Chronicles of The Omniverse Archived Lutetia City: The Monastery

Noah's eyes widened as they walked through the cavernous chamber, left speechless by the scale of it all. He'd known that the Monastic Order was more than simply a religious institution - more even than hunters of the supernatural. But it was his first true exposure to their industrial, military side. More like a factory than a sanctuary. For once, the warden's youth showed plainly through his wide eyed gawking.

It took a fair few seconds for him to realise himself and regain his composure, hastening to catch up where he'd lagged behind while staring. "I ... I must say, I never imagined this was what lay down here..." he replied, peering down off the walkway at the floor below as they walked.
 
This place had changed since last Kurtrin had visited its halls. Expanded, immensely. Hard, aged eyes passed over each suit of power armor, his mind wondering elsewhere, away from the trio's current objective, though not entirely unrelated. On their way out, he would need to impose himself upon the engineers...The old man had a lot of questions that perhaps only they could answer. And he wanted to be alone while he gleaned their knowledge.

"Most don't, Warden. Its not necessarily a secret, but its not exactly information we circulate openly. We can't have every Tom, Dick, and Sally who serve the Wyrm know where and how exactly we obtain all of our equipment, after all. Speaking of..." He'd pause his speech, perhaps searching for the correct words. "Let me know when you and Aurore decide to go about the reforging. My own blade needs some work, and smithing with friends is always better than doing it alone. If my Sworn sister will have me there, of course."

Yes...Truly, Vindicator would some serious attention if it would be up to the task Kurtrin had in store for it. And so would his own courage. He could tell that many trips to the liquor store were in his immediate future...
 
"Over three hundred active duty paladins," Kelve explained, leading them past a pair of Monastics sparring in a caged arena, "roughly five hundred clerics. Each year we lose anywhere from fifty to two hundred paladins. Graduated proselytes make up for our losses, if we're lucky - we almost never gain more numbers within a given year." Clerical mechanics worked on destriers on a platform just below them, their bare arms stained with grease and oil. "In the days of old, we had legions. Armies. We rode to battle in battalions. Now we are lucky if we can get muster a single knight to answer a distress call. We must compensate for our numbers with the strength and prowess of each individual soldier. The best training. The finest equipment."

Up ahead, three enormous suits of armor poised on a loft behind a pane of fiberglass, a beacon of light shining down on them from above. Though they'd since passed many sets of power armor, there was something different about these. The R1-12 series looked about the sort of power armor that Lutetian technology could muster: crude, spartan, functional but with flaws and drawbacks. But these ... these were taken from another time. Taller, larger (nearly ten feet each), they were somehow less bulky - sleeker and more form-fitting. They were works of art as well as machinery, their metal plates carved with ornate patterns and holy creeds. Designs flourished on their cuirasses and dwindled over lustrous limbs and crested pauldrons - twisting vines studded with thorns and roses on one, Saint Selene smiting Tenebre through his heart on other - each a unique and priceless masterpiece. Their arms hung at their sides, decorated helms bowed towards the floor, as if in prayer. They almost seemed out of place amid the squalor and industry of the Armory, as if they belonged in a museum or an art showcase than a barracks.

Yet belong here they did: the Armoura Astrial. The Order's last and deadliest weapon. The armor that could kill gods. Indeed, they had already done so.

Kurtrin, Kelve and Noah passed through a tunnel opening into the side of the dome. The master led them for a ways before veering off into a separate access chamber, finally stopping before a plain, cast-lead door. He looked around, ensuring they were alone.

"Here we are." The master reached into his pocket, removing a small white pill. He offered it to Noah. "Take this. And, if you will permit me, I will bless you." A smile touched his lips. "Monastic or no, no man has ever felt the Pleur's warmth without the blessing of a paladin. I will not break that tradition, though I break all the others."
 
OGUN took a last look at his room with a cold face, forcing himself to stave off any emotional attachment he had to this place. This bed, this desk, the pristine floor, the blank brick walls. He felt something of a snort form in his chest as he thought,

This is my prison.

