Aerion [IC] Rated M
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January 9th, 2013 (9:17 AM). Edited January 14th, 2013 by Lilizuki.
Crystia's stance was unwavering, as she milled about in the chamber of the Monk's with the patience of a nigh-immortal, watching the robe-clad monks whose shadows hung over their faces. No stranger to a veil was she, but the elf had to wonder what would provoke these men, if that was what they wanted to be called, into taking up such a habit. Their eyes reached across all the land, yet they hid their faces from both each other and their guests. Besides the obvious lack of etiquette in the gesture, it suggested to her that they were shielding themselves from something as well. The vigilant eye, perhaps.
Or the visitors, her amongst them. Every person held a secret behind blood and flesh, whether it reached from the slaughter of a town or stealing an apple, it would all be a matter of perspective. Joining this order, however one managed it, may have revealed their secrets, or perhaps it was these seven who hid actions and thoughts from the remainder of the organization. People in power were still a victim of their own folly, their own nature, and only more vulnerable to the temptation. She would know; the silk of her stolen noble cloak felt quite luxurious indeed, and it was probably woven by the bloody fingers of a slave.
Then the walking-talking Monk began a speech, the idea of which sent Crystia's heart flipping with giddy abandon; she did love a good speech, although she didn't show it and hadn't made any signs of emotions since walking into the room. They could be shown at a later date, perhaps when they could become more relevant to the people around her; long ago was a time when she learned to only do something if anybody was going to notice. It was a philosophy that the head monk, as she'd call him, despite his lack of head-baring, seemed to share, as he lavished in the chance for showmanship and sprite limbs. Perhaps he did stretches, while the other Monks were skeptical and now they regretted it because their legs were weak and testosterone milder than
an Eveamoor Queen.
Oh, that was a good one; she'd need to remember it if she ever met Eveamoor's Queen; something along the lines of Mad...skylines. She'd remember it later, because the important part was the Monk's attempt to deprave the world of chaos and presenting an impossible task, or so it seemed. In truth, there had been an ounce of hope that the supposedly learned men of the tower would see things as they truly were, and perhaps they did, but the bravado with which they presented peace as an option left much to be desired. To eliminate chaos, nature itself would need to be torn apart until nothing remained. Even without humans, trees would be struck down by lightning or droughts would drain great lakes. Most damning of all was the fact that Fate would need to decree her own death; something she was very sure would not happen.
There was nothing to be done for it; if they hadn't come to the conclusion that they were a bunch of silly men in dresses, she wasn't going to be able to convince them, and had no wish to try. Then came the typical speech of how amazing all of the rewards would be; women, men, women-men and wine, money, and all but one of them passed her rambling thought process without a single damn given. Immortality; that was something to strive for indeed, despite the ambiguity of its form. Immortality through only not aging would be useless, in the end, and only the entropic aspect of fate's finger would be prevented. As a matter of fact...the Monks were being incredibly vague about a lot of things.
The lean elf raised her hand to gather the attention of those present and cleared her throat softly. What followed was a question, in a voice serene and clear, yet unimposing. "How? How will this orb bring peace?"
Joined Nov 2012
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