, two officers from his former precinct that he’d served with for a number of years. They were hooting and waving and nudging some other officers in the checkpoint; one of them gave Jannick a thumbs-up, and the other pulled out his phone and took a picture.

Jannick offered a nod and a ghost of a smile, but pulled his eyes forward once again. He felt like a balloon with all the air let out. His old police buddies were all so excited when they learned about his “promotion,” and they’d been the first to congratulate him after his Blessing. He should have been happy to see them, but he just couldn’t shake how badly he just wished he was over there checking bags with them.

Mercifully, they were past the reporter and approaching the Cathedral quickly enough. Once Noah was past the threshold, however, Jannick glanced back to see a stagecoach pull up to the carpet, and a boldly-dressed man step out. The new Scion of Storms, Jannick recognized from the Blessing ceremony just a few days prior. Notably arriving after the Hereditary Prince of Veradis.

Uh-oh, he thought. Noah wouldn’t like that.

---

[Asura]

ALASDAIR

---

“Coming to you live from Juniperus, we’re here to witness the entrance of the Goddess’ esteemed children. This evening marks the one thousand year old celebration of Her chosen–her Scions. Accompanied by their Templars, they are the last to appear, and once they’re in, the sermon will be given by Father Bachmeier. Stay tuned for an exclusive first look!”

The crackling of the television, old and well-loved like much else in the establishment, served an adequate accompaniment to Alasdair’s evening. How many of these ceremonies had he lived through? Too many, perhaps. There was pomp and ceremony every time a Goddess made her choice and left her mark on another soul, a raucous event to be streamed across every country on the continent for Her adoring public. A new champion to pick up the torch and continue leading them through the dark.

Would that they acknowledged such an event for what it was. For a new torch to light their way, another had to have flickered out and gone dark. It had not been so long ago that it was his light that guttered out, reduced to nothing more than smoldering embers and melancholy.

Perhaps that was why he spent the majority of the day crawling Juniperus for what the enclave’s pious population considered bars. There was an instinct in him, the sort that old soldiers carried with them, that told him to stay close to his Scion. These ceremonies, ‘essential’ as they were for the morale of the population, were more than just droll wastes of an evening. They were dangerous. Gathering up all of the Goddess’ chosen, their bodyguards, and the leadership of the Church and nearby Kingdoms in a single location was practically begging for some Kaudian fanatics to fall upon the cathedral in an attempt to decapitate the snake in one glorious, martyred swoop.

Most would probably dismiss such concerns as pessimistic paranoia. The Templars were a proud sort, he knew, for he too spent many a year as a man wicked in his pride. It was easy to feel invincible, clad in the best armor tithes could buy, the Goddess’ favor at your back, fattened on the power you siphoned from Her chosen and wielded in Her name. But where had that pride gotten him? Nowhere. It had blinded him—quite literally, in at least one way—to the real dangers of the world. If he hadn’t been so consumed by that invincibility, that arrogance, perhaps he would have been able to stop the tragedy that cost the Church one of its precious lights.

Maybe he could have saved her.

The sharp, herbal bite of the local’s favored elixir hit his taste buds and flooded his mouth with chill before he could linger on the thought for too long. It was a queer brew, one that tasted more like downing a mouthful of mouthwash than consuming anything worthwhile, but it served well enough. He could feel his cheeks warming and his mind fogging just enough to get through the night with each glass he put back. Other Templars had likely spent the day casing the venue, setting up perimeters, drilling for potentialities beyond their reckoning, or practicing their positions in the ceremony, depending on their temperament and general experience level. For him? This was good enough. Whatever the night held for them, whatever foolishness that followed this show of pageantry, he didn’t need to prevent an easily spotted calamity. The other Scions had their own keepers; he only needed to save one girl.

For however long that could last, given the circumstances.

