04-15-2014, 07:18 AM
Aria accepted, and Armande nodded. "You may," he said in response to her query.
Hands folded, one leg crossed over the other, he was an image of serenity as though the choirs of the church were lifting their voices in prayerful unison at that very moment and Armande was their conductor.
"Many Atharim have tried. You will be allowed to study the summaries of their failures. Weapons and assistance are yours as well. I am not setting you on a path to failure, child. If you fail, it is your own fault."
One such piece of information included the recordings Armande shared with the Pope and Father Dmitri. A few moments dedicated to the technology granted the transfer of files to Aria's accounts where she could study at her leisure.
"This was Rashik," Armande began, "who in surveying the intruder Jaxen Marveet found himself with the unique opportunity to ambush the Ascendancy under minimal guard." Armande watched blandly while the Atharim's secondary camera was enveloped in blinding blue light. The man himself sprinted from the fires, his screams wailing into the embedded microphone. Rashik's camera was the one into which Apollyon delivered his airborne message.
"You see what happened to him." Armande studied Aria, probing for fear from the girl. If she flickered now, she would burn beneath the Ascendancy's defenses when the time came.
Armande stood. Hands folded behind his back, he approached the small woman that may be Apollyon's downfall, however much he doubted her. He stood before the Sentient, and allowed all of his disgust and faithlessness to surface to the front of his mind. He wanted to overwhelm the girl with emotion. If she were to quake before a Pillar of Time, best she break now. Standing in the presence of Apollyon at the moment she intended to strike him down would overwhelm her with his presence. The Destroyer was the epitome of prophecy and hate. To a Sentient, he would be the thing she feared most, and Armande was not going to send her on this mission before testing her resolve.
He stared into her eyes. Others saw a vibrant, green field, but Armande knew them to be the dull color of the dead grasses scorched by a summer sun. To him, her plump mouth spewed filth. He focused upon all his loathing until it filled him with enough hate to crush her.
Hands folded, one leg crossed over the other, he was an image of serenity as though the choirs of the church were lifting their voices in prayerful unison at that very moment and Armande was their conductor.
"Many Atharim have tried. You will be allowed to study the summaries of their failures. Weapons and assistance are yours as well. I am not setting you on a path to failure, child. If you fail, it is your own fault."
One such piece of information included the recordings Armande shared with the Pope and Father Dmitri. A few moments dedicated to the technology granted the transfer of files to Aria's accounts where she could study at her leisure.
"This was Rashik," Armande began, "who in surveying the intruder Jaxen Marveet found himself with the unique opportunity to ambush the Ascendancy under minimal guard." Armande watched blandly while the Atharim's secondary camera was enveloped in blinding blue light. The man himself sprinted from the fires, his screams wailing into the embedded microphone. Rashik's camera was the one into which Apollyon delivered his airborne message.
"You see what happened to him." Armande studied Aria, probing for fear from the girl. If she flickered now, she would burn beneath the Ascendancy's defenses when the time came.
Armande stood. Hands folded behind his back, he approached the small woman that may be Apollyon's downfall, however much he doubted her. He stood before the Sentient, and allowed all of his disgust and faithlessness to surface to the front of his mind. He wanted to overwhelm the girl with emotion. If she were to quake before a Pillar of Time, best she break now. Standing in the presence of Apollyon at the moment she intended to strike him down would overwhelm her with his presence. The Destroyer was the epitome of prophecy and hate. To a Sentient, he would be the thing she feared most, and Armande was not going to send her on this mission before testing her resolve.
He stared into her eyes. Others saw a vibrant, green field, but Armande knew them to be the dull color of the dead grasses scorched by a summer sun. To him, her plump mouth spewed filth. He focused upon all his loathing until it filled him with enough hate to crush her.