04-08-2014, 03:46 PM
For obvious reasons, Regus ignored the Sentient's first question. The outburst that followed earned her a threatening glare. The monster admitted to indoctrination into their organization, which given his age, must have taken place in these very hallowed halls, a sickening thought. Unfortunately, the Enclave Chronicles were insufficient to determine the exact order of events surrounding the initiation, but the investigation was for Armande to decipher, not discuss with his subordinates.
"I am showing you this because I want there to be no doubt in your mind that they," he pointed at the image, "are nearly unstoppable! They cannot be allowed to draw a single collective breath. If its difficult to stop a single god, imagine the incomprehensible for a moment, and think what it would be like to approach a line of them!" His voice teetered on determination poised at the edge of anger, but it was a frustration venting upon no singular target. This was his fight, and Aria was a warrior. Why else was she still alive but to serve as Father Dmitri had the foresight to imagine.
There was more. "I am showing this to you so you saw the face of the enemy when he admitted he was 'the greatest monster alive!'" Did her feeble mind grasp the enormity of their situation? She was the one that sensed the panic in Voynich's glosslalia. Did she sense it now? Apollyon, marked by the thing he would slay, the ouroboros, which was time itself?
"I am showing you this so you remember your cause the moment you lay eyes upon him, the moment before you strike him down, and fear shivers down your spine."
He straightened his back, hands folded, face of marble, and anticipated her thoughts. "That's right. I am sending you after him." Father Dmitri deigned to interrupt, but the Regus silenced the priest with a single look. "This is what she is trained to do, Father."
Dmitri's jaw tightened, but Armande demanded dignity. "She might fail," Dmitri said. Armande would guess Dmitri had less faith in Aria than he admitted. Failure meant death, or worse, captivity.
"She might, but she might succeed." Armande replied. In either case, Armande won.
He looked to her, "Well, child? You can refuse, if you wish. Of course you know what that means, but I would have the honor if Father Dmitri did not wish for blood on his hands." A priest should not have to slaughter his own surrogate child.
Armande himself would give her the honor of a coward's redeeming death in that event. Theirs was an ancient rite to exchange death from the hands of the brotherhood rather than face long-suffering torture from an enemy. No few men and women in their histories had undergone the rite. Aria could be one of them.
They awaited her decree.
"I am showing you this because I want there to be no doubt in your mind that they," he pointed at the image, "are nearly unstoppable! They cannot be allowed to draw a single collective breath. If its difficult to stop a single god, imagine the incomprehensible for a moment, and think what it would be like to approach a line of them!" His voice teetered on determination poised at the edge of anger, but it was a frustration venting upon no singular target. This was his fight, and Aria was a warrior. Why else was she still alive but to serve as Father Dmitri had the foresight to imagine.
There was more. "I am showing this to you so you saw the face of the enemy when he admitted he was 'the greatest monster alive!'" Did her feeble mind grasp the enormity of their situation? She was the one that sensed the panic in Voynich's glosslalia. Did she sense it now? Apollyon, marked by the thing he would slay, the ouroboros, which was time itself?
"I am showing you this so you remember your cause the moment you lay eyes upon him, the moment before you strike him down, and fear shivers down your spine."
He straightened his back, hands folded, face of marble, and anticipated her thoughts. "That's right. I am sending you after him." Father Dmitri deigned to interrupt, but the Regus silenced the priest with a single look. "This is what she is trained to do, Father."
Dmitri's jaw tightened, but Armande demanded dignity. "She might fail," Dmitri said. Armande would guess Dmitri had less faith in Aria than he admitted. Failure meant death, or worse, captivity.
"She might, but she might succeed." Armande replied. In either case, Armande won.
He looked to her, "Well, child? You can refuse, if you wish. Of course you know what that means, but I would have the honor if Father Dmitri did not wish for blood on his hands." A priest should not have to slaughter his own surrogate child.
Armande himself would give her the honor of a coward's redeeming death in that event. Theirs was an ancient rite to exchange death from the hands of the brotherhood rather than face long-suffering torture from an enemy. No few men and women in their histories had undergone the rite. Aria could be one of them.
They awaited her decree.