'Am I really doing this?' Hugo asked as OGUN's eyes focused on the long black sheathed blade in the corner of the room, on its stand next to his desk. 'I have to come back, don't I? Even if Luna's weird, this place.. is still good.. right?'. OGUN huffed and shook his head, looking down at his body. His armor was in place, he didn't recognize himself in the mirror, and the eight vials under his coat were secure and no longer clicking against each other distractedly. With a wave of his hand, the room was now just a room and OGUN was a mercenary on a mission. He left the room, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he made for the Monastery's courtyard.
 
As he walked down the halls, OGUN's surly attitude and aura were so violent and engaging that all students were deterred from approaching him, much less attempting to recognize him. Instead, OGUN kept his hands in his pockets and a soft sneer on his lips, batting away any and all attempts to initiate contact. Out of the corner of his eye, however, it was brought to Hugo's attention that the students he was passing were staring at him blatantly, eyes wide in curiosity and thought as they utterly did not recognize him. Safe in his mind as OGUN walked, Hugo wondered what it meant to be recognized. There was some effort to hiding himself and, to be frank, he hadn't seen other students his age in over a year. He wondered what it meant that Luna seemed so different, what it meant that her Order of Submission had truly changed her. A pit of sickness started in his stomach, so OGUN cleared his throat and walked faster. He saw the grand doors which formed the Monastery's main building entrance and pushed it open with a closed fist. One watching this action would notice that his fist was shivering so violently that the fingers, even clenched together as tight as they were, looked fragile and discordant as they formed the fist.

With another huff, he shoved the door closed behind him and took in a sharp breath of cold air. He was outside now.
 
A cloaked figure stood in front of OGUN. The cloak was tattered and torn, patched in a few places. The hood was down, and you could not see the figure's face. It stood there, as rigid as a statue, right in his way. The figure seemed to be only a shadow in the darkness, lit only by the light of the moon.

Slowly, the figure began to walk towards OGUN. A gust of wind caused the cloak to flap around a bit, revealing the figures face for but a moment. If you looked closely, you could catch a glimpse of it's eyes. They were red.
 
OGUN, his eyes dulled, rose to meet his companion's. But on whatever night he pondered this to be, there was nothing he could expect to jolt him. No reason to look where he did not mean to look. No spark in the machine of head or heart to raise his eyes past the ground. With a defeated sigh, OGUN looked into the red eyes.
 
The figure walked closer, it's steps rigid. As it entered the light, his facial features became more apparent. He had a ovular face with an angular jaw, his chin was slightly rounded. He had a scar right next to his left eye, a wound long since healed. He wore an unsettling grin, his white teeth gleaming in the light. But most disturbingly of all were his eyes- they were blood red. "Greetings." He said, extending his hand out to OGUN. His eyes weren't glowing now, but they were still an unusual red.
 
OGUN looked down to the outstretched hand and felt an impulse somewhere that told him to be wary. Considering this, he took the Agresor strategy.

".." Shifting obviously uncomfortably, OGUN moved one hand into his pocket until it felt comfortable, sending signals of contentment and comfort through his body. His eyes noted the fingers now that he was receiving the other. He recognized the fingers as those which belonged to Hugo, but not as those which belonged to OGUN. OGUN's hands weren't little and petite like Hugo's. Instead, his hands were scratched and worn from endless sword combat and dull tavern mugs. No, OGUN just wasn't expecting the sinister figure to be a Cleric kid. OGUN huffed.

"Greetings."
 
"That's no way to greet a stranger." He said, his voice still calm. "Have you no manners?" The man asked mockingly. His hand was still out, waiting for OGUN to shake it. "Come now, don't be... unpleasant." There was a hint of menace in the last word, as if he was threatening OGUN.
 
