Peniel

[Rowan Finnegan]

Their time on the road was a marvelous thing, hampered only by Rowan’s recovery from the attack made by that feral mermaid – at least that is what Rowan thought of it as. How long had they been on the road? Rowan could not tell you. Her days had been filled with passion, frivolity, and spirituality. All splendid things to lose oneself in. The Taiga was the crowning jewel in their adventures. There had been more than one occasion where she had found herself idly wondering what life would be like if she, Armande, and Vale could just forget the world and retire to the boreal forest of the CCD. The ‘Pattern’, as Armande had so affectionately called it, would not let them off so easily. They had been marked for a great destiny and there was no skirting it.

Remember your visions… Rowan had to remind herself constantly. The road trip was a necessary step on their journey, not one taken for pleasure.

Armande and Vale had poured over that ancient map many times and Rowan had nothing of consequence to offer them. Oh, she tried. She was a wise and cultured woman, but sadly, Khylsty lore was not on the syllabus during her time at boarding school. They did eventually find their way, however; whether through luck, wit, or the aid of the ‘Pattern,’ Rowan could not tell you.
 

---

On the day that Rowan Finnegan was to meet the Holy Father, she had spent three hours readying herself – sparing no expense in terms of garments, jewelry, or cosmetic applications. She had vowed to herself, upon learning of the planned meeting, that she would impress the Pope even if she chose not to speak a single word to him.

Rowan stood staring at a treeline, accompanied by her true loves, waiting for the man and his retinue to show themselves. A gust of wind picked up and played at her silken hair, strings of opals and moonstone glittering in the light of the Sun. She smoothed the skirt of her white, full-sleeved, silken gown; it was cut modestly at the neck, fitting tightly across her torso and flaring out at the hips. More moonstones and opals glittered along the hems of the dress, worked with elaborate embroidery in silver threads. Rowan looked like the Moon incarnate.

Any moment now… Rowan thought nervously to herself as she glanced up at Armande.

Swirls of white and red erupted from the treeline, drawing Rowan’s gaze, and her breath caught. Armande went out to meet him and held his hand out for a shake – a goddamn handshake!

Sweet Mother above, he wasn’t bluffing. Rowan thought with a blush.

Rowan was prepared for a cold reception, but she had hoped for a little warmth or kinship. The Holy Father had barely even looked at her. He was more interested in having a Coke Zero, of all things. Strayed far from the embrace of the Mother Church, indeed. Rowan fought the inescapable urge to roll her eyes at the numbness of the man.

Vale broke through, as she always had, and offered up a promise that made Rowan giggle. She turned her gaze to her lover, her sister, and whispered back, “So long as I get his frock and his hat, I shall aid you. You can keep the undergarments.” She giggled again to herself, knowing full well that Vale meant what she said.

The Pontiff and Armande continued on, Rowan listening and finding herself disappointed with the Holy Father. She had imagined him their fourth companion, swept up and along with this fateful excursion; and here he was, almost sounding skeptical. Oh, he had had dreams, but still… that tone he took when speaking with Armande – and only Armande. Did he not witness her virtue by her sheer elegance and beauty? She was a Voodoo Queen, yes, but did the man really know so little as to what that encompassed?

Rowan had begun to deflate a touch. Oh, she kept up her appearance on the outside, but on the inside?

The Pope turned to walk away, yet still spoke on. The three of them moved with him, Armande taking a place at the Pontiff’s side, while they were clearly left to walk a few feet back from the men. Rowan’s brow furrowed once the two men were in front of them. This was not at all how she envisioned the meeting. Her arm sprang up, taking Vale’s and pulling her close, forcing them to walk in lockstep. She turned her gaze towards her sister and rolled her eyes.

“Up here on the surface, he is a great Spiritual Leader… Or he was supposed to be… All I see is a man. An exceedingly small man… What think you, sister?” Rowan whispered quietly to Vale as she stared at the back of the Pontiff’s pristine robes.

