CLEAR THIS MIND

indie. sel. sideblog to openveined.

[martyrsuggestion]

the blood is sweet and warm, a ruby in the rough of your body

[martyrsuggestion]

“how adored am i now” his skin cries

[rapturcus-blog]

Isaiah believes so strongly in his faith largely because he found suffering to be inescapable through his life. Between his parents, the plague, and seeing his younger sister, Isabelle, go through strife, Catholicism of the time spoke greatly to him. The world was condemned, but also to suffer with purpose was to be with the spirit of God. He didn’t find the Catholic church to give him respite, though, so he escalated his practices since pain was a tangible medium of worship and it brings him mental clarity.  

It wasn’t until he was shown the order of the Light (an extremist sect developed from the First Order) that he felt transcendence and immanence in his faith. On some level, he believes the purpose of life is to suffer to bring one’s self closer to the Light and gain salvation, but also believes that, by being a paragon, he can bring the Light’s favor to humanity who suffers already. 

His faith, however, also serves his escapism from feelings of guilt and sin he bears for leaving his sister in the care of his parents, both abusive– a source of suffering he does not see as divine because it lacks the proper motivation, isn’t willful. He has complex thoughts on the nature of humanity and suffering as part of life in this context.

[lilpieceofmyworld]

[rapturcus-blog]

He stands with heels planted firmly. He stands among those gathered in the center of the town. He could never say the hamlet offers much of an army, but Isaiah knows it bears the responsibility of a stronghold. 

A responsibility laid on the backs of those here, now. Red soaks the sky and the ground. The canon’s ringing has finally ended. 

Isaiah breathes in slowly, exhales out even more so. Fresh lashes from the night before sting in the open air. Clarity. His wrist stings wear his manacles cut his skin and his hand runs red with blood. It stains his flail where he holds it. 

He’s a testament to their strength. His body a vessel for the Light. This is a challenge to endure, and he intends to do so with every reserve left with him. 

Isaiah can hear the bark of orders and white-hot fear lances his heart. He grins.

What is fear but a key to piety?

[martyrsuggestion]

my throat, that viscera,

raw and parched thing,

scabs and bleeds,

the words that emit from me,

are divine words.

burning and ebullient and sharp;

they pour forth.

[rapturcus-blog]

bilerot:

He feels the gaze, hot on his scalp. He doesn’t shrink from it like he used to, but his eyes do downcast in the shame he still carries. His burden isn’t one of his faith. That, ever still, is left unwavered and steadfast- but his sins are still weighed against him. If Isaiah sticks around long enough, he’ll get to see such sins in person. The heretical beast made through means of the shadow and night.

One hand comes to cross through the chains like an arm sling, putting pressure on them in a more casual movement that isn’t likely to bring attention to the act. The beast still isn’t trusting. Anything from the abbey, from the order, is danger and a threat until they prove otherwise. Whips and flails and spikes collars that sliced skin when it lashed under chains and leather bindings– brothers and cultists laughing as they beat and bled it for enjoyment under the guise of cleansing. The pressure across his shoulders makes it bow, lessens its snarl at the base of his skull. Makes it easier to keep his calm.

          “I participate on my own. I am not allowed s-service in the abbey–            outcast and stripped of rank. I do n-not stay here in town.. Howev… ever,            I am tolerated in town by necessity of most. Many teachings are n-not as            strict in this place. If you have not been out yet, you will see why. T-this            place cannot afford to waste talent; tainted or not.”

Not allowed in the abbey? Isaiah frowns. The man seems sincere enough, and to attain the rank of First-Brother he must certainly be pious. Strange then, that he’s prohibited from the space. What good is it to damn a man for sins and offer him no chance at redemption? 

He admits to practicing on his own, though, and this draws a pleased noise from the flagellant. A true heretic wouldn’t see the necessity of worship, he thinks. So he disregards the brand. He will until he sees need to acknowledge it. 

“Perhaps you would indulge me in a ritual sometime, Brother. One of ours, one of the first Order.”

Something different, more familiar, than what the knight had shown him. 

He rests his hand on his flail. Are the teachings lenient here, or the morals? He’s yet to decide, yet to find out. He knows that he will, one way or another. And he will fulfill the Light’s purpose regardless of both. 

