#basiliphis

[sanktere]

what we make of miracles.

          failing patience and a confluence of reason and plaintive entreaty, there remained only one final, less desirable option.

          the courtyards beside the greenhouse flourished with spring: grass and flora plump and reaching for a clear sky, rush of the pond waterfall crystalline and full. an array of scattered and milling crowds basked beneath the morning, some with textbooks sprawled open upon the lawn, some hastening to the day’s first classes with breakfasts in hand — all prosperity. he had never had the opportunity to witness the renowned academies of aquleia for himself, but he imagines they must look something like this.

          yes, on a day like this, even the contrary obstinance of the man he walked ever beside wouldn’t flag his good spirits. fingers closing again about raven’s sleeve cuff, he tugs him gently, insistently, further along. ❝ you see, lord raven? it was this way after all. ❞ one final, less desirable option. he wasn’t fond of resorting to pulling anyone anywhere, however — but closing into two decades of service has molded down the contours of their partnership; like old, comfortable robes, there is a range only visible here.

          ‘ it ’ sharpens into view far over the heads of passersby, laden branches swaying mild in the breeze, half its arms laden with rippling pink dressage. word of the ‘ wishing tree ’ had reached him through the after-class conversation of passing students, the thought of so heartwarming a start to the year bringing a pleasant light to his face. seeing the gathered dreams and prayers of the young and hopeful — it does his own heart good. and would do raven’s as well, he thinks. given that he would simply listen when assured that another knew their directions.

        ✧   //    @basiliphis

[sanktere]

not by the moon.

          titanium was only an appropriate substitute for silver when clasped in the palm of a damned believer. like it always has, it burns — a subtle numbing heat that nibbles at his skin and will blister if he keeps his hand there too long. so he mumbles the prayer under his breath quickly and lets go of the cross about his neck. even just a halfway facsimile, unblessed with holy water, still has its effects on him. what he wouldn’t give to carry a real one like the other priests, but then he would likely be nothing but ash before the hour.

          anxiety marks the quiet steps with which he leaves the fringes of the city behind. the dirty yellow glow of the streetlamp succumbs to the shadows of the trees within three strides, and he can open his eyes wider now to let the nightscape in. a groundhog darts through the underbrush out of his way, startled to find a trespasser in the forests at this hour; he looks kindly after the hollow of its burrow in apology, then deeper into the woods with a tight-lipped expression, where the worn paths made by those who enjoy the occasional nature walk narrow, fade, and then are overtaken by untrod wilderness.

          somewhere out in that wilderness is where he’s been asked to investigate.

          the feud between the church and the werewolves is longstanding and no secret. at least, not to the parties involved. for nearly five decades, the truce put down between his former excellency the hierophant and the leader of the werewolves has allowed a tenuous peace to settle over the area — or so he understands. and now, after nearly half a century of silence, the discovery of human remains, evidence of an undisputed werewolf attack on the mauled body, in a copse of trees some short miles from the city border, presents a clear challenge to both that peace and the illusion of normalcy the people of the city live under.

          he’s not certain what they hope for him to find there, since the body has already been recollected. he’s even less certain what they hope for him to do if he should find anything. his peculiar allergy to sunlight, they said, made him a unique and invaluable asset for getting to the bottom of this act of aggression. the wolves would not be expecting any movement from them by night, so he was more likely to go unnoticed.

          there was no excuse for him to refuse. and if his... circumstances made him an asset, rather than set him apart as it has for so many years, then he would do what was in his power.

          darkness is no haunting obstacle for him as for others; he sees just fine. but, as he picks his way further and further into the undergrowth, over roots and brush and fallen trunks, and the familiarity of cracked pavement and skyscraping buildings grows more and more distant, he can’t help but feel that there is something dark and deep about these woods, regardless.

      ✧   //    @basiliphis​