Chronicles of The Omniverse Archived Lutetia City: The Veres Manies

Tiko

Tiko

Draconic Administrator/Mentor
Administrator
Mentor
Nexus GM
as written by Ronin
The Veres Manies

"God lives here." - Ecclesiarch Vales Tremille

"If the Evequists put half as much money into the city's welfare as they do into that fucking football stadium we'd be eating gold out of barrels and shitting diamonds in the streets." - Random citizen​

One of the oldest and largest structures in Lutetia City, the Veres Manies is the greatest Evequist cathedral in the world and the seat of the church's power in Lutetia.

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Built in the early years of Lutetia's history by Queran and native Issune architects, the Veres Manies was originally a quaint basilica constructed to honor the fallen dead of Dawn's Breaking - the final battle of the Great Darkness in which Selene Eveque's outnumbered forces defeated Tenebre's horde once and for all. The church expanded over centuries, exponentiating in size and splendor until it became the mammoth superstructure that it is today, dominating the Lutetian skyline for miles in any direction. For hundreds of years, the Veres Manies served a multifaceted role as a house of worship for the Selenite faithful, a lavish palace for the city's wealthiest and most important aristocrats, and as the political capital building for the Holy Lutetian Theocracy. Today, the Veres Manies remains the headquarters of the Ecclesiarchy - the administrative heart of the Evequist Church which directly instructs and finances both the Monastic Order and the Inquisition - as well as one of the most architecturally beautiful and culturally significant edifices in the entire city.

The Veres Manies houses four separate basilicae, each the size of the second largest cathedral on Issunar. Of the largest of these structures (the Enor Eglis), the naves and transepts alone are spacious enough to comfortably seat upwards of 60,000 faithful. Masses are held nine times a day by high-ranking priests and clergyman (dubbed 'Ecclesiarchs'). The Eclaron himself holds mass in the Enor Eglis only twice a year - on the Genarium, the anniversary of Selene's arrival in the city, and on First Light, the anniversary of Dawn's Breaking and Selene's victory over Tenebre.

Far more than a place of worship, the Veres Manies is a self-contained palace, complete with dozens of master bedrooms, ballrooms, banquet halls, gardens, museums, libraries and even a grand theatre. Ranking members of the Ecclesiarchy have spent whole decades in the church without ever having to step foot into Saint Lemeux general. The church also contains several enormous debate halls, as well as forums, courtrooms and senate floors. It was, after all, the center of political power in Lutetia for over five hundred years. These utilities, while architecturally connected to the central basilicae, are often referred to by a different name - The Palais des Saints. Nonetheless, they are considered a part of the Veres Manies central.

The heart of Saint Lemeux and the symbol of church strength in Lutetia, the Veres Manies remains one of the most impressive and daunting structures in the city. Despite multiple terrorists attacks and an arson which destroyed a third of the building hundreds of years ago, the church stands strong - proud and vigilant in the Lutetian skyline. It is said that no act of man can destroy it. Only the Wyrm itself is prophesied to level the superstructure at the Last Light (the Evequist version of the apocalypse), collapsing the monument after breaking free from its prison in the Void.

By then, of course, most of the world's population should already be dead.
 
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as written by Ronin

“And when it was clear that the wound was festered and would not heal, she called her men to her side – captain and conscript, necromancer and Queran alike…”

The word fluttered through the empty halls of the Verres Manies, a single voice in the vast emptiness of the cathedral. It was twilight now; the church had closed hours ago. Great mountains of darkness filled the enormous vacancy and swallowed the nave in shadow – save the altar, where a lonely candle melted into a brass dish. By its light, a young man read from a small, cracked-leather book.

“She held them close and anointed them with her blood, and pressed her tears into their cheeks. She told them she loved them – that they should be free and happy, that they should treasure each other and love one another as truly and earnestly as they loved any son or sister or brother or daughter…”

Brows furrowed above a pair of brown eyes that glowed red in the candlelight. His hand swept a lock of raven hair behind his ear and twirled pensively.

“…told them that a life never ceased to have value, never ceased to have hope or beauty, so long as it was loved…”

Something low and frustrated rumbled out of his throat. Eleu, how many times had he read that line? It was Deix Vara … a line fed to children at the youth services. Everyone knew that the true revelation of Selene Evequec had been revealed to Jacques Eclaron after her death. The chapters following this, The Eclarii ... those were the important bits. Those were what were studied by clerics and theologians, what dictated the ethics that, in less then twelve hours, he would swear a sacred oath to defend till the day of his death.

