Post by Bastille on Jun 13, 2021 10:06:16 GMT -8
Linden and Firebringer had been given a sigil to carve onto the frame of a door, opening the way to a stone fortress of vaulted, latticed ceilings. The veins of gold and iron twined into geometric patterns echoing Art Deco of the 1920s and Tunisian mosaics. White torches lit the way in an obvious matter, where it was only possible to get lost if one strayed from the path. The atrium itself had a dizzying ceiling mural that reflected a bird's eye view of Las Vegas, the inlaid pieces glittering and flowing in a live stream of the city's pulse. On the far end, the statue of a figure wreathed in actual flames obscured the face with the strength of the sun, holding a battered spear aloft in a searing challenge.
Sir Bastille, Knight of Borders, gestured for the pair to take a knee under the aura of the effigy. His armour was ugly, and gladiatorial in a hewn reflection of their court's reality; serving to highlight the scars of Arcadia and battle. The skin had the same texture as a man who had been skinned, but the ruby sinew was crystalline, what flesh was left a dead, flaking grey of a cracked shell. Shards of vermillion gem sprouted from his form, baleful eyes ringed in a predator's amber as he unfurled an ornate scroll. The very foundation of the stone creaks under the sheer weight of forces unknown, the walls around them blooming with new cracks. The smell of sulphur and magma breach the veins for a moment, pulsing with fire and forge.
"By the authority of the Guardian At the Gate, I grant you the harvest born of the field of battle—my ear, my knowledge, and my power. Under my oath of vigilance I swear to provide counsel on acts of duty and service, and lifeblood for wounds taken in the name of our Freehold's protection."
Sir Bastille, Knight of Borders, gestured for the pair to take a knee under the aura of the effigy. His armour was ugly, and gladiatorial in a hewn reflection of their court's reality; serving to highlight the scars of Arcadia and battle. The skin had the same texture as a man who had been skinned, but the ruby sinew was crystalline, what flesh was left a dead, flaking grey of a cracked shell. Shards of vermillion gem sprouted from his form, baleful eyes ringed in a predator's amber as he unfurled an ornate scroll. The very foundation of the stone creaks under the sheer weight of forces unknown, the walls around them blooming with new cracks. The smell of sulphur and magma breach the veins for a moment, pulsing with fire and forge.
"By the authority of the Guardian At the Gate, I grant you the harvest born of the field of battle—my ear, my knowledge, and my power. Under my oath of vigilance I swear to provide counsel on acts of duty and service, and lifeblood for wounds taken in the name of our Freehold's protection."