The bartender filled the crystalware in his hand with dutiful familiarity, and Alasdair grunted his thanks, his good eye drifting towards the flickering screen as the cameras took in each arrival with splendor, soulless entertainers swarming around them like so many crows on carrion. Not much of it interested him, truthfully. He knew most of the cast on this star-studded carpet better than any half-assed interviewer was liable to, for better or for worse. It was only when the one he was meant to know best manifested that he straightened a fraction.

“You seem to wear the same outfits every time you meet the public. Is this a style you’re bringing into the mainstream? Are you giving your support to a particular designer?”

“It’s from a butcher’s supply store in Ornell. Hard to stain, easy to clean—it’s very convenient.”

A grumble in the back of his throat was all he could manage as he watched his charge make her grand entrance onto the stage with all the tact he had come to expect of her. The charisma, or lack thereof, wasn’t his concern, of course. Rather, she had already managed to reach the cathedral. That meant his evening festivities were coming to a close. Steeling himself against the almost sickeningly sweet kiss of menthol-infused liquor, Alasdair threw back his entire glass with all the stoutness expected of an Estoran Highlander and placed the glass down on the counter with a distinctive clink. The bartender reached for another pour, but a short shake of the head communicated that would be it for the night. Rising from his stool, the veteran Templar reached into his duster and produced a money clip of the local flavor. A generous wad ended up pressed into the surface of the bar as Alasdair swept up from his seat and made for the door, where his hat had hung for much of the evening.

“Wünsch mir Glück, lads.”

_

The heat in his cheeks seemed to be the only source to be found as Alasdair traversed this realm, both so foreign and familiar to him.

Putting the experience into words had evaded even his verbosity for years. Perspectives danced through his field of vision like so many ghostly projections upon a theater wall. He shifted this way and that, flattening across narrow, twisting cobblestone corridors, rising high in the wake of ornate street lights, dancing between the legs of giggling school girls and weary businessmen alike. He whirled through sights and sounds like a fish through ethereal water, an expert in this ephemeral realm of darkness. It felt like a lifetime ago when he had first felt its chill and known its disorienting swirl. His inebriation now paled in comparison to then. He had gotten sick shortly after emerging for the first time: she had laughed at that. Less so when it ended up on her shoes, of course, but he could still hear the high, musical giggle in his ears like the most nostalgic sort of tinnitus, here in the space between shadows. A stranger thing his heart had never yearned for, that magical moment. Would that he brought more Schnaps for the road.

Banal scenes of urban life quickly shifted to bright snaps of camera lenses and the glitter of jewels and fine silk, each sparkle sending his shifting world turbulent. He was close enough, he knew. He could practically feel her presence—a presence whose puissance allowed him to exist here at all—as it grew near. He could practically smell it, in fact. It was only when he was all but at his destination that he realized the reason for that.

_

A gasp was among the first sounds to reach Alasdair’s ears as he entered the world of the living once more. And then the raucous clammering and paparazzi and the blitz of cameras fell upon him like a wave. He couldn’t blame them for it, much as he liked to. It was not everyday the media was privy to Her miracles made reality. Were he a Templar of Fire or Light, perhaps he might have darkened even the sunset with his appearance. But the Shadows worked in more subtle ways.

For as subtle as his impossibly tall Estoran ass rising from the very shadow of his Scion like the reaper made flesh could be.

The abrupt nature of his arrival was what likely shocked them the most. Like a wraith, he manifested from the thinning wisp of darkness beneath Penne’s feet, filling the space there in the span of a heartbeat, as if he had simply stepped out of nowhere. In many ways, he had, of course, but the layman need not understand how that worked. They need only know that the guardian of Her Chosen of Shadows could be anywhere at any time he wished, wrapped in a raiment of holy darkness and ready to punish their most wicked sins. That was message enough for their highlight reels and gossip rags, for however true it was or was not.

