12-29-2024, 04:43 AM
Sámiel had not intended to channel.
The pulse of Spirit hit like a hammer in his chest, rattling his bones. The Veil whispered, no—it screamed—and before he knew it, he was sinking into the weight of it, the sound filling him to bursting. For a moment, he was not himself. He was everything. Everything wild. Everything dark. A shadow at the edge of flame. A wolf in a forest of brittle leaves. A laugh that breaks the silence of the grave.
He wasn’t even sure when he crossed the threshold from passive participant to something far more visceral. The sound, the resonance, the layers of carefully constructed meaning that radiated through the chamber—it had crept under his skin and found the places where he was raw and unguarded. It twisted, teased, and finally struck, cracking him open like a gourd on his own festival night. He hadn’t fought it; why would he? Chaos demanded surrender, and Sámiel was its favored son.
The silence that followed such a climatic conclusion was thick with the resonance of what had just occurred. Sámiel remained still, his palms still faintly tingling with the echoes of the energetic spells he had pulled into himself. The chamber seemed to breathe around him, alive with a charge that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t chaotic, not exactly. It was potential. Uncertainty. That fleeting moment before an audience knows whether to applaud or hold its breath.
Sámiel tilted his head slightly, his eyes sweeping across the others as though savoring the taste of their reactions. Some were wide-eyed, their expressions teetering between awe and unease. Others avoided his gaze entirely, their discomfort palpable. It was intoxicating, this quiet tension. He let it linger, let them sit in the stillness of it.
He rose slowly, his movements fluid, almost serpentine. The faint light from the crystal above caught on the sharp angles of his features, carving shadows across his face that seemed to deepen the longer he stood there. His gaze finally settled on the Luminar, but only briefly. Then it moved to Calliope, then Mia, then Quillon and the stranger, pausing on each of them as if reading something unseen in the air around them. He didn’t smile, not exactly, but there was something in his expression—a quiet, predatory satisfaction.
“The Veil,” he murmured, his voice soft but carrying through the chamber with unnerving clarity, “has a way of taking what it wants, doesn’t it?” He lifted one hand, studying his own fingers as though they belonged to someone else, as though he could still feel the energy of the Veil clinging to his skin. “I wasn’t planning to touch it. But it seems… it had other ideas.” He pondered this usurped moment when his body became a vessel for the powers beyond. The notion was etched within his very soul, he had designed a show so similar at the carnival, it was eerie, even to him. The Veil’s Embrace, he thought and looked up, daring the Luminar to confess his ability to run his fingers across the brail stamps of his mind. If there was a way to lure a specter like Sámiel into the embrace of the Brotherhood, this was it.
His words were low, intimate, almost conspiratorial. He wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular, yet it felt as though he were addressing everyone in the room. He took a slow step forward, the sound of his shoes barely a whisper against the floor. The chamber’s acoustics amplified even the faintest noise, turning the small movement into something larger, more deliberate.
He gestured faintly toward the space around him, a slow, deliberate sweep of his hand. “This chamber,” he said, his tone rich with dark reverence, “is magnificent. Truly. The way it holds sound. The way it bends the air. The way it pulls at something just beneath the skin.” His gaze flicked toward Theron again, and this time, his lips curved into a faint smile—sharp, knowing, and faintly unsettling. “It’s a show, isn’t it? And a fine one at that.”
Sámiel’s gaze returned to the group, his eyes flicking from one face to the next, drinking in their reactions. He could feel it—the heightened pulse of the ritual, the way the chamber amplified not just sound but emotion. Fear. Awe. Curiosity. It was all there, swirling just beneath the surface, and it fed something deep within him.
His gaze lingered on Calliope for a moment, something dark and unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, almost as if remembering himself, he tilted his head slightly, his expression softening into something almost playful. Almost.
“Bravo,” and he began to clap.
The pulse of Spirit hit like a hammer in his chest, rattling his bones. The Veil whispered, no—it screamed—and before he knew it, he was sinking into the weight of it, the sound filling him to bursting. For a moment, he was not himself. He was everything. Everything wild. Everything dark. A shadow at the edge of flame. A wolf in a forest of brittle leaves. A laugh that breaks the silence of the grave.
He wasn’t even sure when he crossed the threshold from passive participant to something far more visceral. The sound, the resonance, the layers of carefully constructed meaning that radiated through the chamber—it had crept under his skin and found the places where he was raw and unguarded. It twisted, teased, and finally struck, cracking him open like a gourd on his own festival night. He hadn’t fought it; why would he? Chaos demanded surrender, and Sámiel was its favored son.
The silence that followed such a climatic conclusion was thick with the resonance of what had just occurred. Sámiel remained still, his palms still faintly tingling with the echoes of the energetic spells he had pulled into himself. The chamber seemed to breathe around him, alive with a charge that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t chaotic, not exactly. It was potential. Uncertainty. That fleeting moment before an audience knows whether to applaud or hold its breath.
Sámiel tilted his head slightly, his eyes sweeping across the others as though savoring the taste of their reactions. Some were wide-eyed, their expressions teetering between awe and unease. Others avoided his gaze entirely, their discomfort palpable. It was intoxicating, this quiet tension. He let it linger, let them sit in the stillness of it.
He rose slowly, his movements fluid, almost serpentine. The faint light from the crystal above caught on the sharp angles of his features, carving shadows across his face that seemed to deepen the longer he stood there. His gaze finally settled on the Luminar, but only briefly. Then it moved to Calliope, then Mia, then Quillon and the stranger, pausing on each of them as if reading something unseen in the air around them. He didn’t smile, not exactly, but there was something in his expression—a quiet, predatory satisfaction.
“The Veil,” he murmured, his voice soft but carrying through the chamber with unnerving clarity, “has a way of taking what it wants, doesn’t it?” He lifted one hand, studying his own fingers as though they belonged to someone else, as though he could still feel the energy of the Veil clinging to his skin. “I wasn’t planning to touch it. But it seems… it had other ideas.” He pondered this usurped moment when his body became a vessel for the powers beyond. The notion was etched within his very soul, he had designed a show so similar at the carnival, it was eerie, even to him. The Veil’s Embrace, he thought and looked up, daring the Luminar to confess his ability to run his fingers across the brail stamps of his mind. If there was a way to lure a specter like Sámiel into the embrace of the Brotherhood, this was it.
His words were low, intimate, almost conspiratorial. He wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular, yet it felt as though he were addressing everyone in the room. He took a slow step forward, the sound of his shoes barely a whisper against the floor. The chamber’s acoustics amplified even the faintest noise, turning the small movement into something larger, more deliberate.
He gestured faintly toward the space around him, a slow, deliberate sweep of his hand. “This chamber,” he said, his tone rich with dark reverence, “is magnificent. Truly. The way it holds sound. The way it bends the air. The way it pulls at something just beneath the skin.” His gaze flicked toward Theron again, and this time, his lips curved into a faint smile—sharp, knowing, and faintly unsettling. “It’s a show, isn’t it? And a fine one at that.”
Sámiel’s gaze returned to the group, his eyes flicking from one face to the next, drinking in their reactions. He could feel it—the heightened pulse of the ritual, the way the chamber amplified not just sound but emotion. Fear. Awe. Curiosity. It was all there, swirling just beneath the surface, and it fed something deep within him.
His gaze lingered on Calliope for a moment, something dark and unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, almost as if remembering himself, he tilted his head slightly, his expression softening into something almost playful. Almost.
“Bravo,” and he began to clap.