It was early morning on the final day of the Aurellae as Inarin tentatively made his way through the halls of the Monastery, a small bag tucked under his arm. The young proselyte fought back a yawn as he walked - he'd only gotten back to the Monastery half an hour ago, after having been ... convinced to spend the night at the Castellane mansion. His cheeks reddened slightly just at the thought. Nothing had happened, per say... not in that way. But it had ... well, it had been an experience. And then earlier this morning ...


Light had scarcely begun to filter in through the curtains in one of the mansion's many guest room when Inarin was finishing slipping his shoes on and getting ready to leave. He'd spent the last ten minutes deliberating whether to stop by Val's room to say goodbye, while habitually stripping and folding the bedsheets, but had decided Val probably wouldn't want to be woken so early. But just as he was slinging his bag over his shoulder, there was a knock at the door.

"Ah ... hello?" he called. "Come in."

The door swung in to admit a sleepy-looking Val, wrapped in a luxurious looking robe and sporting a pair of exceedingly fluffy slippers. The older boy's hair was mussed on one side from where he'd been sleeping, and he was fighting back a yawn as he stepped inside. "Morning, In..." he mumbled. "You're already leaving..?"

"Y-yeah, sorry," Inarin smiled faintly, nodding. "I have some things I need to do before the Aurellae, back at the Monastery. Sorry. I wish I could stay longer."

"S'okay," Val smiled back at him, shuffling over and flopping down to sit on the bed. He patted the mattress next to him, and Inarin sat. "Came to say goodbye." His eyes wandered across the bed, taking in the neatly folded sheets. "You didn't have to do the sheets, you know ... we have staff for that."

Inarin laughed bashfully, shaking his head. "Force of habit, I guess. And th-thanks. You didn't have to. We sort of said goodbye last night, in case you weren't awake."

"I wanted to say goodbye properly, though." Val grinned, lolling his head to the side to rest it on Inarin's shoulder. "And I still think you should've stayed in my room. I would've been good..."

Blushing, Inarin glanced away, finding a spot on the curtains to stare intently at to avoid having to look at the auburn-haired boy's suggestive smirk. "Ah ... I- I'm sure you would but... er, I didn't want to impose, and..."

Val snickered. "It's alright. You don't have to explain yourself. I'm just glad you came to the party with me." The necromancer brought a hand up to trail through Inarin's hair, sending a shiver down his spine. "I hope you'll consider coming to more. I like spending time with you."

Inarin's blush only intensified, and he couldn't deny the beginnings of a flutter in his chest at the idea. "Uhm... I ... I don't know. I ..." He wasn't an idiot. He knew that Val wasn't just interested in being his friend. But he was a proselyte, and he was going to be a paladin... even if he wasn't opposed to the idea, it wouldn't be fair to Val to lead him on like that, and...

"Mmph, I understand." Val interrupted his chain of thought by speaking. "But it really is just as simple as liking spending time with you. It doesn't have to be anything else, if you don't want it to be."

"Right... O-of course..." Inarin looked down at his lap with a guilty frown. He shouldn't be making assumptions like that. Of course Val knew what he was doing. "Uhm, then sure. I ... I like spending time with you too." He glanced up, finally looking back across at Val and smiling. "But uh, I should get going..."

Val nodded, lifting his head off of Inarin's shoulder and smiling back at him. "Alright. Before you do, though..." He trailed off, and before Inarin could react, he'd closed the distance between them and pressed a kiss to his lips. His eyes went wide, and he froze, but then Val's arms were slipping around him and one of his hands was tangling in his hair, and he found himself instinctively kissing back, and that really wasn't what he'd been intending to do just a minute ago.

Far too many moments passed before Inarin recovered his wits enough to pull back, beet red and stammering. "Uhm, I- That- We-"

"Shh," Val snickered again. "Don't get in a fuss. It was just a kiss. And not our first one, I should note. Doesn't have to be or mean anything else... if you don't want it to."