Reaper-like though he was, as Alasdair looked down upon the diminutive figure of his charge, he did not wield a grand scythe with which to reap. Instead, in his gloved hand, he held the half-eaten remains of a sandwich, small bites working their way up half its length before its inglorious discarding. With all the severity of the reaper he was not, he brought the offending sandwich down in a sudden arc, just enough to smack Penne atop the head with it.

“You left this behind,” He murmured, half-scolding and half-weary, “And I told you to mind the pepperoncini. You’ll give yourself a stomachache.”

---

[Scribe of Thoth]

---

Theodore was laughing at him, somewhere.

The past week hadn't been nearly the nightmare Tyler had thought it would be. By all means, stepping into a sudden and bloody succession should've been an utter mess to handle, to say nothing of the emotional turmoil Fyodor had thrust upon him by forcing him back into the line of duty under Theo's replacement. Fortunately, the line of Gran ran a tight ship, and the civilized times had not led the Rodions to forget that they were no strangers to violent usurpation. A security team was already in place and any changes Tyler had to make were easily slotted into the existing chaos of the new lord's restructuring. It wasn't quite an Estoran ducal guard yet, but they were about as close as he could ask for.

As for the rest, Tyler had found a kindred spirit in Sorrel, for better or for worse. Namely, they were content to leave each other to drown in their respective regrets until it all boiled over one of these days. Sorrel was of a martial mind, a far cry from Theo, but Tyler found it welcome. The last time he'd walked into the Cathedra Incepta, his heart was heavy with the stain of dishonor. As he knelt, he felt only resentment for the blessing seared into his unworthy back, but when he rose again, the heavenly lightning in his veins cried out for retribution that service to a peacemaker would never satisfy.

Which is why, Tyler assumed, that the Goddess noted his temporary reprieve from misery and foisted upon him something suitably penitential. Like having to return to the Cathedra for the second time this month in a fucking horse-drawn carriage. The very first Scion of Storms probably had a nicer ride than this, and that was a millennium ago.

Quite frankly, it was a security risk - not to mention a waste of time - and Tyler would be overhauling Sorrel's archaic taste in transportation the moment they arrived back in Gaia's frozen asshole, since renamed the Rodion Dominion. It was also downright embarrassing, and worse, slow enough that it had apparently arrived after the princely limousine, which he deduced from the license plate number ahead of them consisting of only a single digit. That little prick thought he was the guest of honor even when he wasn't, and here Sorrel was accidentally snubbing him in his own country.

Tyler wasn't given much time to dwell on it, as the carriage slowed to a halt - hopefully because they'd arrived and not because one of the engines had to take a shit - and Tyler stepped out to accompany his charge inside. Sorrel managed the paparazzi with all the barbarity his wolfskin cloak suggested, and Tyler took the behavior in stride, coming up to quickly wave the reporters off as he followed in his Scion's wake.

"His Holiness is not taking questions at this time," Tyler announced as he veered away from Sorrel to outright place his hand over the lens of one of the nearer cameras. If they were going to talk about him online, he might as well steer the narrative. Once the vultures had seemingly gotten the hint, Tyler fell back into step behind Sorrel, just in time to enter through the main doors as a pair. Couldn't have Fyodor lecturing him for straying from his charge this early in the night.

---

[WXer]

---

To greet the day, one must scour the night. To the royal household staff, the tired facade of one Sir Gaius was not an uncommon sight. Too much time spent with his nose buried in musty tomes and ancient scrolls, they would say. After all, he was a chronicle archivist for the Ordo Templi - a relatively comfortable posting for a royal princess’s ceremonial guardsman.

If only this were true, Guy lamented.

In reality, the man known in the gutters as the Swamp Rat of Somberflaque had spent the last few nights canvassing the movers and shakers of the underground. He had been taking account of every radical element that could disrupt the day’s ceremonies: from would-be anarchists looking to upend society, down to the petty streetwise thugs looking to pickpocket fat nobles. This would have been an average evening at the proverbial office for Guy, but he had been restricted by the fact that he could only use the carrot this time. Too many unexplained disappearances would be bad optics for the Millennium Festival.

