Post by Krakenbox on Nov 3, 2021 21:36:09 GMT -8
Back in the catacombs, the feast hall has been cleared, opening into a ring around a grated sieve, lined with rust and caked with gore. What lies beyond appears to be a stone gutter, running as a narrow path flanked by a bottomless drop. The low bridge connects with a raised platform alter, with a plain stone wall with a thin slit running down the center. There is no sound emanating from the door, but the atmosphere throbs to an indescribable heartbeat.
Saturday stands at the center of the ringed stairwell of the alter, flanked on a lower step by Icarus and Scorpio. Chunhua and the She-Wolf are nearer to the bridge, forming a star formation.
As the Hunting Parties return, the heads and limbs are tossed into the pit, and the blood of the harvest starts to trickle along the gutter. Solomon's group, comprised mostly of Summer Mantles seem a little shaken. They were tightlipped on details, glancing at the Knight of Scales occasionally but trying to keep good spirits as they laugh and nudge a bloodied Mitchell Carr to toss the contents of the bag. Whatever was inside seems to dissolve to ash and smoke, causing a few to scoff or shrug, unsure what they had dealt with but satisfied with a confirmed kill. The Dancer pauses as one of the flickering swallows that usually appear from his Mantle roosts in one of the beams of the hall, refusing to fade or disappear. Solomon doesn't seem pleased at the omen, either, and Kai is agitated enough to take a shot at it with a crystalline arrow.
King Saturday's hand catches the shot, snapping the light between black claws. Mask tilting toward the bird, He hissed that the Bargain would be met, prompting the rest of the Summers to lower their weapons in mounting confusion. His tone soft, but carrying to whisper from behind the ear.
A light sputters into his hand, which is violently crushed with His giant, clawed fist. A metallic bronze oak leaf rings into existence, flickering from Twilight, and He Crowns Himself while moving away from the Door and reversing the point of the star. "...And?" He prompts the bird. The swallow shivers, obtaining a glow of unearthly splendor as its captivating voice flutters through the hall.
"Good morning, Court of the Dead Valley. I bring tidings from She-of-the-Sanctuary," it sang, evoking a name of power that gripped the heart and evoked a silent joy, "Rejoice! Her Grace will be attending your dreams, as the seeds begin to breach the soil. For Paradise always holds spring in these cold months."
The Fear can be felt among the congregation, paralyzing the attendees. Uriel, now understanding a Herald has called for war, barks that the message has been received, raising her fist before the Dread Lord Papa Saturday's Crown burned with warning. Servant of the Fae or not, the Ogre would never permit one to shoot the messenger. The bird is free to depart, with more than one Freeholder taking a superstitious step away from Carr, though Solomon doesn't budge from his side.
The stone of the Door moves in complete silence, opening to the void, drawing light and breath from the Courts. the Witch of the Bitter Wind emerges from under the basin, completely soaked in scarlet, where the fact that she’s naked is an afterthought. The image blurs as she crosses, the burning incense swaying and twisting around the thurible, revealing the smoking silhouette of her mien beneath. King Saturday inclines his head, ever so slightly as she passes, reality beginning to vibrate as the pale arms begin emerging from the void, reaching towards the Witch. She stops before the grasping hands, raising a ceremonial blade and meticulously chopping the doused hair from her scalp, tossing the red threads to the wind.
The hands are frenzied, clawing at the strands and retreating into oblivion, until a single one remains, blindly pawing at the floor around her feet. A guttural growl emerged from the throat of the She-Wolf, as Icarus' eyes widen with visible concern. Scorpio merely steps closer to King Samedi, hand floating towards her weapon as the mandibles around her jaw twitch. The Witch raised her foot as the void begins to spill across the floor, casting a sharp glance at her sovereign, slowly shaking her head before kneeling and brushing the pale hand. It slaps her touch away, to which she grit her jaw and hurriedly gestured for the King, retreating as the black continued to creep across the entrance. Chunhua barked something at Saturday, showing some emotion with the sharpness of her question. The Ogre knelt before the Door, a guttural prayer of a primal nature shaking the teeth of the Freehold as the Lost feel their breathe leaving their lungs. The sight of the spreading darkness was instinctually terrifying, as something in their Fae-touched spirits cried out in the presence of its antithesis.
Just as the feeling of breathlessness started to suffocate the congregation, the hand grasped at the threads of the Wyrd with greed, tugging something no one could see, but feel, as it finally withdrew and the Door finally closed.
Saturday stands at the center of the ringed stairwell of the alter, flanked on a lower step by Icarus and Scorpio. Chunhua and the She-Wolf are nearer to the bridge, forming a star formation.
As the Hunting Parties return, the heads and limbs are tossed into the pit, and the blood of the harvest starts to trickle along the gutter. Solomon's group, comprised mostly of Summer Mantles seem a little shaken. They were tightlipped on details, glancing at the Knight of Scales occasionally but trying to keep good spirits as they laugh and nudge a bloodied Mitchell Carr to toss the contents of the bag. Whatever was inside seems to dissolve to ash and smoke, causing a few to scoff or shrug, unsure what they had dealt with but satisfied with a confirmed kill. The Dancer pauses as one of the flickering swallows that usually appear from his Mantle roosts in one of the beams of the hall, refusing to fade or disappear. Solomon doesn't seem pleased at the omen, either, and Kai is agitated enough to take a shot at it with a crystalline arrow.