"R-right..." Inarin looked away. Val was right, but he'd been able to explain away the other two. The one at the rave had been alcohol fuelled, the one at the Aurellae was just part of a joking 'debt' thing... but there wasn't really any way to make excuses for this one. "Uh... look, I really ... I need to go."

"I'll see you at the festival, then," Val grinned, apparently unphased by Inarin's reaction. "Shall I see you to the door?"

"I- I know the way..." Inarin mumbled, pushing himself to his feet and scurrying for the door. He barely gave Val time to call a final goodbye before he was halfway down the hallway and on his way to the door.


That had just been ... confusing. It added another element to the jumble of conflicting desires already spinning inside his head, all tugging in different directions. He'd been so certain of his decision at the end of last week, and now ... why did everything have to be so difficult? Why couldn't there just be a right answer, like there was in maths or science? He wanted to help protect the city, but would be better off doing that as a paladin, or by training with Florianne as a witch? He wanted to make his parents proud, but would they have been prouder of him taking the silver or carrying on the mantle of their family name? He wanted to ... well, he wasn't really sure what he wanted when it came to Val, but he was fairly certain that he wanted a fair few things that a paladin-to-be wasn't supposed to want, and even putting that aside, there was the issue of...

... oh, he was here. Inarin came to a halt outside Izaic's room, suddenly a lot more nervous than he'd been five minutes ago. Would the older proselyte even want to see him, after their conversation last night?

Sighing, Inarin shook his head. It didn't matter. Even if he got turned away, he would make sure Izaic at least heard him out long enough to give him what he needed to. He lifted one hand tentatively up to the door, and knocked.
 
The rapping on hard wood woke Izaic like a jolt of lightning to the head. His eyes opened, bloodshot and raw, his tongue heavy and dry, stuck to the roof of his mouth. The noise came again, soft noises under any other circumstance, but hungover as he was, the din was more akin to a thunderstorm. Gritting his teeth, the brutish proselyte rose from his disheveled bed and stumbled across the room. On his way, he found sweatpants, and not much else, save for his desired goal of water. A bottle of it would be gulped down greedily, despite having some one waiting just outside his door.

Let them wait. The Swigelf boy still had a bitter taste in his mouth, left over from last night. Between Inarin, the excessive drink, and Kurtrin's foul mood after his private summons, the night, while seemingly resplendent for all others, had not been an enjoyable one for he.

Grabbing another bottle from atop his desk first, the summons of the knocking would finally be answered. So there he stood, before the Nuvellon heir, shirtless and without shoes. Hair a blatant mess, stubble covering his youthful cheeks, torso covered with training scars, both recent and old as a decade. The most recent, the one he'd received from the Iverian, was by far the one that stood out the most, and honestly, the largest. A veritable crack across his left shoulder, it shone like marble.

Hazel-green orbs fixed on Inarin, filling to the brim with something that wasn't annoyance, but wasn't quite yet loathing. A familiar look, no doubt. "Oh."
 
Izaic, too, was greeted with what was likely a familiar look. When the door swung open, Inarin's eyes widened and his face turned bright red. For far too long for the remotest hope of subtlety, he was left speechless and staring: the carefully prepared lines that he'd been rehearsing in his head while waiting for the door to be answered dissolving away into white noise. It was a good few seconds before the younger proselyte remembered himself enough to tear his eyes upwards to meet Izaic's, and when he did, his face only turned redder as he realised just how obvious his staring had been.

"Uhm. I. You- I..." Inarin scrambled for words, looking down at his feet, and only then seeming to remember the small paper bag he was carrying, and shoving it forwards as though it were a shield. "I wanted to give you this, uhm. I wanted- I was going to last night, but then... Oh... I'm- Uh, I'm sorry about last night. About yelling. Uhm. And anything else. The rest, I mean. Uhm. But- ah, yeah, this..." He jostled the bag slightly. "It's f-for Genarium. I thought- I think you should- I mean, I'd like it ... I mean, I think you'll like it?"