And so, a small fortune had been paid to a few unscrupulous folks straight from Guy’s own pockets. Perhaps he would find the time to track them down once the festivities ended, but for today, his mind had to focus on playing his part as the Templar of Earth. Luckily, all he had to do was smile and nod; Lady Joanna had practically assumed direct control of Princess Belle’s preparations. The ladies-in-waiting could have gone easier on the blush, though Guy kept his opinion to himself lest he added undue pressure to the princess. He remained silent even during the shared ride to their destination, knowing when his charge would rather be lost in her thoughts than pretend to enjoy small talk.

Once they arrived at the Cathedra Incepta of Juniperus, Guy was the first out of the vehicle. It was perfect: no local yahoos or unsightly street urchins were in sight at the front of the crowd. The smell of flowers and expensive perfume replacing the musk of the slums; a scent of home for a homme décent as it were. He would have to remember to commend those criminals before he arrested them on vague charges later on. Before he could get lost in the moment, however, duty called.

He helped Princess Belle out of the car, but to say he had prepared for all scenarios would be a lie. Even he was caught off-guard by the princess’s curt reply to the reporter. Did he even need to do something here? As he watched the reporter’s jaw drop, Guy realized that while he had spent the night scouring the streets of physical threats, the princess was more than capable of scouring the social ones herself.

[Hero]

The flashing lights chased after the Scions, though once the last arrived, the doors once again were shut. Scions and Templars were temporarily led to a side room while the masses gathered into the cathedral. Commander Fyodor awaited the group within, though his only acknowledgment was a nod. After a few minutes, he walked to the double doors. Within ten seconds, they opened, revealing a pair of church knights accompanying a tall, white haired woman. Every Templar present would immediately recognize her as Dame Irina Albakova, one of the senior Templars in charge of training inexperienced recruits. She held a small, open box housing ten crystals, each one colored in accordance to their element.

“Good evening Holy Ones, esteemed Templars,” she greeted the gathered audience in a palpable Rodian accent, offering a reverent dip of the head. “I thank you for your patience. The Brothers and Sisters of the Cathedra Incepta have blessed your armor crystals; Templars, please form a line to receive them. They will be worn on the chest as we proceed into the main chapel.” Although she spoke with great deference, the commanding presence of her voice left no room for discussion, a familiar sound to those who trained under her.

As each Templar took their crystal, Irina gave them a nod and a blessing: “May the Mother be your buckler and spear.”

Once each Templar had retrieved their crystal and donned it, Irina addressed the assembly again. “Holy Ones, you will proceed into the main chapel in a line; Templars, you will each follow immediately behind your charge. Please line up now.” She took up her position and gestured behind her, ensuring there was no confusion. “Once ready, I will lead you in, and Commander Fyodor will take up the rear. Thank you.”

The Scions were lead through a path that took them from their previous chamber back to the entrance without going through the main hall. They stopped in front of a pair of double doors that lead into the main chapel. Once everyone had arrived, Commander Fyodor walked to the doors, turning back to address the Templars. “Arm yourselves,” He ordered.

After one minute, the double doors opened, and Fyodor walked in with the group following behind. The people stood and turned to look at the group walking down the aisle in quiet awe. The few permitted cameras followed them eagerly, and a few whispers followed suit. A closer look at the audience showed that those in attendance were those from high places, an assortment of dukes and wealthy folks who had connections. In front sat several of the Estoran Federation’s leaders, surrounded by an assortment of security.