“What ails this place so? The very town reeks of darkness and sallow spirits. The heir speaks of cleansing it, yet I know not what from.”

[thecrimsonriot-blog]

enlighten me.

[rapturcus-blog]

bilerot:

Novice-Brother. The title has him reassessing the imposing man before him with a different eye. Undergoing the trials, dedication, cleansing of the body–  but there were no circuitors here. No one to oversee his progress and assist his furthering. He could never become a recognized devout here.

There’s a cross of sympathy as he gives a small hnn of recognition in the back of his throat. Stranger sorts had sought devotion in his time, and a seed of instant respect rooted itself in his newly forming opinion of this Isaiah.

He turns to face him fully, taking his hands infront of him, inverted in prayer, and takes a straight posture quarter bow. Respectfully greeting him, a welcome.

         “Brother Isaiah, it’s a p-pleasure to share this            world in glory with such a kin… kindred soul.”

Stutter as it is, it’s a formal greeting before he raises back up and moves to try and tuck his hair behind his ear. It was longer now than ever, coming to brush his collar bone at the longest sheaf.

            “Junia and Reynauld are … eccentric. But t-their              hearts are good. Intentions pure. The Light g… graces              them, and they have proven f-firm in faith many time over.                …. strange as their methods are.”

First-Brother Boisivon. Isaiah measures him up, takes in the tattered clothes and shawl, the heavy chains he bears-- part of his burden? Isaiah has a hard time believing that some sort of devotion justified the metal, but their true purpose he can’t glean. His eyes lift to the man’s face. Slender, elegant. A heretic’s brand covers the left hemisphere of his skull, runs down towards his brow. 

Isaiah doesn’t give any tells of his judgement, but he doesn’t bother to hide where his eyes wander. A heretic brand? What had the man done to deserve it? If he truly does, it surprises him that the others in the Light here accept him. So perhaps he doesn’t. Isaiah holds his judgement on it til he can determine more. 

Hands clasped he offers the same bow back to his Brother.

“If you deem them to be, I will heed your words. They... do seem to be devoted. The man, Reynauld-- he allowed me to join in ritual with them.”

It was of the Light, this he is sure, but it still makes his skin crawl with discomfort. He had given himself extra lashes that day to call his own torpor back to him. 

“Do you participate in the worship as well? I have not seen you in the Abbey.”

[rapturcus-blog]

@bilerot​ has caught Isaiah’s attention.

A First-Brother, a rank he understands and knows, here? Isaiah had began to think that the Sister was the closest to his beliefs here, in orthodoxy, at least. No one seems to dedicate themselves to his understanding of orthopraxy. Ah, and even that is a line blurred. 

To hear of a monk of his Order, though, had brought an excitement to the flagellant than he knows is childish and would be best tamed. In the moment though, he sought him out. The Light has given him a Brother here, one more attuned to his beliefs than the strange ones held by the knight. It’s a relief. 

“Novice-Brother, Isaiah Killian.” He doubts the man knows his monastery, so Isaiah omits it. It had been a tiny secluded thing. The very reason his Order had survived there, as thin-blooded as it was. 

Novice-Brother. Strange that he feels meek about it. He attempts to straighten his back more than it already is to spur the emotion away. 

“I came because the Light beckoned me here. I was not expecting to meet a Brother, or a host of siblings for that matter. Yet the other two talk strangely of the Light, and you’ll understand if I was relieved to hear of your presence.”

[rapturcus-blog]

stresstal:

"Of the church?" She sat nearby. "Do you hail from conversion as well?"

He closes the book in hand. It shuts with a gentle sound, and he sets it aside. Conversion? He mulls over the term. 

“To be considered a convert, I would have had to believed in God as more than a pale father. ‘Tis true, I was under the house of God before I recognized the truth of the Light.” 

[e7s0h]

[thelightprevails]

Piety Demands Blood

[rapturcus-blog]

thelightprevails:

“Toustain,” she says, halting at his words. He’s trapped her in with him if he’s going to ask for prayer. “Sister Toustain Royer of 23 years of service… and seven more still to go.” Until… she was released. If she made it through that long, if she would ever see the other side, if it even felt right to leave her post. She looks over him carefully, measured, trying to regain herself. He was a Brother, was he not? Why… why so… insinuatory?

