@casimirnoctis location: Church of Light, Eterna notes: meetcute
Cold eyes remained fixed on a stained glass fixture over an altar, the symbol of the blazing sun, a stalwart fixation among the Vanguard of the Light, hung as engrained into the cold walls.
Within Astoria witches were burned or cleaved, in Iskaldrik their presence was scarce but tolerated, and in Lysara they housed the less fortunate and worked alongside the wheels of change to build a brighter future. The great juxtaposition of their Creator and maker was the diversity of His following; one name, one prayer, and one point of focus made all the derivatives a small matter of consideration. In Ankhuria the flock worshipped a King as a God simply because his magic said it was so.
How things could change, but oh, how they always seemed to stay the same.
"I heard a rumor once that your kind can't step foot on holy ground," Nikandros commented as he looked sidelong at the skulking creature that lingered by one of the stone columns. They were alone here, so the Inquisitor fixed his stare upon the other. "I believed it for a while until I came upon a strigoi slaughtering a family unfortunate enough to believe that wives's tale.
Nikandros looked back toward the stained glass of the sun, "The first of the Creator's children watched across the veil and grew jealous of the life they could not feel, could not touch. In blackest envy were the demons born." Nikandros parrotted before he added, "Erudition 2:1; what brings one of the undead to His door?"
