The first the group would see was President Bruno Esposito, whose clothes were much more modest in comparison to the other leaders, but his smile was warmer as he gave the group a modest bow. After him was Prime Minister Pierre Dumont, a lanky, older gentleman who needed to be prodded to pay attention, though he bowed all the same. Tsar Aleksander Kresnik was next, and he was much like Fyodor in that he was much more imposing and gruffer than others. He gave the group a shallow bow, but it seemed more out of difficulty moving as opposed to disrespect. Queen Merecedes Callidora would be the next leader, looking particularly young for her age, but keen eyes would spot her age lines just starting to form. She gave the group a curtsy, a dazzling smile following as she raised her head.

High King Nathaniel stood in all his arguable splendor, with his son and pregnant daughter-in-law, Lucas Estora and Erica Bachmeier, on either side of him. At Erica's side was her and Noah's younger sister, Rosemary, who seemed to have little decorum as she eagerly waved at the Scions, eyes bright. The group bowed their heads in unison.

Prince Rowan stood close tall, watching his son with the utmost pride, though his gaze seemed a touch weary. He dipped his head in respect as well.

Commander Fyodor led the Scions up onto the grand dais and took his spot next to Elijah. Once the Scions were lined up, the bishop of the church approached the podium, beckoning for the crowd to sit. The bishop resembled Prince Rowan greatly, complete with matching brown hair and blue eyes that shone as he looked towards everyone.

“Good evening, my brothers and sisters,” He spoke. “On this auspicious day we gather to celebrate a momentous occasion–the millennial anniversary of the divine blessing bestowed on us by the gracious goddess Incepta. When William Bachmeier gave out his prayer, Incepta answered, and we were given the holy Scions to carry out Her will. Today’s ceremony will be heralded by High Cardinal Margaret. Please give her a warm welcome!”

The audience broke into applause as the high cardinal took to the dais, now dressed in holy garments passed down through generations of cardinals. She placed her hand on the bishop’s shoulder as he walked past her and down towards the front seats, where a multitude of church mages stood carrying what looked like bowls of glowing water.

Margaret herself approached the podium. “Thank you, Brother Bachmeier, and to all for a warm welcome. It is with hearts full of gratitude and reverence that we come together today to reflect upon a thousand years of Her benevolence,” Margaret stated, unfettered by her audience or the cameras all pointed in her direction as everyone waited on her every word. “I would like to take this opportunity to formally introduce our newest Scion–blessed is he with the power of Storm, arbiter of the future who inherits the Sight like those before him. Our Goddess has determined that the best candidate for this position is His Holiness Sorrel Gran.”

There was a round of polite applause, but people immediately broke into murmurs.

“In the celestial dance of time, more than a thousand years ago, our beloved Mother once walked the world with us. When she departed, she asked us not to feel sorrow, for she would always walk with us,” Margaret continued, the crowd silencing itself to listen. “We see this every day in our Scions, the living proof of Incepta’s blessings. In the tapestry of history, the Scions of the past were like a radiant dawn and brought light into the darkest corners. As we stand on the shoulders of a thousand years, let us remember the genesis of these sacred blessings and the power they have had on our lives.”

The water began to glow at the end of her words as the mages channeled mana into them. She lifted her arm, revealing a bejeweled bangle, and the mana followed suit. Closing her hand, the mana dispersed, giving the air a glittering effect.

“With our hearts open wide, let us offer our deepest gratitude to Incepta, and may our actions reflect the abundance of her love. Let our hearts be filled with joy, that we may see another millennium be graced with even greater wonders, and may we continue to walk in the light of her blessings evermore.”

---

The rest of the ceremony went off without a hitch, and the congregation scattered once it was over. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, the sky slowly glittering with the twinkling of stars as everyone left the Cathedral Incepta. The Scions and Templars temporarily went their separate ways but gathered once again at the Gile Manor. Said manor stood on a hill, its ivy-covered walls and towering spires giving it an air of timeless elegance. The cobblestone path leading up to the entrance was lit through mana-powered lanterns and a light dusting of snow adorned the manicured gardens.