King Saturday's hand catches the shot, snapping the light between black claws. Mask tilting toward the bird, He hissed that the Bargain would be met, prompting the rest of the Summers to lower their weapons in mounting confusion. His tone soft, but carrying to whisper from behind the ear.
I invoke The Ward of Harvest
Hospitality will be respected under this steward of the Crown,
As the Bargain decrees, crossing the threshold of sovereign soil demands an announcement.
To serve gentility, the Title bearer will let itself be known to vassals of the Fall,
If violated, the heart will be torn and feasted upon.
I invoke The Law of Hunger
The Fair Folk of the Hills are a reflection of creation.
To create, they must take from the seed of imagination,
Lurk amongst dreams, to walk in our splendor.
They try to sing and to connect to the soul; they can only sway to our dance.
Thus, our promise,
We give of the dead, a memory of a memory.
Only echoes to consume, and the wonder is starved.
I invoke The Astral Chain
We reject the bonds of the Fair Folk,
Thus the Seasons demand the passing of power,
The cycle continues, and there is chaos in this renewal,
Fall harvests the fruit seeded by the busy hands of Spring, and nurtured by Summer’s vigil.
Those of the Oath are henceforth given the Ivory Key and the Ossein Lantern,
To open the corrupted minds those Feared a threat to our welfare and prosperity,
With righteous purpose, bring the danger to heel,
B̵̛͔̖̹̲̱u̶͙̖̗͎̾ṛ̴̠̮̂ͅn̷̡͉̯̬̭̮̪͒͂̇́͜ ̷̯̘̏̓͜ṫ̵̹͕̠̅̍͑͛̾̈ẖ̵̨̖̥̜̎ȩ̴̠̹͎͉̮̻̍̈́͆̃̋͜͝ ̶̠͉͍͂̈́́̃̾̃͝r̴̪͙͈̭̓̃̄̎͐̂̈́ŏ̸̢̨͎͓̫̃͋̂̅͗t̴͔̔͐̈́̍͗̉, for our minds survive the coming Winter.
A light sputters into his hand, which is violently crushed with His giant, clawed fist. A metallic bronze oak leaf rings into existence, flickering from Twilight, and He Crowns Himself while moving away from the Door and reversing the point of the star. "...And?" He prompts the bird. The swallow shivers, obtaining a glow of unearthly splendor as its captivating voice flutters through the hall.
"Good morning, Court of the Dead Valley. I bring tidings from She-of-the-Sanctuary," it sang, evoking a name of power that gripped the heart and evoked a silent joy, "Rejoice! Her Grace will be attending your dreams, as the seeds begin to breach the soil. For Paradise always holds spring in these cold months."
The Fear can be felt among the congregation, paralyzing the attendees. Uriel, now understanding a Herald has called for war, barks that the message has been received, raising her fist before the Dread Lord Papa Saturday's Crown burned with warning. Servant of the Fae or not, the Ogre would never permit one to shoot the messenger. The bird is free to depart, with more than one Freeholder taking a superstitious step away from Carr, though Solomon doesn't budge from his side.
The stone of the Door moves in complete silence, opening to the void, drawing light and breath from the Courts. the Witch of the Bitter Wind emerges from under the basin, completely soaked in scarlet, where the fact that she’s naked is an afterthought. The image blurs as she crosses, the burning incense swaying and twisting around the thurible, revealing the smoking silhouette of her mien beneath. King Saturday inclines his head, ever so slightly as she passes, reality beginning to vibrate as the pale arms begin emerging from the void, reaching towards the Witch. She stops before the grasping hands, raising a ceremonial blade and meticulously chopping the doused hair from her scalp, tossing the red threads to the wind.
The hands are frenzied, clawing at the strands and retreating into oblivion, until a single one remains, blindly pawing at the floor around her feet. A guttural growl emerged from the throat of the She-Wolf, as Icarus' eyes widen with visible concern. Scorpio merely steps closer to King Samedi, hand floating towards her weapon as the mandibles around her jaw twitch. The Witch raised her foot as the void begins to spill across the floor, casting a sharp glance at her sovereign, slowly shaking her head before kneeling and brushing the pale hand. It slaps her touch away, to which she grit her jaw and hurriedly gestured for the King, retreating as the black continued to creep across the entrance. Chunhua barked something at Saturday, showing some emotion with the sharpness of her question. The Ogre knelt before the Door, a guttural prayer of a primal nature shaking the teeth of the Freehold as the Lost feel their breathe leaving their lungs. The sight of the spreading darkness was instinctually terrifying, as something in their Fae-touched spirits cried out in the presence of its antithesis.
Just as the feeling of breathlessness started to suffocate the congregation, the hand grasped at the threads of the Wyrd with greed, tugging something no one could see, but feel, as it finally withdrew and the Door finally closed.
The Wards have been weakened, allowing Huntsman to cross the Border for a brief time before they are forced to retreat.