[Armande]

Armande's mouth tightened at Patricus' flippant dismissal. He is young, he reminded himself. Jaded at the world weariness that had been loaded upon him. His voice did sharpen though, remembering the man he had chosen as Pope. "You accepted the wrong path if there is nothing to be done, Phillip. I believed you to be a better man than that when I selected you." Likely, he would bristle at the use of his first name, as well the reminder that Armande was the reason he wore the Sacerdotal Vestments.

Which was what he wanted. It was meant to be a slap. He stopped, waiting for the women to catch up to his side, once again, the three of them facing him. "Fate, God, the Pattern of Things, Maya- whatever you want to call it- has brought us all here. We are the hands through which it shapes the world. To save it. One would think the Vicar of Christ would realize that."

The rebuke was enough. To answer his question, "Yes, it is real. All of it. I told you once- showed you the truth of the world we live in. You left it to me and mine to safeguard mankind from those threats. Now, you are called to action. I do not know who Nimeda or Tuulu is. But the pillar was real. And the garden, Eden itself, preserved for this day, for this hour."

He looked at the twin Eyes, black and white, light and dark, piercing beyond the vale, and smiled at each of them before bringing the full intensity of his bearing upon the Pope. His eyes were burning azure fire. "You have been called to join the three of us to find the Garden of Eden, Holy Father. Will you accept?"

[Valeriya]

In Rowan’s confidence, Valeriya snorted aloud. “The Khylsty recognize only the Great One, Father Rasputin, and all who are not he fall short of his greatness. That is why this spiritual leader is so small in the presence of our Beloved. None can compare to Armande,” Vale said with absolute certainty.

She went on. “He is not awakened as we are. Do not be surprised that he does not meet our standards.” As she said as much, Vale caressed the side of Rowan’s face near the wound that was once her eye. In their passions, Rowan beheld the scarring that decorated Valeriya’s back. They reveled in their metal Awakenings. The surface dwellers might be ashamed of such things, but Valeriya saw only strength and ascension. “Don’t you understand sister? It is us who are the great spiritual leaders.” She pecked the pale cheek that gave her so much pleasure reassuringly.

As they walked, their Beloved and this Pope conversed with an intensity that Vale rarely witnessed from Armande. Everything that he did and said was powerful, as there was no need because his mere presence alone conveyed authority. Rarely did he have need to exert himself so. It meant that this Pope was foolishly trying to resist. He would learn, in time. They all did. Everyone would awaken or they would die. This was the way.

Never the less, Valeriya tipped her head slightly, considering the regal garments that she and Rowan discussed confiscating. Should they acquire them, it would leave this Pope positively stripped bare. Not that Valeriya would mind seeing as much. His skin was pale as a corpse. His face as gentle as a newborn flower. He would be a beautiful trophy undressed.

“I like him,” she finally declared. “He has a wildness that makes me desire hotly to see conquered. When Armande is done with him, I shall take him as my concubine. I’ll share with you, of course, Beloved Sister,” she smiled, and generously kissed her sister on the hand. “He’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in the Above. Well, the prettiest thing after yourself, dear one,” she said reassuringly.

“Do you not agree?”

[Patricus I]

Armande said these things to bait him: lording over the reminder of his divine post as the benefactor to a mere man. Anger nipped his heels red as the leather shoes that adorned his feet. Armande would find that the tighter he tugged the chain, the less compliant an animal he led, and Philip was no dog to be trained into heel. He paused to settle the matter once and for all.

“I once told you that I feared nothing, but I did not tell you why. I fear nothing because my soul is secure in the knowledge that I know nothing I should not know. There is nothing that can be taken or added to me that I would not regret. I accepted this office because I was meant for it. All you did was accelerate my appointment. So, let’s be done with these shows of ego. I will cease my demands that you honor me for who I am and you will cease your rebukes,” he said. Philip spoke with all the clarity of spring water: sure and true. Other men may offer a hand as if the clasping made firm their mutual acknowledgment. But Philip’s gloved hands were folded neatly within the layer of his cape. He waited patiently for agreement, uncertain it would come, yet solid in knowing their work (whatever it was to become) would grind to an ugly halt if they could not stand one another’s presence.

Finally, he sighed and looked around. “If ever the Garden of Eden endures, I walked through it in my dreams.” A moment of awe flickered astonishment across his features, but a sort of sadness soon replaced it. "And it was nothing like this,” he spoke softly, accepting the offer in as few of words.