Within the main ballroom were high vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers, a massive fireplace roaring with fire gave the room warmth. The walls were draped in rich fabrics colored burgundy and gold. In one corner sat an ensemble of musicians gently playing music to accompany the chatter littering the air.

Duke Boetius Gile was more than ecstatic to host the New Year’s Eve celebration and played his part well, greeting everyone that came through the doors with much enthusiasm. The majority of servants were dressed in black, walking around and offering drinks and food to the guests. Anything that was asked for was given, with a set of tables showcasing a variety of dishes and sparkling champagne flutes for those who wanted to get things themselves. A majority of Gaia’s royalty and nobility was in attendance, wearing resplendent gowns and tailored suits, mingling with one another and exchanging pleasantries as well as their thoughts on the ceremony. The one thing on most people's mind was the new Scion of Storm, and many comparisons to his predecessor were being made.

"Theodore was a kind soul, bless him, but I don't know much about Gran' charitable work."

"From a gentle man to a Rodion brute. That makes two Rodion Scions, doesn't it?"

"Strange times will be ahead, but only She knows why he was chosen."

"I'm more interested in why a Kaudus brute is in attendance."

Belle herself paid little mind to the whispers. That was all they were, albeit her experience with Sorrel was limited to the memories she had from years ago. What occupied her more was the headache that refused to leave. By the time they got to the manor, she looked paler than she did at the church. She took a champagne flute offered to her but didn't drink, holding it loftily as she watched the host speak to a redheaded man.

"The Duke is currently speaking to Valentino Bachmeier," She said, frowning. "And that other man...he must be the emissary of peace from Kaudus. Andres Colton, I believe."

Colton seemed interested in the conversation between the older men, though his eyes did seem to wander. Like many, he seemed to admire the Scions and their Templars, though returned to the conversation when he was addressed.

[Mcmolly]

---

“Don't believe in ketchup,” Penne offered, apropos to nothing, as she and Alasdair made their way to the table of food. She’d spotted a bottle of the disdainful stuff among the accoutrements, and as was often the way, found herself incapable of withholding comment. “Tomatoes and corn syrup? Total hoax. Not a condiment. Not a sauce. Candy. Criminal candy.”

Thankfully there were other, more worthy offerings on display. Rodian stew, Doumercine filets, Lorenzian pasta—prepared by a Lorenzian, or at the very least someone who had learned to make pasta in Lorenzia. She filled a tiny porcelain bowl with some ricotta ravioli, a modest ladle of an aromatic brown butter sauce, and topped it with a few Rosarian meatballs.

There was a bar as well, open of course, and she ordered herself a glass of red. Part of her yearned for something a bit stronger; despite her diminished state, she still had the tolerance to make a Rodian vanguard blush. But there were social expectations here, as her father had so keenly explained, and while she was certain she had handled the paparazzi flawlessly, she couldn’t afford to be stumbling over herself in front of, more or less, every important person in Estora.

Oh well. The liquor wouldn’t go to waste under Alasdair’s watch anyway. The man’s own resilience put hers well to shame. Having a Templar who wore his vices on his sleeve ought to have caused her some degree of discomfort. Not so. Penne liked knowing things, especially things about people she spent lots of time around. And even inebriated she was more confident in his capabilities than the rest of the gathered muscle. She would take drunken experience over novice vivre any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Still, she hoped he would eat something. Some protein. Some carbs. He looked a bit gaunt.

“I had a cousin who carried a dried, preserved goldfish in his pocket everywhere he went,” she went on, popping a meatball into her mouth. “Called it his business partner. Took it out in meetings and talked to it. Listened to it. One time this Estoran diner served him pasta with ketchup. Just ketchup. Not even a shaker of parmesan. He marched right into the kitchen and made the cook drink the whole bottle. Man spoke to dead fish, still knew ketchup was wrong.”

She nodded to herself, content with the sageness of her fable. Her father had always blamed Estorans for ketchup, though she didn’t know herself whether or not they’d invented it. Seemed a fitting assumption for a country so averse to seasoning.

