Chronicles of The Omniverse Archived Lutetia City: The Monastery

The stranger made an audible sniff, mumbling to herself with a hint of surprise. "Arianne, you gave this poor church-boy insight?" She chuckled grimly, "I didn't take you for such cruelty."

"He annoyed me. Though, I guess it's become convenient as the situation changed. By the way Luciana, do you have a spare copy of Preparatory Practices by Nigel Fane?"

Savien would likely recognize the author. A madman from before the skirmishes, once a mage but he drove himself to death from secluding himself to 'his work' and not eating.

"Ah yes, the poor soul couldn't handle such insight. Should not have scorned Tethys so, he managed useful feats during his madness. You made the right call in recovering his notes," the one called Luciana gestured to a bookshelf, and a tome lazily floated into Savien's good hand.

"Before you rant about heresy, read it. It will help keep the vermin from your mind since your thoughts are only mildly touched. If you're feeling particularly ambitious, the later chapters have a few rituals to weaponize those vermin, even summon a few yourself. Thankfully those are merely images and won't drive the common folk mad. Probably."

"Is Ylva here, by chance? She could mend the Paladin's wounds," Arianne added as she turned away, gesturing Durandet to do the same.

"She's out in Lornaine I believe, she didn't bother saying what was on her mind. Have him see Cecile. She's a sweet girl and quite creative."
 
"Nigel Fane," Savien perked a brow, "what good company I'm in, having this 'insight'." The paladin took the book with clear suspicion and inspected the covers. "I'll give it a look - but I want to be able to combat these horrors, not bend them to my will. I'm a paladin, not a warlock."

At the mention of his injuries, the knight stood a bit straighter - perhaps trying to appear a bit less broken. "My wounds are healing well enough on their own," Savien replied, "your assistance is appreciated, but I'm not sure how much I trust my body to arcane remedies."
 
"If you master his protective teachings, they wouldn't bother you anymore. Fane discovered incantations that the things find unsavory, but they're harmless to others. Even cursory study will at least make them less frequent. Each of the Fabres have given his work a gander, if that convinces you, and it does work," Luciana finished, and Savien could feel her attention shifting elsewhere.

"She can't heal people, she'd likely just give you some gadget to help your recovery. Let's go see her," Arianne ushered the paladin back towards the 'elevator'.
 
Savien was ushered away, flipping through the pages with idle interest. He supposed it still wasn't the most impolite greeting he'd ever received from a witch. Arianne held that honor.

"Are you ever going to give me a shirt?" he asked.
 
"I am a witch, not a tailor," Arianne snorted as the pair were pulled down to a lower level, likely almost ground level. Once the door swung open, a much more youthful and approachable figure hummed to herself and was working on knitting something or other.

"Cecile, you have a guest," Fabre gently shoved the paladin into the room.
 
Savien caught his step and stood straight, offering the new witch a nod. "Good eve--- ah... afternoon..." Light, what time was it in this infernal dimension anyway? For all he knew, it was the dead of night.

"I am Sir Savien Durandet," he said, deciding not to bother with the time at all, "a pleasure. You must be Cecile?"
 
"Oh, hello!" Cecile jumped from her seat and trotted closer to the paladin. "Waitwaitwait, paladin? What is a canhead doing here..." her eyes visibly trailed to the witch flanking Savien, "Are you uh, Miss Arianne's boy toy?"

The elder witch stared daggers at Cecile and cleared her throat. "Ser Durandet here needs his arm to be usable, but it's currently broken. Ylva is unavailable. I assume you can make something of use?"

"Oh, wait, an arm cast? We've got one, remember when Priscilla fell off the ladder and broke her arm? Can't we use that?" Without waiting for a response, she scurried into one of several storage closets and started to rummage around.
 
Savien gave Arianne a look somewhere between amusement and incredulity. He followed Cecile as best he could, keeping a safe distance as she began rummaging through a closet undoubtedly filled with arcane artifacts.

"Is it... common for you to have visitors in the tower?" he asked as she worked. It seemed as if each witch had a particular speciality. Ylva was some sort of healer, evidently. Cecile appeared to be an engineer or tinker. He wondered what Arianne's specialty was.
 
