01-31-2023, 02:32 AM
“Running out of time?” Rowan asked in a whisper. She had not known Armande to have visions of his own – away from the Eyes. If the Sight has blessed him, he had not shared the revelation with her. Perhaps it was nothing more than a hunch. Rowan knew better than most that one should always trust their gut; it was Spirit’s way of telling the average human of things to come. If Armande said he felt that there was a deadline to their endeavors, well, she would take his word at face value. But what was it breathing down their necks? Oh, the 'it' could most certainly be proverbial, but what if it wasn't? What if the Ascendancy or the Atharim had sent their respective lackies to stop them?
Rowan worked away at his foot as he gazed into the flames of the fireplace. Thoughts rushed through her mind as her sister chastised them once more for their impatience. She was right, of course. All things would be revealed to them in the fullness of time. Rowan had no problem with the thought, it was simply that the practice of waiting had begun to chafe. To dare, to will, to know, to keep silent – those were the strictures that had been placed upon her when she had begun her studies into the occult. Waiting fell under the later, of course. She had learned that years before she had been allowed to don the title of ‘Mambo.’
A knock sounded at the door, chasing away any thought of a reply Rowan had readied for her sister. Rowan gingerly set Armande’s foot back down upon the plush carpet and murmured an apology. He was in no state to deal with the housekeeping staff, and neither was Vale. With a graceful swish of her skirts, Rowan rose from the stool and walked over to the room’s door. She plastered on her most welcoming smile and opened the heavy, wooden door to greet a man of the cloth. It took an effort to suppress her surprise at the sight, though her burden was eased at the man’s introduction and invitation.
“Yes, of course, Father,” Rowan replied sweetly, “If you would be so kind as to give us a moment’s time to ready ourselves properly for the Bishop of Rome? I am Rowan Finnegan, by the way, so rude of me not to introduce myself first.”
Rowan found herself dipping into a semblance of a curtsy as if on instinct. She knew that it was a more formal gesture than was required of her, but still, one did not always meet a Priest from the Vatican itself. It would be best to keep up appearances whenever the Pope’s people were involved. With a quick turn, she all but rushed back to the bed in which Vale was nestled. The white, woolen shawl was waiting atop the coverlet and Vale purred her approval. Rowan could not fight the smile that curved her lips. She grabbed the shawl and bent down close to her sister.
“You will find that men in those garments tend to have the biggest appetites,” Rowan cooed softly and quietly into Vale’s ear, bestowing a kiss upon her cheek, “But do take care. A Goddess like you might break him.”
Rowan pulled the shawl around herself, feigning for a little modesty, and began to help her Soul Group dress and primp for the audience with Patricus. Whatever Armande feared, it would soon be put to rest. The Eyes would See tonight.
Rowan worked away at his foot as he gazed into the flames of the fireplace. Thoughts rushed through her mind as her sister chastised them once more for their impatience. She was right, of course. All things would be revealed to them in the fullness of time. Rowan had no problem with the thought, it was simply that the practice of waiting had begun to chafe. To dare, to will, to know, to keep silent – those were the strictures that had been placed upon her when she had begun her studies into the occult. Waiting fell under the later, of course. She had learned that years before she had been allowed to don the title of ‘Mambo.’
A knock sounded at the door, chasing away any thought of a reply Rowan had readied for her sister. Rowan gingerly set Armande’s foot back down upon the plush carpet and murmured an apology. He was in no state to deal with the housekeeping staff, and neither was Vale. With a graceful swish of her skirts, Rowan rose from the stool and walked over to the room’s door. She plastered on her most welcoming smile and opened the heavy, wooden door to greet a man of the cloth. It took an effort to suppress her surprise at the sight, though her burden was eased at the man’s introduction and invitation.
“Yes, of course, Father,” Rowan replied sweetly, “If you would be so kind as to give us a moment’s time to ready ourselves properly for the Bishop of Rome? I am Rowan Finnegan, by the way, so rude of me not to introduce myself first.”
Rowan found herself dipping into a semblance of a curtsy as if on instinct. She knew that it was a more formal gesture than was required of her, but still, one did not always meet a Priest from the Vatican itself. It would be best to keep up appearances whenever the Pope’s people were involved. With a quick turn, she all but rushed back to the bed in which Vale was nestled. The white, woolen shawl was waiting atop the coverlet and Vale purred her approval. Rowan could not fight the smile that curved her lips. She grabbed the shawl and bent down close to her sister.
“You will find that men in those garments tend to have the biggest appetites,” Rowan cooed softly and quietly into Vale’s ear, bestowing a kiss upon her cheek, “But do take care. A Goddess like you might break him.”
Rowan pulled the shawl around herself, feigning for a little modesty, and began to help her Soul Group dress and primp for the audience with Patricus. Whatever Armande feared, it would soon be put to rest. The Eyes would See tonight.