“He’s dead now—horse kicked him in the head at the derby. The cousin, not the cook.”

[Obscene Symphony]

---

The ceremony in the Cathedra went off without a hitch, with Maya of course playing along to perfection. Marching up to the dais with her eyes fixed reverently on The Mother and listening to the sermon with rapt attention, she was the very picture of graceful contemplation - no one would guess that before the Larme Incident, she had never been the churchgoing type. And it wasn’t exactly an act, per se. She was certainly no apostate, and in her position she’d be an idiot to be an atheist; moreover, she gladly blessed hospitals and when people asked her for prayers, she really did make them. But the whole thing didn’t exactly move her to tears on the inside, and she wasn’t spending her free time reading theology books - no matter how many times Edmund tried to recommend them.

But nobody in the pews knew that. Maya played her part as the Scion of Water flawlessly, as always, and if some of her followers were moved in the spirit (or whatever the phrase was), then power to them. For her part, though, Maya was much more excited to smile at the cameras on the way out and check social media in the limo after it was all wrapped up.

“Freakshow…” she muttered in a sing-song voice as they drove to Duke Giles’ manor, her glossy blue-black nails clicking on the screen.

She was initially upset, but now Maya was almost glad she’d arrived at the Cathedra early. If social media could be believed, it looked like the red carpet turned into a veritable circus after she left it. Instagram was teeming with clips of the Templar of Shadow showing up out of the ground like a cartoon villain; meanwhile, the Prince of Veradis was dressed like a Yu-Gi-Oh character and the new Scion of Storms had apparently come straight over from an important meeting in the 8th century. While it was true that no press was bad press, Maya wasn’t too upset about getting a little separation from all… that. Honestly, where did The Mother find these people? Would it kill them to just be normal?

In better news, it was good for a laugh to see Princess Belle smile sweetly and admit that she lost out on that commercial deal. Maya really had no idea what she originally did to get under Her Highness’ skin, but it was just so easy to rile her up that she really couldn’t resist. She’d have to make sure she found Her (Second)Highness at the party and see what she could squeeze out of her.

Maya was in a great mood by the time the limo arrived at Giles’ manor, especially after checking her photo album for the pictures Edmund took. “Oooh, very nice,” she purred, throwing her icy Templar a teasing smile. “Hey, if this Templar thing doesn’t work out, I’ll keep you on as an Instagram photographer.”

She entered the venue on Edmund’s arm - her followers would fall all over themselves for those pictures - but quickly lost track of him as she set about working her magic. A gathering like this was tailor-made for Maya; everyone who was anyone in the Federation was here in all their finery, every one of them champing at the bit to make a good impression on each other. And the Scions, the very chosen of the Goddess Herself, were the ultimate winners. There wasn’t a single powerful person on the continent who didn’t want a Scion in their pocket.

Maya herself really didn’t have much brain for politics. She didn’t much care if this Duke or that Count was entertaining her merely in hopes of gaining support for international matters or prestige. What mattered to her was likes and follows, and pictures with other famous people brought them in droves. Besides, even if she didn’t much care about petty border scuffles or trade route disagreements, she knew plenty about networking and banking favours, and one could never have too many friends.

So Maya floated around the room like a butterfly on the wind, all smiles and charming small talk, touching down just long enough for a chat and a photo before taking off again. It was lucrative, but exhausting, and it wasn’t long before she needed a break.

She considered the buffet table, but it was currently being orbited by Scion Spaghetti or whatever her name was, talking about putting ketchup on fish or some other such nonsense. Maya suspected drugs, but she’d been online long enough to know you could never really tell with some people. She thought about sending Edmund over to fetch her a snack and save her the awkward encounter and started to look for him in the crowd, but she forgot all about food when she caught sight of something much more appealing.