As he finished speaking, Inarin managed to bring himself to meet Izaic's eyes again, with a look that could only be described as pleading to be saved from himself.

Within the paper bag was a white-and-silver parcel wrapped with a golden thread. It was soft and supple, and around the size of a folded shirt - albeit with a bit more weight to it.
 
Izaic watched the much smaller, much more vulnerable young man stumble across every little thing he wanted to say, and not without a little bit of cruel amusement. It was all he could do to not taunt Inarin's stutter, and truthfully, he really did want to. It quickly lost whatever sort of entertainment value it had, however, but luckily for the Nuvellon, Swigelf didn't lose his composure before the stammering stopped.

The bag would be snatched, and with a surprised blink, the shirtless wall of muscle would blink. It was heavy. Not truly, but far more than he'd been expected. Izaic would open it in front on Inarin. Maybe it would be something useful. Maybe it would be something he could throw in the trash in front of his younger peer. Honestly, he hoped for the latter, if just to have an excuse to be petty. Payback for last night. Payback for...a lot of things that the swordsman didn't want to admit had hurt him.

What Izaic found however...well, for once, he was at a loss for words. It clinked and jingled with the delicacy of tiny bells while he opened and unfolded it, but it was stunning to behold. This was something that he'd always wanted, truth be told, but would've never been able to afford.

Now it was Swigelf's turn to trip and stumble over his words. "How did..This...In, I don't think..." It was all a huge, complicated mess, trying to get the words to flow properly out of his mouth. Mithral. Not imitation, either, no, Izaic could tell by the light, almost feather feel of the metal, this was legitimate mithral. "I...Don't deserve this...but thank you."
 
Last edited:
Inarin let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding whennit became clear that Izaic liked the gift. His face broke into a bashful-but-genuine smile, and his stiff posture relaxed a few notches. "I... Ah, commissioned my aunt for it... I was thinking about... If things get bad, they might start pushing through those of us that are... Ready enough to take the silver... And you might be fighting... And I remembered ding the alchemical formulas for mithral in an old book I found when I was thirteen... So I asked her if she could make it... I thought that maybe even... Even if I can't really protect you myself because you're so much stronger than me anyway... That I could... At least a little bit, by getting you this..." The younger proselyte trailed off, having realised he'd started rambling again, and looked down with embarrassment... Only to promptly look back up again, to stop his eyes from wandering again.

"Ah... It's also to say... To say thank you. For helping me, and... For believing in me."
 
Izaic did his best to appear stoic throughout, but it was a difficult task, to say the least. He was genuinely touched, and not for the first time, by the tragic Nuvellon boy. Once Inarin, thankfully, stopped speaking, he was able to get a word in.

"Wait here."

And then the older of the two would close his door. First, he'd sit the mithral hauberk on his bed, laid out perfectly. A brief pause to marvel at it one more time, before moving to his closet. Izaic lived a spartan life style. Almost everything he owned served a purpose. Nothing he owned, save his armor and his blade, could hold a claim of costing somewhere in the triple digits or above where its monetary worth was concerned. Still...there was something he could give him in return. It wouldn't be much, hell, a hundred of these wouldn't even come close to the cost of the gift he'd received. Still...

When the door was opened once more, if Inarin had stayed like he'd been told, Izaic would return with something long and slender, wrapped in cloth. Swigelf held it one handed, but something would tell In that maybe, probably, it was far heavier than he was letting on. "I don't really have anything to say. But take this. Kurtrin gave it to me when I was twelve. I don't need it anymore, but you might."
 
In the short time that Izaic was gone, Inarin let out another long breath, attempting to recompose himself. It wasn't fair. It was hardly the first time he'd seen Izaic shirtless, right? They'd been training in the same classes for years, it was inevitable. So why was he reacting like this now? Maybe it was the context? Maybe he just wasn't as rational a person as he thought he was. Maybe maybe maybe. Everything was maybes, these days. There seemed to be no certainty in the world anymore.