Such was when a strange chill crept up his spine. No sound accompanied the sensation. Nor was there any movement or disturbance to explain, but the only thing he could liken it, was the time Armande showed him a creature of inexplicable darkness.

With the change, the landscape felt all the more dead. The ground was all the more scorched. The sky all the dimmer, as if the very sun veiled itself of what it may next witness.

[Armande]

Phillip's voice was tight and Armande smiled to himself. The role of picador was not one he took often. Most times, his indomitable force of will, the sheer overwhelming nature of his arguments, or the projection of his towering persona was enough to bring people in line.

But there were those who bristled, their backs up, ready to do anything but what was required. Obsequiousness was not an arrow in his quiver. But a sharp prick or the slap of rebuke could pierce their wall of pride.

It was enough that it had worked. His Eminence, the Holy Father, the Pontifex Maximus, and Sovereign Servant was willing to forgo his need of titles so as to work together. 

There was no gloating on his face- nor the laughter that wanted to erupt as he overheard snippets of Valeriya's conversation with Rowan. Patricus was a beautiful man. He'd have to be dead not to notice that. He enough measure of the man, though, to not hold any breath in the hopes that he join their union, as interesting a thought as that might be.

As they walked, Armande took note of the barrenness around them. At Phillip's words, he nodded. "Landscape change much over millenia. Whatever was divine in Eden seems to have gone." His voice became thoughtful as he opened himself to the world, feeling, for the first time, the lack of life. Foolish, of course, as grass and insects still inhabited this land.

He slowed, inhaling, looking around and then at his companions.  "It feels dead." Yet something lived. He felt, rather than heard, a thrumming, as if underground. 

The helicopter and camper were hidden by the tree line they had left. The gentle undulations of ground carpeted in long bent grass seemed an ocean, and something was moving underneath. His eyes went sharp as he scanned the landscape.

His voice sharpened, his words for Valeriya and Rowan. "We are not alone. Be ready."

[[Rowan and Valeriya, see PM]]

[Patricus I]

Contemplation of the extinguishing of Eden was cut short. Armande’s comment was meant with confusion. Before he could discern the meaning of alone, the helicopter pilot was at his side. Somewhere he produced a pistol and had stood like he was about to enter a battle. 
”What is the meaning --?" he began to demand, but the pilot practically began to drag him away.

“Holy Father, I must get you away from here,” he declared, but Philip resisted the disrespectful yanking on his arm.

The next moment, something erupted from the ground in a spray of dirt and darkness. It looked like an enormous insect, and like many hexapods, it darted erratically on wide wings. Philip’s brow was drawn with concern.

[Rowan Finnegan]

Rowan felt herself smirking at Vale’s boasting and nodded along with a smoldering side glance. Despite her own show of confidence, there was indeed a part of Rowan that had been humbled throughout this new path in life. She had often thought of herself as a great spiritual leader – she was to bring Vodou to the new heart of the world! That had all taken a backseat as of late.

Vale was right of course. Why shouldn’t she consider herself a great spiritual leader? She was, but Vale was not referring to Vodou. Rowan felt a pang of sorrow at the thought, but still held that seductive, knowing gaze. She knew what she had cast off, she knew what mantle she now had to wear. She was the White Eye of the Khylsty and that was all that had to matter. Rowan squeezed her sister’s arm tightly and smiled. The smile was genuine.

“He is a rarity, I will admit,” Rowan spoke half-teasingly and half-seriously to her sister, “Many of the other ‘powerful’ men on the surface are all lumpy and fat with horrible, stinking breath. You wouldn’t want to slap bellies with most of them… But him? I just might take you up on that offer.”

Rowan returned the kiss upon Vale’s own hand with fervor, allowing herself to draw in her sister’s scent. Whether Vale showered or not, whether she used perfumes and scented oils or not, there was always a particular smell that lingered under it all – something earthy and dark. Rowan was never quite able to put a finger on just what it was. She had relegated it to that individual smell all people had, she-

“What just happened?” Rowan asked Vale. Something felt… off. Something felt… wrong. She looked around, scanning the landscape for something, someone, but she saw nothing. Armande spoke up, affirming that strange feeling she had. “You felt that too?” Rowan asked him.