Not for the first time, his stomach rumbled. Tara had told him that hunger would be the worst of it - that and trying to keep awake. A smile touched his lips as he remembered her advice to sneak a roll of bread in his trousers. He pictured the masters walking into the church in the morning and finding their latest graduate passed out over the holy altar with bread crumbs trailing down his shirt.

But while Jasom was tired (and more than a bit hungry), he found the greatest difficulty of Penance Night to be the same difficulty he'd had during the entire nineteen years he'd been a proselyte - knighthood itself. How in God's name did they think he was ready? He hadn't petitioned or competed for the Silver. They'd given it to him. Jasom had expected to be a proselyte two or three more years before trying for his wings ... and they'd been handed to him on a silver platter.

Why?

He looked up at the effigy of his goddess - an enormous marble statue of Selene herself, arms spread over the congregation. Her white, lidless eyes watched him with a sort of resigned pity.

"...why?"
 
as written by Ronin

"Not the best question to be asking on Penance Night, is it?" a deep, humored voice cut through the darkness. Jasom turned swiftly. A tall, muscular man with smiling green eyes stepped into the light.

"Sir Vuscos," Jasom quickly bowed his head in respect.

"Please, none of that here," the other scoffed at his formality. The candelight gleamed off his breastplate. "You are a graduate. A knight. We are brothers now."

Jasom offered a sheepish smile. "Not quite, sir. Dawn is distant yet."

Vuscos half-grinned. "So it is." He stepped closer to the light, head craning upwards at the statue of Selene. "So it is."

A brief silence passed between them, Vuscos lost in thought, Jasom trying to decide what next to say. Though he would officially be this man's equal in less than twelve hours, Jasom couldn't fathom an instance where he wouldn't call his former arms trainer 'sir'.

"Sir," Jasom cleared his throat, "your being here tonight ... isn't it a little..."

"Illegal?" Vuscos peered out of the corner of his eye.

The graduate flushed. "I was .... going to say, 'unconventional'."

Vuscos laughed curtly. "Well. That's very kind of you." His words dripped with sarcasm, but his smile was warm. "Yes, it is a bit 'unconventional'. I hope you'll pardon my breach of tradition. I wanted to check on you, Jasom. When the council told you of your graduation last week, I couldn't help but notice you looked a bit ... off put."

Jasom went from red to white. "...was it noticeable, sir?"

"Hardly," Vuscos gruffed, "you needn't worry, Jasom. I doubt the council was even looking at you at the time." He shook his head. "But I noticed. I ought to have, after being your teacher these last sixteen years."

Jasom smiled wryly. "Nineteen."

"Nineteen," Vuscos relented with a chuckle before paling himself, "...by the raven, am I that old?"

They both shared a laugh. Vuscos walked nearer to Jasom and seated himself opposite the boy, the candle between them.

"All I'm saying, Jasom," he continued, "is that you shouldn't feel alone in all of this. I know this is an extremely important time in your life ... the beginning of a new chapter ... but if you have any questions, concerns, doubts..." The last he paused on for emphasis. "...you need only come to me or any one of your other brothers or sisters. We are here for you Jasom."

"Thank you, sir."

"Do you have any such concerns, brother?"

Jasom swallowed. He seriously considered lying to Vuscos. What sort of knight doubted the very principles of his order on the eve of his coronation? Had it been anyone else but his former arms trainer, the graduate would have kept silent.

...but Vuscos. He could trust Vuscos. He could confide.

"I do, sir."
 
"I can still hear it, I can still hear the singing, he sings of angels, and of light, and towers, and, and, and of things no mortal should know. I would discount it all in a heart beat if I had not seen them myself. These were no visions, no illusions, I know both, I've studied both. I've traveled the world studying all the miracles done in both the name of the Wick and of other gods, of magics of all kinds. They fade, they warp, they flicker in the light of truth, but, but... I close my eyes and I see the mighty spires on some distant planet, circling an alien sun. I see their twisting metallic flesh reach up into the heavens, disappearing beyond sight, and I hear floating down from their unseen pinnacles chanting, melodies no human or demon could make. Booming choruses and steadfast verses recounting histories thousands of times longer than our own. It is not the doubt I fear, but the knowing that he's right."

