A decent corner

[Quillon Hawke]

The busyness of the Red Square had diminished in recent weeks. Autumn was shifting into winter soon, and the wind promised its imminent arrival. The tourists had decreased in numbers, but Moscovites remained aplenty. He set up shop near the entrance to St. Basil’s cathedral. A small table displayed holographic information about the location, hours, and times that Seekers were welcome to explore the Sanctuary of the Ascendant Flame. The spire was only a few miles to the north, and while it was overwhelmingly tall, it could not be seen from present location.

Quillon wore his long purple robe, the collar high and curled around the back of his neck, with the symbol of the Veilwardens sewn upon the breast. Beneath were simple clothing, black trousers and a scoop-neck shirt. The robe kept him warm, but he was born and raised in Moscow, the temperature would need to plummet before needing adding a coat and scarf.

He began his oration, imploring to those passing to turn to the Ascendancy, a modern day god in flesh form, and of course, to join the Brotherhood in their acknowledgment of such a being. Several people stopped to scan their information, no too few because the current speaker was so intense about his oration.

After a short time, a Red Devil approached, one of the armed security who monitored the Red Square’s safety. Quillon frowned, saying as the Guard approached: “Now hold on, I have a permit to be here,” which he promptly showed. The Devil, in his orange, red and black uniform shook his head. “Permit is only good for coded areas. This isn’t one of them. You’ll have to move on.” He pointed.

Quillon guffawed, “Not according to your own damn website. This is perfectly legal.”

The Devil folded his arms, growing impatient. “Look, we’ve been lenient with the Brotherhood plenty of times in the past. Coded areas change frequently. Move on or you’ll be issued a citation. I hate to ban another one of you.”

Quillon begrudgingly packed up his stuff, casting a jealous look at the red walls of the Kremlin before ducking off toward a side street. Finally, he found a decent corner outside an artist’ gallery and began again.

[Sámiel]

A cold wind signaled the shift into winter, and with it, the chill invigorating his very essence. This was his time of year when Sámiel was ecstatic, manically so, and today, like the wind itself, he roamed the streets, restless and aimless. Though dressed loudly in patterned bellbottoms, a ruffled shirt wide open at the throat and a heavy wool overcoat, he moved with a quiet presence.

He was absorbing the busyness and tourists filling the Red Square, savoring the energy of the place, when a strange yet captivating sight caught his attention near St. Basil’s. A man in a long purple robe, with a high collar curling around the back of his neck and the symbol of the Brotherhood sewn upon the back, was passionately orating to the onlookers.

He was drawn to man’s intense features—the sharp lines of his face, the fervor in his eyes, and the strong call of a voice that seemed to match Sámiel’s own presence in an inexplicable way. The physical attraction was immediate and profound, a spark that ignited within him as he watched the man speak with such intensity and conviction.

The Brother argued with one of the Red Devils, the city's armed security, and Sámiel observed the exchange from a distance. He noted the frustration in the man’s voice, the determination etched into his expression as he was forced to move on. There was something undeniably magnetic as a shadow draws darkness.

He followed until the man relocated to a corner outside an artist's gallery and witnessed the same impassioned speech once more, his words infused with the same fervor despite the change in location. Those passing offered a mixed reaction, some nodding in agreement, others slithering past without acknowledgement.

Satisfied that he had seen enough, Sámiel made his way to a nearby café. He ordered a cup of hot tea, the steam rising from the cup as a reminder of the warmth it held, and carried it out in a to-go cup. With the tea in hand, he approached.

"With all that speaking you are doing," Sámiel said in his characteristic eerie, melodic tone, "your throat must be dry.” He offered the cup of hot tea towards the Brotherhood, eyes roaming the symbols on clothing.

[Quillon Hawke]

Quillon stood tall, exuding confidence and authority in his long purple robe, the high collar curled around the back of his neck, and the symbol of the Veilwardens prominently displayed on his breast. His attire was not just clothing; it was a uniform of one of the highest ranks in the Brotherhood, a visible testament to his status and power, and those in the know, knew.