A uniformed man came up to the Holy Father and urged him to leave, but he resisted. Rowan held up her hand and opened herself to the-

Dirt and tall grass erupted ahead of them. Rowan’s head whipped around to see an enormous, demon-insect-hybrid… thing darting and flying around the newly made hole in the earth. She opened herself to the Light and felt as if a great, yawning void had opened. It was there! The Light was there! But she could not touch it no matter how desperately she tried. Serenity seemed to cut itself to ribbons as she spoke quickly and seriously to Armande, “I can’t harness it. Something is keeping me from working my magic, love.”

Rowan quietly cursed herself for relying solely on the Light. Stupid, stupid, she thought to herself. There had been a time when she had always kept a pistol on her, but those days were short-lived. She would rectify that in the future. But for now, the tall grass behind the hole in the ground was quivering violently.

Indeed, two more of those creatures erupted from the ground, and the grasses behind those new holes were also starting to quiver.

“I don’t suppose any of you has a gun or an extra knife?” Rowan asked the group with an air of disappointment. If she was going to die this day, she wouldn't do so because she was too busy panicking. She would at least take one of these bastards down with her.

[Valeriya]

Vale’s lusting was sadly interrupted. It was the change in her Beloved’s attention that first sparked her wariness of danger. Also sadly, her prowess in battle was not often tested in the Above. The world up here was so docile, she had rarely need. Excepting of course the mermaid monster thing from the lake.

A pleased smile split her mouth when she realized what happened. The creatures were slightly smaller than a person, but gangly and swift. One. Then two. Then three. Then a small swarm erupted from the earth like an explosion. In moments, two knives were in her hands, which she flipped around her wrist with a flair of dramatic showmanship.

She licked her lips and ran into the middle of the swarm. “Come get me!” she yelled in her native Russian language: one demon to another, and slashed as the first dived at her head.

[Patricus I]

The warning fires of danger lit the pilot’s gaze. The man moved like a shield, rotating around the Pope while the flying creatures took their aim. Patricus’ gaze was transfixed upon them, having no awareness such a creature existed. The animals were disturbingly intelligent. Philip could see it in their motion and strategy. These were something greater than reptilian, but less than what the divine hand of God fashioned. Demons, the church would call them. Whatever they were, they were as unnatural as the scorched land of Tungsaka itself. The pilot was frantic to remove him until Philip placed his gloved hand on the man’s shoulder, squeezing it carefully. And while the others did what they thought best, Patricus prayed silently to know what to do.

[Armande]

The creatures that erupted from the ground, scurrying on their spidery legs, mouths snapping, wings folded tight at their body, swarmed toward them. As a child, growing up in the brothel in Syracuse or with whichever friend of his mother they might have stayed with, cockroaches and spiders had scared him. But that was something that had been burned out of him long ago. In the deserts and hidden monasteries, caves and long abandoned ruins, tunnels and dead villages, centipedes and scorpions and spiders and other chittering crawly things were common enough over the decades- and his pride big enough- that he had lost all fear of them. The spawn of the god-wars were hellish and creative enough to make such things seem insignificant.

So he did not feel fear, exactly. Not an irrational fear to put water in his bones. No, rather, his focus narrowed and his heartrate accelerated, his breathing increased, flooding his body with oxygen. Peripherally aware of his companions he stepped forward and drew his telescoping blade, the deadly edge flipping out with the flick of wrist, all in one motion as he positioned himself, a rock against which this tide must break. Valeriya burst past him, flashes of wicked metal at either hand, a hungry scream in her voice, and he smiled, even as his carbon steel found its first mark. He wasn't worried for her. She could take care of herself. Patricus and Rowan, however, would need assistance.

They all had a role to play. It would seem enemies would make sure the four of them did not reach their destination.

Icy sweat beaded hot on his face as he spun about, a dancing dust devil, hacking and slashing at the horde. It was not without some injury. There were many of them. But none that stopped or slowed him.