​

"What's he saying now?"

"Where they give you a candle, I will show you the sun, where they demand perfection, Ar-Rahman," Eemeli stopped for a moment, catching himself and reverting back to his native tongue, "God, The Exceedingly Merciful, grants perfection, where they erect idols to false prophets, I will raise you all up on pedestals before the glory of Al... of the Creator."

The lowly priest's robes were a stark contrast to the garments Eemeli had donned the day previous for the Geranium services, but the comfort and ease of moment they afforded was very welcome. Never had the man in his life been happier to be away from the majestic Verre Maines than right now, even during his more rebellious youth. He still wasn't far enough away for his tastes however, as peering out the window granted him a distant glimpse of the alien holy man. The Palais des Saints sat dead center across the square from the great cathedral, and from it's upper windows it was possible to glance over the head of the Hallowed Saint herself. Eemeli wished the statue could shield him from his torment.

"Blaspheme, but that's nothing new," his compatriot assured him, resting a hand on the priest's shoulder as they both stole one last glance out the window. The sun was casting it's finally rays of light over the square, highlighting the crowd for only another half hour or so.

"No it's not, but you, you weren't there Francis," Eemeli bit back, quickly taking a deep breath as he caught his temper rising. It was one thing to blow up at an antagonizing young man, but an entirely different offense were he to snap at one of his closest friends. Slowly he turned towards his friend, placing both his hands on the man's shoulders in kind. "You did not see what I have seen, what I still see."

"I'm sorry, Brother, we will find solace in our meditations, after our meeting with the court."

Eemeli almost spit back out that there was no solace, but but he bit his tongue and nodded, letting his anger escape through his breath. Francis gave his shoulder one last squeeze, one last measure of reassurance, what little it provided, and the pair left the long hallway that lined the outside of the building and entered the chambers of the Court of Saints.

The room was lavish, as was most of the rooms in the Palace, but in reverence rather than pride. The walls were ornate, but made of a darkened wood, rather than dotted with golden fixtures and other expensive decorations. A few paintings graced the flatter sections of the walls, but the placards underneath made it clear they were gifts rather than commissioned by the Church. The floor was a marble with inlaid stones that formed the image of a lit candle, the base of which ran from the entrance to two priests crossed to the center of the room. Around burning wick on the floor was a large ring shaped table which was missing a portion around the bottom, and from the perspective of all who entered was the halo of light emanating from the mosaic candle. Many seats were arrayed around the outside of the table, all were left vacant save for three. Across from Eemeli and Francis sat the members of the court who bothered to leave their planned festivities- including the head of the Court itself.

"Your Eminence, Mener Ecclesiarch Gepard," Eemeli said with a bow, which in turn was greeted with a nod from the elderly man and a motion for him to move into the center of the table. Eemeli's steps were quick, but short.

"Ecclesiarch Rousseau, I want to state first for the record." The elderly man at the head of the table motioned to the man at his left who'd zoned out before continuing. "That your service to God, to the Church, and to the Court, is recognized and commended." The man's already slow words seem to draw to a crawl as he shifted in his seat and stuck a finger into the air to continue his point. "But your work, while bringing considerable weight to your testimony, does make me question whether it might color your perspective. Few men can tangle with demons and come away all the same for it."

"Your eminence, I understand your concern," Eemeli paused to let his thoughts come together before he spouted off at his superior's superior, "I will concede that it is not uncommon for corruption, of various types, to afflict our order, but I disagree, there is no corruption at play, neither now or from past cases."

"Yet you come before me, demanding that actions be taken by the church."

"I'm, I am advising the court not to take this matter lightly, he disrupted the Genarium services, he continues to attract crowds, including those from some of the poor districts in the city, he shows no signs of leaving, in fact no one has seen him eat or drink for two days, should that alone not be cause for concern?!"

"Fasting is a pillar of the faith, Ecclesiarch Rousseau, have you not spoken your beatitudes yet today?"

Eemeli paused, trying to hide the guilt on his face as he stared down at the tips of his slippers poking from his robes. "I have not, sleep has been illusive, and meditation has been difficult."

