10-13-2020, 02:42 AM
The grass crunched underfoot, though Philip did not attribute its parched death to ongoing draught. Modern science couldn’t explain the lifelessness, and for a moment, Philip searched the distant sun as if demanding an answer from the face of God himself. He once told Nimeda that the beauty of questions was in lacking their answers, and such nonsense was why nobody should listen to a thing he said. He tsk'd himself and turned away.
They saw him before the other way around. The pilot gave him moment to pause, gesturing toward the three silhouettes, otherwise the Pope may have gone some minutes in oblivion. Armande led two others, a smile of reunion splitting his mouth with the most unnatural of lines. Imagining the vicar of Iscariot smiling was the sort of thing that would give him nightmares later. And not for reasons one may expect.
He stopped a handful of steps away from the trio, hands hidden by the red drape spilling from his shoulders. Armande was healthy, vigorous even, far from the crispy undead that he imagined crawled from a belly of fire. His successor explained Armande’s supposed demise, and now he realized the depth of the deception.
When the women were introduced, Philip’s gaze sliced each from brow to ankle in turn. His gaze was cold more than predatory; distant and uncaring. He recognized neither, and it was to Armande he finally addressed. “Khylst and Vodou? You've strayed far from the embrace of our Mother Church,” he spoke. Armande was once a priest and although released of his vows long ago, he supposedly believed once upon a time. Then again, Philip might describe as much about himself.
“And I am far from my home. I haven’t had a decent vanilla coke zero in weeks. So let's end the mystery. Why?” he asked. Armande spoke of pillars and destiny, the sort of thing that burrowed into Philip’s skin, leaving an itch he could not scratch. It was why he was here at all.
They saw him before the other way around. The pilot gave him moment to pause, gesturing toward the three silhouettes, otherwise the Pope may have gone some minutes in oblivion. Armande led two others, a smile of reunion splitting his mouth with the most unnatural of lines. Imagining the vicar of Iscariot smiling was the sort of thing that would give him nightmares later. And not for reasons one may expect.
He stopped a handful of steps away from the trio, hands hidden by the red drape spilling from his shoulders. Armande was healthy, vigorous even, far from the crispy undead that he imagined crawled from a belly of fire. His successor explained Armande’s supposed demise, and now he realized the depth of the deception.
When the women were introduced, Philip’s gaze sliced each from brow to ankle in turn. His gaze was cold more than predatory; distant and uncaring. He recognized neither, and it was to Armande he finally addressed. “Khylst and Vodou? You've strayed far from the embrace of our Mother Church,” he spoke. Armande was once a priest and although released of his vows long ago, he supposedly believed once upon a time. Then again, Philip might describe as much about himself.
“And I am far from my home. I haven’t had a decent vanilla coke zero in weeks. So let's end the mystery. Why?” he asked. Armande spoke of pillars and destiny, the sort of thing that burrowed into Philip’s skin, leaving an itch he could not scratch. It was why he was here at all.
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