02-26-2020, 02:19 AM
Blood-curdling cries would cut straight to other men's souls. Warmth sprayed, and upon wiping his brow, his sleeve was colored red. The Regus of the Archives heaved and suddenly the fight was done. Heavy breathing filled the chamber, and the words washed through the rush of Philip’s mind otherwise wrestling with reality.
He told the Lord to deliver emotion, and with fervor, the Lord answered the demand. He looked at himself, and like the lamb of God, he found himself covered in blood, but where the spirit was strong, the flesh was weak. The heart pounded and fear crawled around the room, tempting him to delve into its comforting darkness. It was another emotion, however, that chased away the weakness. Anger spurred the red drenching his robes to the heat of the same weak flesh that wanted to curl and hide. He would not allow it. He stubbornly pushed away the Regus to allow himself to stand on his own, and tremors of the flesh were expelled.
The elegance of his typically spiritual face blanked to marble as his eyes peeled apart the body of this thing occupying the floor. After a moment, he exhaled long and steady and plucked the cape otherwise dispelled by the scramble back to place. Next, he carefully arranged the pectoral cross back to the center of his chest. His hands he swiped as though they were dirtied by dusty books rather than the blood of a beast. The zucchetto cap was within arms’ reach, and after a moment to arrange his disheveled hair, replaced it upon his head despite what marred it. Dirtied, bloodied, sore and pissed, the Holy Father cleared his throat while Regus studied the broken restraints.
His breath raced despite the composition of his exterior, “I don’t know which would be worse, that the Regus of the Archives cannot restrain the things he claims mastery over or that he purposefully weakens the restraints of the things he presents to me,” he said, anger overt. "What was suppose to happen? I see this thing and am instantly a believer? Well, it fucking worked."
He drank in the sight of this wizened Jesuit whom barely broke a sweat. He held some sort of sword still dirtied by the blood of his kill. Philip clutched the intense warrior's gaze undisturbed and wondered what sort of man it was that served the church in such a way.
He finally licked his lips, only to snarl upon sampling the blood of the beast. Disgusted, there would be no more discussion until he was washed of this filth, and discussion was mandatory. The ascension to the Papal apartments was swift, and before his attendants could make a fuss over his appearance, Patricus stripped himself, ready to have the robes burned for good measure. They could reunite at dinner.
He told the Lord to deliver emotion, and with fervor, the Lord answered the demand. He looked at himself, and like the lamb of God, he found himself covered in blood, but where the spirit was strong, the flesh was weak. The heart pounded and fear crawled around the room, tempting him to delve into its comforting darkness. It was another emotion, however, that chased away the weakness. Anger spurred the red drenching his robes to the heat of the same weak flesh that wanted to curl and hide. He would not allow it. He stubbornly pushed away the Regus to allow himself to stand on his own, and tremors of the flesh were expelled.
The elegance of his typically spiritual face blanked to marble as his eyes peeled apart the body of this thing occupying the floor. After a moment, he exhaled long and steady and plucked the cape otherwise dispelled by the scramble back to place. Next, he carefully arranged the pectoral cross back to the center of his chest. His hands he swiped as though they were dirtied by dusty books rather than the blood of a beast. The zucchetto cap was within arms’ reach, and after a moment to arrange his disheveled hair, replaced it upon his head despite what marred it. Dirtied, bloodied, sore and pissed, the Holy Father cleared his throat while Regus studied the broken restraints.
His breath raced despite the composition of his exterior, “I don’t know which would be worse, that the Regus of the Archives cannot restrain the things he claims mastery over or that he purposefully weakens the restraints of the things he presents to me,” he said, anger overt. "What was suppose to happen? I see this thing and am instantly a believer? Well, it fucking worked."
He drank in the sight of this wizened Jesuit whom barely broke a sweat. He held some sort of sword still dirtied by the blood of his kill. Philip clutched the intense warrior's gaze undisturbed and wondered what sort of man it was that served the church in such a way.
He finally licked his lips, only to snarl upon sampling the blood of the beast. Disgusted, there would be no more discussion until he was washed of this filth, and discussion was mandatory. The ascension to the Papal apartments was swift, and before his attendants could make a fuss over his appearance, Patricus stripped himself, ready to have the robes burned for good measure. They could reunite at dinner.
![[Image: hiclipart.com_-e1597513863757.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/hiclipart.com_-e1597513863757.png)