Gepard didn't reply, keeping silent as he marked something down on the paper pad before him. The awkward silence hung like death over the room. Eventually the elderly priest cleared his throat, signalling his thoughts were in order.

"You recount in your missive that he touched your forehead with his middle finger, and," the elder paused once more, shuffling through his papers to find the letter authored by Eemeli, "imparted other worldly knowledge, what exactly do you mean by other worldly knowledge, do you mean visions, mind control, or thought projection?"

"No, what, I saw, what information was imparted does not meet all the characteristics for visions, though mind control and thought projection is harder to distinguish without thorough testing."

"And given the holiday, I'm going to assume you've yet to consult your brethren in the order, and sought proper testing in the two days since the incident."

"Not beyond Ecclesiarch Montague."

Gepard took the moment of silence after Eemeli's answer to write another note before turning his gaze upon the man in front of him once more. "The Monastic Order has already dispatched two paladins to keep an eye on the situation, since the secular police have refused to get involved, I'm inclined to believe, as do the two paladins down in the square, that their presence is overkill for one man, and keeping that in mind, what is it that you are suggesting our course of action be?"

Eemeli held his tongue once more, feeling defeat weigh heavy on his shoulders. A deep breath and a contentious sigh was his only sign that he'd not push the point any further.

"I don't know your Eminence, but we should continue to monitor the situation regardless, and not simply treat him as another mad man."

The exchange halted for a moment again, this time as the elder priest looked over his notes and the missive before him. The tired look on his face cast odd shadows from the hanging light fixtures. Their old, warm yellow light softening the wrinkles and sharp features of his face.

"It is my decision that the Court of Saints appoint the Order of Inquiry and Investigation and in particular Ecclesiarch Eemeli Rousseau to further investigate the matter at hand, that at the discretion of the Cadre Supérieur of the Monastic Order no more than two paladin's will be charged with safe guarding the investigation, and in two weeks the Court will reconvene on the matter, by the Light of the Wick may we be shielded from the Wyrm."

"By the Light of the Wick."

***
​

Hand out stretched, finger lifted skyward, the foreign singer held the crowd in silence. The last sliver of the sunset pouring over the skyline of Lutetia City highlighted the dark grey digits held aloft, slowly dwindling as the scriptural chant echoed through the square and over the district. Many of those closest to the alien figure had taken seats on the cold, stone steps, not caring for their own comfort as the man who'd worked miracles spoke of places beyond their imagination, but vividly real in their mind's eye, and of stories about brave souls long dead after their heroic deeds, and of the promises of an All Powerful God for those true of faith. Many of those closest were poorer, beggars who'd heard of the miracle worker by the man who'd first been healed. Some where more well off, a few of the inhabitants of the Saintly District and the surrounding area who'd listened to the translated words sung so-so by those who'd been blessed previously, and had been moved or sought their own miracles. Still most of the crowd however was still filled with those only satiating their curiosity about a man who'd not moved from his figurative pulpit in two days.

The silence held fast over the square even as the being's song came to an end, and his arm descended back to his side, folding in with the other. Those converts closest to him waited with baited breath while the gathered crowd dared not whisper or miss their evening's curious entertainment.

"Kama kan min qibl, ldhlk sawf yakun marratan 'ukhraa," the holy man shouted in a sign-song tone that could barely be considered a chant.

"As it was before, so it will be again," came the translation from the anointed.

"'ann almahnat aleazimat sawf yughsil 'anha' hdha alealam, kama kan mae aledyd min aleawalim mundh duhur."

"That a great tribulation will wash over this world, as it was with many worlds eons ago."

"Walssirae sawf tughatti jmye mudun hdha alkawkab."

"And strife will cover all the cities of this world."

"Baed kunt qad yuneim, wallati sawf ln tuajih hadhih alzzawbaeat wahdaha, walakun mae juyush almalayikat alllah warasulih, watafarah wal'iiman alssalim 'uwlayik aldhyn yaetaqidun alan."

"Yet we have been blessed, that we will not face this whirlwind alone, but with the armies of God's angels and their messenger, rejoice and be of sound faith those who now believe."

Another pause, the figure taking a moment to scan the crowd as if staring into each person's soul before launching both hands skywards, framing a steady prick of light in the sky, one of the Jovians that inhabited the outer part of the Sol System.

