Official Consilium 1808

[Cayce]

The day had come. The sun shone brutally down the cathedral, bleaching the stone to the color of ancient bone.

The Clock struck High Noon.

Today, the Wise would gather in this sacred place and witness a contest of might, a contest of will, a contest of divine judgement! The strong would prevail, and with their victory, the Supernal itself would have made its will known.

Who would gather to witness it?

Campanella Knot

[Knot]

Within the Circle there were seats for the Councilors. Five of them, one for each Path.

Knot waited in the Acanthus seat, sitting crooked with his legs crossed over one arm, his feet kicking in time with a tune he hums to himself. His feet are unshod, and are stained green from walking through grass. He wears grey slacks and a blue silk button up shirt in a paisley print. There is a string figure game spun from multicolored thread hanging taut between his hands and cycling through a sequence of patterns. Behind one ear is a small purple flower.

Knot had arrived almost half an hour ago. He felt... exceptionally belligerent today, and the tension in his jaw was mute witness to his emotional state.

[Epitaph]

The doors to the Cathedral were thrown wide, and a figure swathed in flowing black robes strode across the threshold. Epitaph's arms were flung wide, dark sleeves billowing, a trail of black carrion feathers falling in the wake of her steps. Her flesh was the color of a corpse, her visage covered with the exquisite ceremonial makeup of a Priestess of Death, her eyes ringed in khol, her lips stained black, silver piercings catching the light.

Today would decide her fate. Should she be victorious, should she stride over the fallen bodies of both the Corax and the Daduchos, she would gain control of the Mysterium. The Athaneum would be hers. Her vision would guide the holy mission, her insight would shaping the Sophiads. It was not what she had wanted when she had first come to Sacramento, but after being bathed in the scorn and vitriol of Knot and Campanella, she now saw no choice. Every death through the millenia, from the temple at Gobekli Tepe to the funerary complexes of Anubis, from the Catacombs of Paris to the graveyards of Detroit, she had walked the earth, bound to the same Tower, her feet forced upon the same path. It was from these lives that Epitaph knew she had glimpsed the Truth, and she would hide it no longer.

"I come before you, a challenger!" She declared, her voice carrying throughout the Sanctuary. "Have you prepared yourself, Corax?" she demanded, coming to stand before the lounging Acanthus.

[Langdon]

As if the bell stricking noon had summoned Langdon, the Moros exits the Mysterium's section of the Circle. His bag is left back inside, his notebook, pen, and tool inside of it. Fingers smooth out sleeves that were rolled up minutes ago. Epitaph's voice gives him pause. What had spurred this exactly? And why so publicly? If this is Mysterium business it should be behind closed doors.

Instead it is out here in the open. Walking along a wall within the cathedral Landon nods to his cabalmate Alastor who seems to be making a point. Knot 's appearance and posture...doesn't surprise Langdon too much actually. For an Acanthus there's a strong streak of playing the Adversary in him. Finally Landgon's gaze falls on Epitaph . ..Are those feathers?

What.

[Banshee]

Appearing from the Assembly Hall Banshee is but a whisper to compare to the the Gothic splendour of the High Priestess of Death. To whom every minute detail is accounted, trivialised and re-imagined upon the Path of Doom.

So is Death's own Angel's fervor that seemingly by will alone that feathers spill from her robe to fall upon the floor and preserve the sanctity of her pilgrimage, her Path.

Beneath her artificial pallor, the Omen rots green, suffocating on covetousness.

This isn't her show, but she's always and ever second best.

[Campanella]

Campanella had been making his own preparations. He arrives from the cloister, having sequestered himself in the Athenaeum while he made his final oblations.

The Alchemist did make his entrance with the same flamboyance as Epitaph; he simply strode into the meeting in his ceremonial robes. Looking like a school master of old, his robes swirling around his feet, he bore an air of disinterested detachment. Inside he was quietly simmering.

"My friends," he intoned, giving a nod to the assembled mages.

Pointedly, he did not include Epitaph in his greeting.

[Weavebreaker]

Weavebreaker quietly entered, as she glanced around at the assembly. The slender blond Arrow was unassuming, wearing her typical jeans and a tee. She slowly made her way to the Path of the Mighty section of seating, and sat down and settled in. Crossing her arms, her eyes settled on the floor, sparing the occasional glance to those around her, with a nod of acknowledgement. Thoughts were churning.

The last duel she had attended in Sacramento, was fought between Masters, for control of the Consilium. To her, that was a strange affair that still held so many unresolved questions. With a soft shake of her head, a smile settled on her lips. Another life, another time....

[Winter]

The practice of the Duel Arcane dates back to the time of Atlantis, since ages immemorial, mages have sought ways to settle their disagreements, over the aeons, those rules have crystallized in a highly ritualized way, of almost religious standing among the Awakened.

To a more pragmatic observer, the Duel Arcane is just an outlet. The Atlanteans and the orders that followed, to their credit, enforced a system of rules with the dual- purpose of limiting useless bloodshed and minimizing the hefty harm that the Veil would surely incur into at the behest of reality warping egos, some of which could be quite outsized. Needless to say, the Awakened were a capricious and litigious bunch, sometimes for good reason; more often than not, it was anger and pettiness that fuelled their squabbles. Regardless of the reason for this particular cerimony, a duel was always far better than the alternatives; the Veil remained intact, for the Guardians it was a win-win.

And the Susceptor counted himself among the stoics.

Stepping outside the Guardians' quarter, clad in pair of blue jeans and a white cotton shirt with its long sleeves almost rolled up to his elbows, the Guardian's attire had seen better days; given the dust on the shirt, one would guess he was up to something in his quarter, and that something surely couldn't be shaving.

An unlit cigarette dangled unresolved from his mouth. An eyebrow shot up as he sized the assembly and spotted Alastor, Campanella and Epitaph among them. Given their ceremonial attire, he'd say they were ready to bury someone. And what about those feathers on the ground. Odd. His eyes moved over the Acanthus, shooting an unforgiving look at the man that had seemingly appropriated the Councillor seat. Hopefully. He thought.



"Greetings", he nodded approvingly at Alastor's zeal in protecting the Consilium. "Councillor Campanella", a courtly nod. "The Path of Thistle has chosen its councilman, I believe", he briefly inclined his head toward the observer. If he only knew how fragile thrones could be.