"It's probably been a few decades, was like my first year. I brought a boyfriend in once, but Luciana got really mad and kicked him out. Pretty sure he died in the skirmishes though," Cecile grumbled, but continued without a hitch. "Mmm, oh here it is!" She grabbed what looked like an old-fashioned arm brace, lined with esoteric engravings. "Lemme see your arm. This thing's got a simple spirit bound to it, and it'll help you move. Won't help with your healing, and it'll hurt when you move, but," the young witch shrugged her narrow shoulders, "Better than nothing? Iunno."

"Oh also dont try to take it off without me, the bound spirit will think you're attacking and clamp down on your arm pretty hard. I tested it on a cadaver when I first made it, it can and will take your arm off if you pull really hard to pry it open."
 
A few decades? This girl looked ten years younger than he was, and he was as nearly thirty. She certainly acted like she was somewhere in her early twenties - maybe even eighteen. He wondered if witches matured differently than regular humans, or if their longevity simply allowed them to explore different personalities without the hindrance of age.

Savien at first extended his arm without hesitation. It was only after she began to fit him with the device and explain its side effects that he began to regret hastily offering his limb.

"I'll ah. Keep that in mind." When she finished, Savien tested his arm, maneuvering his limb as if it were holding a sword. It hurt like hell, but at least he had his mobility back.

"Beats a cast," he nodded, "thank you, Cecile. You've been very helpful."
 
"No problem," Cecile chirped as she closed the doors to the storage rooms. "A friend of Arianne's is by contractual obligation a friend of mine," she smirked at her own joke. "Now uh, unless you need anything else.." the young witch made a shooing motion, making Arianne chuckle and lead Savien back into the 'elevator' and out of the tower. She shuffled back to her desk and began scratching away at a piece of printer paper with a pen, but what exactly she was doing was hard to gauge from there.

"She has a hard time focusing if she's not alone," the elder nodded, "The girl must have picked up a new hobby, none of us have asked her to make anything new recently. I would have her run errands, but I'm sure she'd get distracted and wander off."
 
"She's polite," Savien replied, "etiquette forgives many vices - forgetfulness among them." He was still testing his arm. The fingers in his hand curled into a fist and he rotated the limb in a full curcuit.

"What else did you want to show me here?" he asked. "I don't want to be away for too long. The Monastery will wonder what happened to me."
 
"Forgetfulness can be a deadly liability in a profession like hers," Arianne led Savien back out of the tower, "and that is all I wanted you to see. If you are done here, lie down and accept the Dreamer's grasp. It will remove you -foreign matter- from its realm," she gestured to the glassy ground beneath him, the motes of racing light now all gathered around his feet.

Within the softly glowing spheres, the shapes of what looked like ghostly hands began to form.
 
The Monastery Armory​

After they'd sanctified him, Proselyte Stephan Certas would be allowed a few moments to recuperate before the final ceremony. The last couple days had been hell. First had been the fast; for a day and a night, the young student was instructed to kneel before the altar of Selene in the Veres Manies and pray, taking no food, indulging no sleep. Properly shriven, he was then escorted below the Monastery grounds into the armory where he was medically scanned, immunized, strapped into a gurney and locked inside a sanctification chamber. There he experienced the glory of the Pleur... and its agony. For three hours the proselyte would be exposed to incremental doses of holy radiation. Though it left no marks or scars, it was the equivalent of receiving third degree burns - excruciating beyond words.

When it was over, his bare skin glowed with the radiance of a star. The energy which had previously burned him now left only a pleasant, soothing warmth on his body. He was sanctified - immune to the Pleur's energy.

Stephan would be left in a small chamber with a bit of food, water, and a freshly-forged set of monastic plate. It stood in the corner on a rack, the helmet tall and towering, glaring into him. This was it. After he donned the armor he would be taken up to the Council Sanctum where he would be inspected, blessed, and knighted. Twenty years he'd waited - twenty years of relentless training, of rigorous education and grueling field work - all for this moment. The silver awaited him.