"Wa'iilaa 'uwlayik aldhyn la yafhamun hatta alana, waittikhadh alrras, walaistimae qabl saeat min alhukm tati, wa'iieta' 'ay mazid min alaml!"

"And to those who do not yet understand, take head, listen before the hour of judgement comes, and no more hope is given." The inner circle of the crowd around him held a solemn tone in their words where the prophet did not.
 
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Master Balon Chatillon stood in one of the many atria of the Veres Manies, arms folded over his chest and watching the crowd. The masses bustled around him, faithful from all over the city mingling with merchants, tradesmen, politicians, tourists, police officers and the ubiquitous mendicant - begging for alms near the great pillars. The outer lobbies of the Veres Manies held more tourist traps and shopping centers than it did places of worship. Checkpoints kept the rabble from venturing too far into the church and polluting the basilicae and Palais de Saints with their filth... but here? It was practically a mini-mall. Sir Chatillon watched with no small amount disdain the greasy retailers selling 'holy' relics and T-shirts from makeshift stands to the throngs of wide-eyed tourists who pointed smart phones at every conceivable inch of the ceiling. Shameful. Not twenty years ago these serpents would have been confined to the plaza, where they belonged. Every coin exchanged under this roof was an affront to God.

Sir Chatillon watched the crowds, but nowhere did he find his quarry. The paladin produced a pocket watch and checked the hour with a small frown. He certainly hoped Marc wouldn't be late. An Ecclesiarch was not the kind of man who should be kept waiting, not even by members of the Monastic Order. He tapped the hilt of his sword and smoothed a wrinkle on his uniform, glaring venom into a passing beggar. Light's mercy, he wondered if Marc would even be able to find him in this crowd. He hoped the cleric was at least somewhat familiar with the layout of the church; the whole structure was as large as some townships. Far too easy to get lost.
 
Marc maneuvered through the crowd. While most of his time was spent in research, in the lab and at the library he was no stranger to the church. Marc winced as photos were openly being taken of the ceiling. Go on just ruin the ceiling... He thought to himself. He continued onward passing vendors, tourists, and beggars.

"Where the blazes is he?" Marc whispered to himself. He continued searching, however before he could locate Master Chatillon a conversation between a woman and a merchant caught his ear. "Here I have genuine fragments of Saint Arodring's sword, they will protect you from the Caer." He heard the merchant say. " Oh my and they really work?" He heard the woman say. "Yes, and to be honest, I should be selling these at auction but for you Madame I think we can come to a special bargain." The merchant said. Marc approached stepped in next to the woman. Marc cleared his throat and snatched up the relic turning it over in his hands before placing it back down. “EXCUS-“ The merchant exclaimed before he noticed the cleric robes that Marc wore his eyes seemed to widen. “If those were the real fragments I wouldn’t have any flesh on my hands left,” Marc said to the man. “Perhaps I should find a paladin to escort you out of our church.” Marc said.
 
"Don't waste your time, cleric," Master Chatillon approached Marc, glaring distastefully at the merchant. "This snake isn't worth the effort it would take to expunge him. Besides, he was just leaving, wasn't he?"

Some of the nearby vendors quickly packed up and moved to different parts of the church. House of God or no, they feared the Monastic Order. As all insects and lowlives do, Balon thought to himself. He was pleased with Marc for taking some initiative against these fools.

"Brother Favre," the master touched two fingers to his lips. "I'm glad to have found you. Apologies if you had any trouble getting here. In hindsight, I should have picked a less... distasteful meeting place."

A pair of tourists in Hawaiian shirts openly gawked at Marc and Chatillon, snapping pictures of the paladin and cleric. They spoke in a foreign, vile-sounding language replete with stolen words, inconsistent grammar laws and run-on sentences. Marc might have known it as 'English'.

"What do they call that one with the uniform, Jimbo?"

"They both in uniforms."

"Not the one in the leather sherlock-holmes lookin' robes, the other one."

"That's a pally, ain't it?"

"What? No. Pallys are just in World o'Warcraft. He looks like a general or somethin' to me..."

Chatillon winced, doing his best to ignore them. He only understood one word in five, anyhow.
 
Marc returned the Gesture to Chatillion. "Master Chatillon."