He had managed to attract an attentive crowd, their eyes fixed on him as he passionately spoke of the Ascendancy and the modern-day god in flesh form. Quillon's voice carried a fervor that demanded attention, and he basked in the validation that the gathered listeners provided. This was his element, where he felt most alive and significant, each word he uttered reinforcing his sense of purpose and self-importance.

As he continued his oration and the crowd dispersed, Quillon noticed a figure approaching from the corner of his eye. The man was striking in appearance, dressed in an eccentric yet perfectly fitting outfit that blended seamlessly with the city's daytime fashion, but there was something otherworldly about him, an aura that swept ahead of his approach like wind heralding the arrival of autumn.

The stranger extended a cup of hot tea. "With all that speaking you are doing," the man said, "your throat must be quite parched."

Quillon's eyes met the stranger's, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The tea felt like an offering to a sacred altar, a gesture imbued with significance. Quillon accepted the cup with a gracious nod, his fingers brushing against the man's briefly in the handoff. As sure as the spark within his own body spread from the touch, the warmth of the tea spread through him, contrasting sharply with the cold air on his lips.

"Thank you,” Quillon murmured, strained voice carrying a mix of expectant authority and curiosity. He sipped the tea, feeling the warmth and the almost ritualistic nature of the moment. He straightened, his posture that of a priest accepting an offering on behalf of his god.

Quillon nodded, feeling both validated and intrigued. "The Ascendancy is a cause worth every breath," he replied, his conviction unwavering. He couldn't deny the allure of this strange man, nor the significance of his offering. "Belief,” he said simply, his voice filled with self-assuredness. "Belief in something greater than ourselves, in a power that can transform our world.”

He glimpsed the man’s gaze wandering his chest, presumably studying the symbol emblazoned there, but for the directness in his stare, Quillon wondered what else he spied. He seemed to see straight through him. He held his voice strong, reawakened by the warm liquid. “My name is Quillon Hawke, Veilwarden of the Brotherhood of Ascension. Are you aware of our work? The temple is near if you would like to see?” 

[Sámiel]

Sámiel allowed a slow, knowing smile to play on his lips as he observed Quillon's reaction. The man was so certain, so fervent in his beliefs, and it was precisely that intensity that drew him in.

His eyes flicked to the symbol on Quillon’s chest, recognizing it as a mark of authority, a badge worn by those who believed themselves to be shepherds of a divine truth. Sámiel could feel the weight of it, not just in its physical form, but in the way Quillon carried himself—an embodiment of conviction, of self-importance.

The name—Quillon Hawke—echoed in Sámiel’s mind, marked by the kind of gravity that often accompanied those who were used to being followed, listened to, obeyed. Sámiel found it almost amusing, how seriously men like Quillon took their roles, how they built structures and titles around themselves to feel powerful.

And yet, there was something about Quillon’s invitation that piqued Sámiel’s curiosity. Not the temple itself, nor really the rituals or the supposed divine that the Brotherhood proclaimed, but rather the spectacle of it all—the performance of belief, the intricate dance of power and submission. It was something that fascinated Sámiel, though he played it by different rules, rules that eschewed any worship except for the natural, chaotic forces of the primal world that had shaped him.

He tilted his head slightly, letting the silence stretch between them just long enough to create a sense of expectation, of tension. Then, with a voice as smooth as silk and as dark as midnight, he replied, “I’ve heard of your Brotherhood, of the temple you speak of. And yes, I think I would like to see it.”

He let the words hang in the cold air, a promise and a challenge all at once. His emerald eyes held Quillon’s gaze, probing, assessing, as if searching for the truth behind the man's grand proclamations. “Belief is a curious thing,” he mused, his tone almost teasing, “it binds and blinds, lifts and limits. I have always been drawn to see where it leads those who claim it so strongly.”

Sámiel took a step closer, not enough to invade Quillon’s space, but enough to let the Veilwarden feel his presence, his aura of quiet, unsettling power. “Lead the way, Veilwarden,” he said, the title rolling off his tongue with a hint of mockery that was almost imperceptible. “I’m curious to see what lies beyond the veil you guard so zealously.”