When Izaic reopened the door, Inarin blinked in surprise to see him bearing what looked to be a sword. When it was proffered to him, he blinked a second time. He hadn't remotely expected to receive a gift in return... but rather than embarrassing himself and the older proselyte any further by remarking on that fact, Inarin simply took it in hand, unravelling the cloth. The blade within was, aesthetically, unremarkable - but Inarin could tell upon looking closer that it was a weapon of exceedingly good quality. A humble masterwork, with none of the ornate foppery that might normally be associated with the term. Its one unusual quality was the presence of two fullers in the flat of the blade - making plain that it was designed for a person with a lighter build.

After a few moments of looking down at the sword, Inarin glanced back up and beamed. "Th-thank you!" he exclaimed. "I ... this was your first sword, right? Are you ... it must have a lot of sentimental value..." he trailed off, shaking his head. No, Izaic wouldn't have given it to him if he wasn't sure. The older boy wasn't as indecisive as he was, it would just be rude to question him. "Th-thank you," he repeated. "It's weighted perfectly. I ..." Inarin laughed to himself. "I guess that means maybe another nine years and I might catch up to where you are now, huh?"
 
Izaic shrugged, leaning against his sturdy wooden door. "I don't get attached to a lot of things. It was a tool, and it helped me get to where I am now. You joked about catching up, but you know as well as I do we don't have nine years to get you there. Probably not even nine months. Still, every bit will help you live longer. And I for one, want you to live as long as possible." He'd cross his arms over his chest, completely shameless in all his glory. "Don't over do it though. That things a lot bigger than what you're used to handling. Give it time, work at it slowly. You'll get there before you know it."

Was Izaic purposely choosing his words to have double entendre undertones, or was he simply being to the point about Inarin swinging swords around that were too big for him. The grin on the older proselyte's face might give the Nuvellon key insight on which was the case. It was the same grin, that maybe, just once or twice, In might've seen his fellow proselyte flashing at Celeste or other girls in the gym or sparring yard.

"Look. I don't want to shoo you away or anything, but I need to polish my armor up, and get ready for the day over all. You're welcome to stop by again later, if you want. But..." Izaic let it drop off then, trying his best to be polite, but effective, in getting the smaller lad to leave.
 
Inarin nodded in a manner as close to approaching solemnly as he could manage given the circumstances at Izaic's remark about their lack of time, and couldn't help but smile about Izaic's comment on him living for as long as possible. It was silly, of course. Any one of them would hope that all their classmates would live as long as possible. And yet, it still made him inordinately pleased. He continued nodding as Izaic went on, but about halfway through he picked up on the suggestive undertones to the explanation, and his face went red for what seemed like the hundredth time just this morning. The grin on the older boy's face only made things worse. He knew what he was doing. He was doing it on purpose! That wasn't fair!

"U-uhm. R-right, yes! Of course. I'll ... I'll leave you to it. And, sure! I'll stop by!" Wait, what? He would? Had he meant to say that? Was it weird? Either way, it was too late to retract it now. "Ah... g-good luck in the tournament. I'll be r-rooting for you! See you later!"

And with that, before he could embarrass himself any further, Inarin gave a hurried wave and spun around to scurry away.
 
Wherever there wasn't utter chaos in the midst of the sudden Caer assault, eerie silence dominated much of the 'church quarter'. Windows were rolled up, those that dared walk outside did so in hurried steps. If groups of pedestrians met, they tended to ignore each other on their way.

A trio of figures broke the pattern of panic, at least for the most part. Two elaborately yet modestly dressed women flanked an agitated teenaged boy, who bore identifying badges and insignias of the Monastic Order. The two older pedestrians, judging from their strange garb and uncanny presence were likely witches, though even suggesting such an accusation was a faux-pas in it of itself.

Even more curiously, they were heading towards the Monastery, and discussing something of some importance, as their voices would lower if there were passersby.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top