He glanced around at the crowds. "This was fine I needed to get out of the Library and the Lab anyways." He said with a smile. "Though it's a shame that our place of worship has attracted.....less than ideal individuals." He said with a small frown.
 
"A tragedy is what it is. The outer layers of our beloved cathedral have been turned into a marketplace." He motioned for Marc to follow, leading the cleric into the masses. "This wouldn't have stood fifty years ago, I assure you. The church knew something of 'honor' back then. Every cooridor of this masterwork was a wonder in itself. Scholars and artists would come from every corner of Valore to behold it's beauty." He grumbled and rounded a corner. "At least the inner tiers of the church remain closed. If I had any say in the matter, we'd have armed paladins at every entrance."

Speaking of which, two armored knights with rosaries greeted the pair as they walked towards an enormous archway leading into the inner rooms. This particular wing exited into the Palais de Saints - the grand mansions and living quarters of the Veres Manies.

"Master. Cleric." The paladin's voice crackled over the vox built into his helmet. "Your silver, please."

Chatillon thumbed into his jacket and retrieved his amulet, offering it to the knight. "Of course, that was a different time. I was only a proselyte then, but even in my youth I understood that the church possessed a certain vigor. Something it sorely lacks today."
 
Marc followed Master Chatillion. He agreed with some of what the man said however, he felt that putting armed paladins at every entrance would be a bit excessive. He didn't speak up or let his face show it instead he just nodded in agreement. There was no need to get into anything at the moment. When they reached the guards he reached into his cloak and produced the amulet and handed it over.

"Perhaps the next generation can help us reclaim that lost vigor. Given these recent times, we're going to need all of the help we can get." Marc said.
 
The knight held the medallion between his fingers, feeling the thrush of holy energy humming in the steel. Only a sanctified member of the church could wear such a necklace without burning. As proof of identity, it was as good as a retinal scan. Both would be permitted to pass into the deeper levels of the Veres Manies.

Given these recent times, we're going to need all of the help we can get.

"Indeed," the master nodded, "though I fear it still won't be enough. Hence why I summoned you here this morning, cleric. There is an urgent matter which needs your attention."

Master Chatillon threw open a set of enormous double doors and led Marc into an office. It was an office in name only, the chambers being closer to a ballroom or a dining hall. The ceilings vaulted into a Turkish dome, hand-painted masterpieces adorning the panels. Here was Lemeux, torch in hand, hewing the black bark of Gorn, the man-eater. There was Absolon, in plate and cinder swathed, driving his sword into the heart of a rearing demon.

The centerpiece of the room was a magnificent hand-carved desk. Floral patterns wove the dark roh in flurries of glittering silver, the corners capped with sheets of solid gold. A portly man sat behind it - big in the cheeks, the neck, with fleshy circles sagging beneath his eyes. He was perpetually unamused, sifting through documents and scribbling his signature onto one of them every now and then. By his robes, Marc would know him to be an Ecclesiarch - one of the ranking members of the Ecclesiarchy. A considerably thinner man stood beside him, absorbed in his clipboard; a scribe, most likely.

"Well, who's this?" the Ecclesiarch looked up at the newcomers, his voice deep and thoughtful.

"Ecclesiarch Golmen," Master Chatillon touched two fingers to his lips, "I have brought brother Marc Favre, as you requested."

"Favre, was it? Come a bit closer boy. My eyes aren't what they used to be." He opened a drawer and retrieved a folder. "I trust you weren't told why you were summoned here this morning?"
 
Marc followed Chatillion into the office he was taken aback as his eyes took in the room before settling on Ecclesiarch Golmen. Needless to say, he was surprised that this way whom he was summoned to see.

Marc walked closer, "Ecclesiarch Golmen, Its an honor." Marc said before touching two fingers you his lips. "I was not informed, how can I be of service?" He asked.
 
"Patience, cleric. All will be revealed shortly." Golmen opened the folder and pieced through the files, giving a leery glare at Chatillon. "This has always been the fatal flaw with you Monastics, Balon: no mind for pleasantries."

"With respect, sir," the master retorted, "we are trained to act, not indulge."

"More is the pity, as the Terrans say," Golmen said, "it is those who do most of the 'acting' who are most in need of some 'indulging'. Cleric, please, sit. Would you like some tea? Some melted chocolate? I believe Hanes just put a kettle on." He gestured to a cushioned chair across his desk. "I'm reviewing your file now. I understand you did extraordinarily well in your studies as a proselyte. Top of your class in biochemistry and engineering."
 
