01-04-2021, 03:02 AM
(This post was last modified: 01-04-2021, 03:07 AM by Rowan Finnegan.)
Their time on the road was a marvelous thing, hampered only by Rowan’s recovery from the attack made by that feral mermaid – at least that is what Rowan thought of it as. How long had they been on the road? Rowan could not tell you. Her days had been filled with passion, frivolity, and spirituality. All splendid things to lose oneself in. The Taiga was the crowning jewel in their adventures. There had been more than one occasion where she had found herself idly wondering what life would be like if she, Armande, and Vale could just forget the world and retire to the boreal forest of the CCD. The ‘Pattern’, as Armande had so affectionately called it, would not let them off so easily. They had been marked for a great destiny and there was no skirting it.
Remember your visions… Rowan had to remind herself constantly. The road trip was a necessary step on their journey, not one taken for pleasure.
Armande and Vale had poured over that ancient map many times and Rowan had nothing of consequence to offer them. Oh, she tried. She was a wise and cultured woman, but sadly, Khylsty lore was not on the syllabus during her time at boarding school. They did eventually find their way, however; whether through luck, wit, or the aid of the ‘Pattern,’ Rowan could not tell you.
On the day that Rowan Finnegan was to meet the Holy Father, she had spent three hours readying herself – sparing no expense in terms of garments, jewelry, or cosmetic applications. She had vowed to herself, upon learning of the planned meeting, that she would impress the Pope even if she chose not to speak a single word to him.
Rowan stood staring at a treeline, accompanied by her true loves, waiting for the man and his retinue to show themselves. A gust of wind picked up and played at her silken hair, strings of opals and moonstone glittering in the light of the Sun. She smoothed the skirt of her white, full-sleeved, silken gown; it was cut modestly at the neck, fitting tightly across her torso and flaring out at the hips. More moonstones and opals glittered along the hems of the dress, worked with elaborate embroidery in silver threads. Rowan looked like the Moon incarnate.
Any moment now… Rowan thought nervously to herself as she glanced up at Armande.
Swirls of white and red erupted from the treeline, drawing Rowan’s gaze, and her breath caught. Armande went out to meet him and held his hand out for a shake – a goddamn handshake!
Sweet Mother above, he wasn’t bluffing. Rowan thought with a blush.
Rowan was prepared for a cold reception, but she had hoped for a little warmth or kinship. The Holy Father had barely even looked at her. He was more interested in having a Coke Zero, of all things. Strayed far from the embrace of the Mother Church, indeed. Rowan fought the inescapable urge to roll her eyes at the numbness of the man.
Vale broke through, as she always had, and offered up a promise that made Rowan giggle. She turned her gaze to her lover, her sister, and whispered back, “So long as I get his frock and his hat, I shall aid you. You can keep the undergarments.” She giggled again to herself, knowing full well that Vale meant what she said.
The Pontiff and Armande continued on, Rowan listening and finding herself disappointed with the Holy Father. She had imagined him their fourth companion, swept up and along with this fateful excursion; and here he was, almost sounding skeptical. Oh, he had had dreams, but still… that tone he took when speaking with Armande – and only Armande. Did he not witness her virtue by her sheer elegance and beauty? She was a Voodoo Queen, yes, but did the man really know so little as to what that encompassed?
Rowan had begun to deflate a touch. Oh, she kept up her appearance on the outside, but on the inside?
The Pope turned to walk away, yet still spoke on. The three of them moved with him, Armande taking a place at the Pontiff’s side, while they were clearly left to walk a few feet back from the men. Rowan’s brow furrowed once the two men were in front of them. This was not at all how she envisioned the meeting. Her arm sprang up, taking Vale’s and pulling her close, forcing them to walk in lockstep. She turned her gaze towards her sister and rolled her eyes.
“Up here on the surface, he is a great Spiritual Leader… Or he was supposed to be… All I see is a man. An exceedingly small man… What think you, sister?” Rowan whispered quietly to Vale as she stared at the back of the Pontiff’s pristine robes.
Remember your visions… Rowan had to remind herself constantly. The road trip was a necessary step on their journey, not one taken for pleasure.
Armande and Vale had poured over that ancient map many times and Rowan had nothing of consequence to offer them. Oh, she tried. She was a wise and cultured woman, but sadly, Khylsty lore was not on the syllabus during her time at boarding school. They did eventually find their way, however; whether through luck, wit, or the aid of the ‘Pattern,’ Rowan could not tell you.
On the day that Rowan Finnegan was to meet the Holy Father, she had spent three hours readying herself – sparing no expense in terms of garments, jewelry, or cosmetic applications. She had vowed to herself, upon learning of the planned meeting, that she would impress the Pope even if she chose not to speak a single word to him.
Rowan stood staring at a treeline, accompanied by her true loves, waiting for the man and his retinue to show themselves. A gust of wind picked up and played at her silken hair, strings of opals and moonstone glittering in the light of the Sun. She smoothed the skirt of her white, full-sleeved, silken gown; it was cut modestly at the neck, fitting tightly across her torso and flaring out at the hips. More moonstones and opals glittered along the hems of the dress, worked with elaborate embroidery in silver threads. Rowan looked like the Moon incarnate.
Any moment now… Rowan thought nervously to herself as she glanced up at Armande.
Swirls of white and red erupted from the treeline, drawing Rowan’s gaze, and her breath caught. Armande went out to meet him and held his hand out for a shake – a goddamn handshake!
Sweet Mother above, he wasn’t bluffing. Rowan thought with a blush.
Rowan was prepared for a cold reception, but she had hoped for a little warmth or kinship. The Holy Father had barely even looked at her. He was more interested in having a Coke Zero, of all things. Strayed far from the embrace of the Mother Church, indeed. Rowan fought the inescapable urge to roll her eyes at the numbness of the man.
Vale broke through, as she always had, and offered up a promise that made Rowan giggle. She turned her gaze to her lover, her sister, and whispered back, “So long as I get his frock and his hat, I shall aid you. You can keep the undergarments.” She giggled again to herself, knowing full well that Vale meant what she said.
The Pontiff and Armande continued on, Rowan listening and finding herself disappointed with the Holy Father. She had imagined him their fourth companion, swept up and along with this fateful excursion; and here he was, almost sounding skeptical. Oh, he had had dreams, but still… that tone he took when speaking with Armande – and only Armande. Did he not witness her virtue by her sheer elegance and beauty? She was a Voodoo Queen, yes, but did the man really know so little as to what that encompassed?
Rowan had begun to deflate a touch. Oh, she kept up her appearance on the outside, but on the inside?
The Pope turned to walk away, yet still spoke on. The three of them moved with him, Armande taking a place at the Pontiff’s side, while they were clearly left to walk a few feet back from the men. Rowan’s brow furrowed once the two men were in front of them. This was not at all how she envisioned the meeting. Her arm sprang up, taking Vale’s and pulling her close, forcing them to walk in lockstep. She turned her gaze towards her sister and rolled her eyes.
“Up here on the surface, he is a great Spiritual Leader… Or he was supposed to be… All I see is a man. An exceedingly small man… What think you, sister?” Rowan whispered quietly to Vale as she stared at the back of the Pontiff’s pristine robes.