The Praxic Creed
Willow snickered and tugged at her sister’s collar, idly rubbing off a spot of dirt from Psyn’s chin with her rubber-padded mechanical thumb as she neatened the front of the robe.
“Not like you to be this nervous, Psyn.” She said as her sister jittered under her watchful eye.
“Shut up.” Psyn mumbled with a slight glare as Willow frowned at the massive tear on the side of her robe. “I’m allowed to be nervous, okay? I didn’t make fun of you for being nervous about graduating your stupid courses and stuff.”
“Actually, yes, you did.” Willow folded her arms and fixed Psyn with a stern look. Psyn couldn’t help but think that she looked like their mother when she did that. “You made fun of me every time I was nervous about a ceremony. Relentlessly.”
Psyn broke into a grin. “Yeah.” She said, scratching the shaven side of her head. “That was fun…”
Willow punched Psyn’s arm. “Ass.” She muttered, smoothing over the ruffle in the sleeve immediately, but Psyn could see and hear in her words the grin she was trying to hide.
The doors behind them opened, and Willow stepped back. “Looks like it’s your time. Break a leg, Symphony.” Willow said with a wink.
Psyn turned. She took a deep breath and stepped into the hall. Two other Warlocks walked at her side and Willow walked in behind her – she could hear the tapping of her shoes on the tile – but she split off to join the small crowd on the sides.
The crowd wasn’t particularly substantial, filled mostly by friends and Guardians she and the other two had worked with. She spotted Vanir in the crowd – it was hard not to from the vibrant rainbow-striped flag on her hip and the bright beaming orange smile as she waved frantically. Even Anya at her side had discarded her customary frown for a few minutes.
Psyn’s eyes snapped ahead, to the front of the hall. She felt anxiety building in the pit of her stomach, like bubbling acid and a twisted knot of air that couldn’t escape.
As she walked towards the other end of the hall, where a large platform stood raised at the top of a set of steps before them, the shoes of the two Warlocks beside her clacked on the tile. Her eyes met with the two senior Warlocks standing there.
She recognised them both, though not by name. Their dazzlingly red robes reminded her of the New Monarchy’s loyal, and the chainmail and scale plating like ancient knights glimmered softly in the firelight. The Cormorant Seal shone on their arms, a unique second bond beneath it for each of them.
In the shadows behind them Psyn spied the glow of green eyes, tucked away from every single line of sight but her own. The three covered eyes met hers and she felt her heart and stomach lurch with a surge of nervousness. She swallowed, and stepped up to the front of the steps, hands clasped stiffly behind her back.
The forward of the two Warlocks standing before them spoke, and their voice boomed through the hall. “Warriors of the Light. You have shown great bravery in the face of the Darkness, time and time again. You have shown the strength and devotion worthy of Warlocks, and tenacity and willpower in battle that brings pride to all Guardians.”
They stepped forward, to the edge of the top stair as they spoke, and gestured gently at each of them in turn. “You have shown admirable strength, determination, and compassion.” They rested their gaze on Psyn with the final word, each meant for a specific Warlock who had excelled.
The second senior Warlock on the dais stepped up beside her leader. “It is the decision of the Vanguard and the Praxic Order, that each of you be inducted into our order.”
On either side of Psyn, Warlocks knelt. She quickly followed suit, wondering what cue she had scarcely missed.
She knelt, knuckles of her fist cold on the tile floor and staring stiffly down at her boot. She swallowed dryly and spoke, her voice resonating with one on either side.
“The Darkness gathers, and so must I.” She said, reciting the Oath from memory. “The nature of my fight is not in theory. I am not bound in poiesis. My cause is praxic.
“I am the fire that burns through the night. I am the blaze that banishes the shadow. My drive is action. My fire shall act and it shall burn until it’s light is no longer needed, or is extinguished.”
Their words swelled in unison, harmonic and haunting until they drifted off in the solemn end of their vow. Psyn’s head remained bowed. She heard a voice, the booming thunder of the Warlock before her.
“Praxic Warlocks are not philosophers.” He said, addressing them all. “We stand not for discovery or study of the Darkness, but to push it back with the Light of our fire. The Praxic Order stands for action, to fight.”
“You are individuals chosen for your Light and fire.” The woman at his side chimed in. “We are the fire of the fight. We are the fury that burns bright against the Darkness. We stand firm and unmoving in our service, to fight the Darkness and pushing it back to the beyond.”
“Karst Proxian.” The man commanded. “Rise.”
Psyn heard the rustle of robes to her left as the small Warlock stood and ascended the stairs.
“In honour of your actions at the gate of Olympus Mons and the defeat of a Vex Gate Lord, we present you with the Cormorant Seal.” Psyn heard more sounds as they presented a bond to Karst, and felt pins and needles lacing through her thigh.
“Sarren seven.” He said, addressing the other kneeling Warlock. “Rise.” Psyn began to regret picking a pose that would look cool – it was incredibly uncomfortable. The Exo Warlock strode up to stand with the others.
“In recognition of your efforts against the Darkness in the Mumbai Push, we present to you the Cormorant Seal.”
They bestowed a bond upon Sarren-7, and Psyn wiggled her leg ever so slightly to keep it from going numb. She shivered as the man spoke her name.
“Symphony Adhara. Rise.”
Psyn stood and held herself as tall as she could. She tried not to fiddle with the stringy torn hem of her robe against her leg. Her hands were shaking as she walked forward. She balled them into fists as she ascended the staircase and stood before them.
Eris watched her from the darkness.
The second Warlock, the woman with a gentle voice, opened her hands before her, conjuring a ball of flame. The orb glowed, entangled fire contained and controlled like so many of the balls of Solar Light Sunsingers threw in battle.
“The Cormorant Seal, sigil of the Praxic Order, is given to few.” That wasn’t what Psyn had expected her to say. She felt sweat slick on her palms, the rise of bubbling, fluttering, flaming nerves. “Individuals are chosen for their actions, those who rise reforged in the Light and refound in the heated tempers of battle.”
Psyn struggled not to shake with visible nerves as the woman stood before her, clasping the flame between them. “Some rise above even this.” She said. She raised the orb and pressed it against Psyn’s chest.
She felt the power lifting her slightly from her feet, holding her aloft like a bubble of void-induced stasis. Her robe wavered and burned with illusory immolation. The woman’s Ghost hovered before her, bathing her in a beam of light that sifted her robe away in tendrils of light and flakes of dissipating ash and embers.
Psyn floated, held aloft in a small beacon of caressing fire. She felt naked with her robe stripped away, left in the undersuit of her armour and clothing, but white lines traced quickly around her from the Praxic Warlock’s Ghost.
She felt weight sit against her shoulders, felt material form and bunch and flow across her torso. She watched the flakes of ash hanging around her in the same stasis and felt the sudden lurch of heavy chainmail on her arms and the thickness of a fresh robe as it materialised around her arms and torso.
The lifting Light vanished and she fell with a thud to the ground, landing in a crouch. Ash fell in a pure circle around her, staining the floor, and she burned with Radiance. She felt her wings of Solar energy unfolding behind her and she glowed in the new robes and her seal.
“We present to you the Heart of the Praxic Fire.”
Psyn looked up, her body burning with brilliant energy, and she rose, ash sliding from her shoulders like a reborn phoenix from the fire.
“Welcome, disciples of the Praxic Order.”