“I hope to gather your name as well,” she replies, taking out her holy book and flipping the pages. What prayer to say, in front of a stranger, a new visitor into this holy place, this sanctuary? She walks, with an easier cadence, towards the altar. “And…. what brings you here, Brother?”

Twenty-three years... Isaiah’s smile changes tones, unnoticeable but to the most accustomed to his tells. Impressive. She found the Light sooner than him and has served it diligently, at least in years. He regrets how late he was able to hear it speak to him. If he had only heard it earlier. 

“Isaiah Killian, Sister Toustain.” He walks beside her, his own vestments meager and thin. How different their orders. “I am here because the Light wills it.”

[rapturcus-blog]

"What order be you from?"

Isaiah looks up from the book in his palm. Some interesting scripture– one of the Abbot’s texts on the passion of Christ. The man had seemed surprised Isaiah had taken interest in them– likely let him read it in hopes of converting him. 

What order is he from? Isaiah shuts the book.

“The First, mostly, Sister, but I would assume our particular beliefs diverge from their pursuits some. For some time, my monastery rang with praise of God, as well. Much like this chapel.”

[vengefulfinale]

@rapturcus from X

“I’m sayin’ I’ve’n’t had much of a relationship with the Light.” He admitted, shifting his weight on his feet. He didn’t know much of anything about the bleeding man, however, he hasn’t met a soul he couldn’t approach just yet. 

Yet. 

“Didn’t grow up with it. Got a gaggle of friends who fight for it. God don’t talk to me but they do, yeah? What does the Light tell you?”

[rapturcus-blog]

The jester is friends with the devout here? Isaiah smiles. What an odd lot. Proof, though, that the Light shone from them. And the man offers a complex question. 

He’s got surprises under that mask, it seems. 

“What does the Light tell me? You may find the answer disappointing, jester. The Light rarely speaks to me in ways I comprehend. If it could be explained with logic, there would be little room for the idea of faith. I follow the Light, but I cannot pretend to be more than a vessel for it.”

[rallyingflare]

Continued from x @rapturcus

“Yeah, and forget the rest of us if you don’t,” she says back, scowling at him as she continues threading her needle. They were several days in their journey through the warrens, and the end didn’t look near enough. 

Pig howls echoed in the distance.

“You’re either going to bleed out, or those cuts are going to infect with pig shit, and you’ll die. We’ll be down a man in this hell hole, and I’ll have to carry another corpse to the graveyard.”

[rapturcus-blog]

She persists. He watches her thread the needle while justifying her actions. Under different circumstances he’d have shoved her away as she advanced. Here, he just lays back and smirks. 

He’s quite certain he won’t die.

She lightens his burden-- he doesn’t desire it, surely the Light sees that. His smile falters some. It’s a failure. The Light will test him again, bring blood welling up from his skin, but this trial he fails. 

He will amend his sins as much as he can when he gets back. 

“You’ve little faith.”

[rapturcus-blog]

lighttakeyou:

Meditation is trial of the soul, and the body, as was demanded by the Light. A simple prospect that existed from the beginning and some denominations passionately followed. The quiet of the transept provided seclusion, particularly as the townspeople would avoid the Abbey during festivities.

He sits with a woman, and a man in the back chapel, his quiet companions upon tattered mats. A sister of the light, an archivist who found him tolerable. Their new devotee is a mystery, and his Flame was bright, brilliant. It was admirable.

“Aye, follow my words and flame.”

His hands collected light, and it dripped from them like wax. He offers them without expectation, to take.

Isaiah kneels, recognizing apprehension in himself as his knees touch the ground. The cold seeps in and the stone is far from comfortable. He takes some peace in that. He remembers his first few meditations, but they seems so long ago. 

And this ritual is far from familiar. 

Different systems, different practices. But he doesn’t know what they are. But they believe in the Light, and he can tell it warms them. That should be enough. He reaches out to take the light in his own hands. Reynuald’s are as cold as the stone beneath him. It sits in his hands like heated water. Far from flagellation.