Princess Belle was sitting down, looking pale as she talked with that creepy Templar of hers. Maya followed her gaze to a redheaded man across the room, who might have been handsome were his features not entirely too familiar to Maya as coming from the wrong side of the Larme. She approached in time to hear the Princess name him Andres Colton, of Kaudus.

“Oh Your Highness, I’m sure you don’t have to look that far afield,” Maya commented innocently as she approached, boldly taking a seat at Belle’s table without invitation. The Princess wouldn’t dare snub a fellow Scion, surely. She smiled sweetly. “I’m sure there are plenty of much more suitable matches for you on this side of the Larme.”

---

@webboysurf @Hero

[Lemons]

---

The ceremony at the Cathedral was unremarkable, as far as procedures went. Well, except for the fact that all six of the current Scions were concentrated in one place, but--

And then it was all seven. Axan stared like her eyes were going to pop out of her head. Sorrel Gran. Even if it had somehow been a case of same-name-itis, there was no way she'd forget that mop of bright red hair. After the surprise slackened off, a slow grin crept across her face, defying attempts to be a stoic, stone-faced emissary of the Goddess. What were the odds of that kid showing up again like this? One out of anyone in the world, and it ended up being Sorrel Gran.

Significantly buoyed by the news, she departed the cathedral--this time accompanied by Marque, at his insistence--and stepped into the waiting limousine. Putting her sword aside for the moment, she finally indulged in the long arm stretch that she'd started yearning for about ten minutes into the service, leaning backward to avoid bonking her hands into the limo's ceiling. Ahhhh. Much better. She nudged Marque playfully with her elbow as she brought her arms down and the limo slowed to a halt, grasping the sword again. "Guess it's time I go make nice with li'l Yuli, hmm?"

As she stepped through the grand door of the Giles manor, letting the cold slough away, Axan cracked her neck a few times, grimacing in satisfaction. Despite what she'd said to Marque--she'd get a smile out of him yet!--she had a few different options that she was rather split between at the moment:

First, she could go antagonize her cousin as was the plan. The man was obnoxiously obsessed with duty. If he'd shipped himself down to Juniperus and crammed himself into something that wasn't his military uniform, it was almost certain he wanted something out of her. To come back to Rodion, maybe. But whatever it was he wanted, she wasn't going to make it easy on him. Second, she could hunt down Sorrel! It had been a roundabout a decade since she'd seen him last, and the kiddo from back then seemed to have grown into a fine young man.

But, she reminded herself as she felt the pinch in her stomach, she hadn't actually eaten today, so the first order of business was getting some food in her. She'd just need to be really careful to avoid spilling anything; if she got sauce on her brand-new extremely fancy gown, she was going to just about detonate. She turned her head to Marque beside and a bit behind her, face the picture of serious sincerity. "You have a most important task to attend to, Templar of Fire." Unable to fully hold her straight face, she cracked a grin. "First, get me something to drink at the bar. Anything's fine as long as it's at least 30%, preferably higher. And second," her voice dropped a little lower, more gentle, "go have some fun or something. Eat some good food, have a drink. Relax!" Without waiting for him to respond--almost certainly to refuse his second task--she made her way carefully to the buffet table, keeping an eye out for either of her two targets as she went and not finding them, perhaps because of the crowd.

She was met instead by someone entirely unexpected beside her at the table: the new Shadow Scion Penne and her Templar. She gave her a playful bump in the side, picking up an empty plate and starting to load it with sauce-light foods like Rodion caviar and Rosarian sirloin steak, a bit of an endeavor in balance as she held her sword low to her side. "Penne, right? Think I only saw you at your accession ceremony. Axan Technically-Not-A-Real-Surname Sturke, Scion of Fire. If you've got any Scion-related problems give me a call, a'ight?" She turned to face the two and flashed a winning smile. "Good to actually meet'cha!"

_{Interacting with @Raijinslayer, @McMolly, and @Asura}