A knock at the door. Sir Casten Rillias peeked inside, offering his friend and former classmate a grin. "Still alive in here?" He stepped into the room. "They told me you handled it well. Better than I did, at least." He smirked, running a finger through long locks, red as blood. "I think I started screaming after the first hour and just lost my voice thirty minutes later. Fun times."
 
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Stephan had withstood all the trials the Order presented him with. In the sanctification chamber, he had endured extreme pain, being purified by the Pleur. It was not what he expected becoming a paladin would be like, but it did not shake his determination. He had a purpose here and now he was presented with the fruit of his labors. After 20 years of training, Stephan was finally being given armor of his own, the first mark of his knighthood, and very soon he would be taking the silver. Strapping on the last buckle of his breast plate he turned to face his friend with a joyous and radiant smile.

"This is it, Casten. I'm finally doing it."
 
Casten smiled. “Here. Let me check your seals.” He stepped around his friend and tightened the interconnected metal bindings which protected its wearer from electric charge, inspecting the integrity of the runes etched into his shoulder plates and greaves which warded off realspace shifts, keeping the armor from being teleported.... all this and more, a half-dozen safeguards and technological marvels which made a paladin such a potent threat to a paranormal foe.

“Looks good,” he stepped back, “you’re the image of Saint Lemeux.” He grinned. “...well, maybe not quite as tall. A heroic visage, nonetheless.” He clapped a hand on his friend’s pauldron. “How do you feel?”
 
Stephan chuckled at his friend's comment about his height and smiled.

"Honestly, I feel elated, but also nervous."

Stephan clasped his gloved hands together in an attempt to maintain his composure and confidence.
 
“That’s normal,” Casten nodded, “it all seems so big and important at first. Trust me, after a month of paper work, you’ll be begging to be back in the academy.”

He stepped back, giving his friend a once-over. His friendly grin faded into a look of somber thoughtfulness, brooding and reflective. “I’m glad you’re taking the silver, Stephan. I know I’ve only been out on the field for a year now, but there’s...”

He stopped himself. Casten gave his eyes back to Stephan and offered a small smile. “I guess what I’m saying is that Lutetia needs more paladins like you. Noble. Idealistic. People who believe in what they’re doing out there.”
 
Casten's sudden somberness gave Stephan brief pause, but that was soon swept away by by his words of encouragement.

"Thank you, Casten. I want to do whatever I can to help the order and protect Lutetia."

Stephen took a deep breath and exhaled calmly.

"I suppose it's time to go."
 
As if on cue, two hooded clerics entered the chamber. One of them held Stephan’s sword, the blade resting in a beautiful new sheathe handcrafted from steel and sanded oak.

“Time to go indeed,” one of them said, his hands hidden beneath the folds of his robes, “the masters await you, proselyte. Gird your sword and take the elevator to the Sanctum.”

The second cleric offered the weapon. The sword was, perhaps, the most personal of the armaments he would wear for the ceremony. While Stephan’s armor and guns were forged by clerical smiths, his sword was the product of his own sweat and blood, painstakingly crafted over his career as a proselyte. It was the only piece of ‘property’ he would ever be allowed to truly own. In life, it would serve him on the battlefield - in death, adorn his pyre till the steel melted into his bones. Even should Stephan disgrace himself before the Order, be stripped of his knighthood and excommunicated from the church, he would still take his blade with him into exile.

“I shouldn’t have to remind you, Sir Rillias,” one of the clerics chided, “that it is highly untraditional to meet with a proselyte a few minutes before his graduation.”

“Oh have a heart,” Casten rolled his eyes, “Who is that beneath the hood? Faron?”

“Sigmund.”

“That was my second guess,” he smiled and turned back to his friend. “Looks like they’re kicking me out. I’ll be waiting for you in the courtyard, with a few other of our friends. We’ll grab some drinks and get plastered to celebrate-“

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Sigmund sighed.

Casten grinned. He clasped Stephan’s forearm. “Good luck, brother. The Light Shall Overcome.”
 
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