Marc paid no notice to the comments between Golmen and Chatillon. He was no stranger to the Ecclesiarchy and as a cleric, he was attuned to a bit of a more relaxed and refined lifestyle.

"Of course Sir I'll take a seat," he said before sitting. " I've never been one for sweets but a cup of tea would be lovely." He added.

"Thank you, Sir, Yes biochemistry, and engineering were some of my favorite areas of study. Most of my current work involves alchemy and weapon design."
 
"The tea, Hanes," Golmen said. His scribe hurried to fulfill the order.

"As I understand it, your work is a subject of controversy among your peers." The Ecclesiarch perused several schematics - hand-drawn inventions, scribbled with equations and notes, all in Marc's penmanship. "Your 'injector' weapons are of particular interest. Fast acting syringe projectiles, capable of delivering healing to your allies or acidic toxins to your enemies. Still pending manufacturing approval by the Order, I see." He looked up. "How old are you, cleric? You seem quite young to be having schematics up for Council review. Most don't start publishing their work until forty, sometimes fifty."

He lifted a new page. "And your capstone project before taking the silver... what do you Monastics call it, a 'dernarme', correct? Most proselytes forge a blade or simple martial weapon, but you went against the grain." He perked a brow, turning over photographs of fuel short swords and matching twin pistols.

"I don't suppose you are carrying one of the guns on you now? I should like to inspect it."
 
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Marc nodded. "I've also been tinkering with applying the injector weapons to some bladed weapons as well," Marc added as he looked at his notes and designs from across the desk.

"I just turned 30 last month Sir."

"Unfortunately I did not bring the pistols with me. I do have my short sword. Marc said as he disconnected the sheath from his belt and placed the sheathed blade on the desk. "Perhaps I can bring the pistols by at another time for inspection." He said.
 
Golmen lifted the blade, testing the weight in his hand. He notched an inch of steel from the scabbard, the metal glittering in the sunlight beaming from the window.

"Exceptional work," the Ecclesiarch nodded his praise, though the tone of his voice remained bored and flavorless. "You needn't worry about the pistols, I'm certain the level of quality is as impressive as this sword."

Hanes returned, pushing a cart laden with two silver teapots and a set of china.

"Here's our man. How do you like your tea, cleric? It's a Queran blend. Quite good with a splash of milk, if you take it that way."

The scribe attended to Golmen first, pouring him a cup of the tea in a glass saucer with a measure of milk and two cubes of sugar. He then prepared Marc's tea in whatever manner he specified.

"I suppose you're wondering why you're here, cleric," Golmen proceeded, sipping from his cup, "as formidable an engineer and weaponsmith you may be, it is your expertise in alchemy and biochemistry which interests me this afternoon." He set his glass down, hands folding under his chin. "Tell me - how familiar are you with the monastic potion known as 'bloodbane'?"
 
Marc nodded to Golman.

"I'll take my tea as is." He said and accepted the cup.

"Bloodbane, I know it like the back of my hand, it's a remarkable potion perhaps one of the most ingenious discoveries of our order if I do say so myself," Marc said. He was a bit surprised at the mention however given the current situation it wasn't surprising that the potion was the subject of the meeting.

"How can I be of assistance?" He asked
 
"I'll be blunt with you, cleric," Golmen replied, "bloodbane is one of the defenses that the Order has against this Caer uprising, and we are currently very much lacking it. The Monastery's stores are low by every inventory. At best, we could arm but two battalions with enough potion to immunize them against a vampire's bite and coat enough ammunition to last them a week."

"Two weeks," Chatillion spoke up, "if we ration."

"Two weeks, then," Golmen rolled his eyes, "in any case, we cannot allow this to stand. Bloodbane was one of the Order's chief inventions which helped turn the tide of the skirmishes fifty years ago. I will not have our paladins confronting this new Caer menace without it." He stirred his tea. "As you know, however, procuring the supplies to produce bloodbane is a perilous enterprise. Many of the ingredients can't be found locally, nor can they be easily shipped from other parts of the world." He looked up. "Perhaps you can guess at what I'm getting at, cleric."
 
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