Tlaloc

just want to say hi and make some friends

Why did they gang up on one dude and not the other one?

@Astro

Regalia

First post and Cassiel is already digusted by a poor person.

Regalia

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[Location] Arosa City, Estren
[Time] Sunday, 03:00 AM

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Cassiel’s hand was trained over the telecom machine, hovering; waiting.

Through the telecom, a voice emerged: ”Good morning sir, this is your three o’clock —"

Cassiel pressed down his hand onto the machine, "Mhm," he murmured, dismissing the caller. The silence returned, thick and unbroken.

He had not slept, but he was well aware of the hour. He was now to shower, and then he was to make his way next-door, where his beauticians and stylists would ensure that he looked his usual darling self. He would, however, allow himself a final few moments of stillness before the tedium resumed.

For the first time all night, he felt his hand twitch; a nasty, uninvited jitter.

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^{[Knight-Pentitent of Cetra]}
"ɪ ᴡᴀʟᴋ ɪɴ sɪʟᴇɴᴛ ᴠɪɢɪʟ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ Hᴇʀ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜᴇᴛʜ ɴᴏᴛ,
ᴇᴀᴄʜ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴀɴ ɪɴᴠᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴇᴀᴄʜ sᴡɪɴɢ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ sᴡᴏʀᴅ Hᴇʀ ʜᴏʟʏ ᴄᴀsᴛɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ,
ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛɪʟʟɴᴇss ᴏғ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ,
ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴘᴇɴɪᴛᴇɴᴛ."

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[Location] Landow, Estren
[Time] Sunday, 06:00 AM

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Cassiel’s carriage rolled forward smoothly; a quaint antiquity in an otherwise sleek and simplified world. Opulent and obsidian, it was a ceremonial vessel designed with elegance in mind, though efficiency was not entirely disregarded. The cold-blooded mares that drove the carriage forth were capable of unnatural speed; more machine than mammal; ebon hides laced with mesh-plate; exhausts and pistons affixed to flesh. Surrounding the carriage in their own transports, Knight-Penitents acted as silent chaperones. As the chief military order of the Resplendency, they were Ultima’s very own legion, enacting her will — or at least her proxy-will through the nation of of Cetra — without question. These juggernauts were known to enact judgment without mercy nor remorse, and were symbols of fear among any whom Ultima frowned upon. Their plate armour, black and gold, was a totem of Cetra’s power, and a personification of justice, at least in the eyes of the Cetrite ruling caste. Amidst the entourage were several retainers and assistants who would be at the beckon call of Cassiel, should he require them, but they traveled separately. On these journeys, before major appearances, Cassiel chose to be alone; and so, he remained in solitude within the carriage, watching the coasts of Estren pass him by as the retinue approached Landow.

There it was again: the shaking. His right hand quivered traitorously, and he felt a throb within his solar plexus; a tug at his lungs. He clenched his fist, hard, stilling the disobedience of his flesh. These issues had long outstayed their welcome now. His physicians had assured him of his wellbeing; clearing him of any ailment of muscle or blood, but in moments such as this, the malaise tangled around him. There was something they were missing, some unidentified malady, and it gnawed at Cassiel’s mind. As the carriage slowed to a halt, he rose from his seat, but his legs felt oddly distant. He was in a state of discomforting weightlessness; as if the world, along with his body, had shifted on axis, but left his mind and soul behind. For a fleeting moment, his vision blurred, and light seemed to bend strangely as he perceived it. He blinked away the feeling, banishing it; denying it — he had work to do, and whatever affliction he carried would not prevent its completion. He inhaled, steeling himself. He pressed his fingertips to his temple, as if concentration alone might quiet the pulse of discomfort threading through him, and — he was fine. He was always fine.

And yet his hand still trembled.

Fatigue, he reasoned. A consequence of the long hours — and, perhaps, the remnants of last night’s indulgence. It would pass, as it always did. He cast a final glance at his reflection in the polished window, and disembarked. As he emerged from the coach, any sense of disquiet he carried with him was invisible. He wore a gentlemanly smile, regarding the earlybird festival-goers who awaited his arrival at the edge of Landow. Whatever poison that sank through him was disregarded by his body, which moved like a machine in practiced mastery. Even in these wee hours did a sizeable gathering assemble to witness his arrival. He would do the rounds here with a smile, and then he would make his way into the festival's heart.

He glanced back at the platoon of Knight-Penitents, which assembled in formation at the town’s edge; demons at the salt-line; vampires at the door. They were not permitted entry to the festival, with its organisers ensuring that their own security detail would be sufficient. Cassiel was neither offended nor concerned at their absence. He didn’t need them to hide behind. In fact, their ever-presence stifled him — but it was non-negotiable. Regalia were valuable, and none more so than Cassiel, so it was in the interest of Cetra to ensure his safety at all times. Part of him hoped that, in one of these rare moment wherein the Knight-Penitents did not breathe down his neck, that someone would test him. It was a morbid thought, but a compelling one none-the-less, that he would find catharsis in crushing a would-be assailant should one ever be fool enough to attack him. Normally it would be considered unbecoming for a Regalia to brawl with a commonfellow, but should his personal guard be elsewhere — then what other choice would Cassiel have but to defend himself? It didn’t matter anyway. His mind manufactured exciting what-ifs, but he was well aware that the festival would be a dull affair, stargazing aside.

As he strode forth, offering gracious greetings to the celebrants, a man pushed through the gaggle, hurrying in front of Cassiel. He wore cheap, faded fabrics, and had the weathered skin of an old man, despite otherwise looking fairly young. Though he'd clearly made an attempt to seem presentable, his poverty was still apparent. Behind him, a thin, sallow-skinned woman followed sheepishly.

”Please, your righteousness, — please might I have a moment of your time,” the man spoke, kneeling down, dirtying his knees.

Cassiel looked down upon him with a trained smile. "Of course. What is it?," he said. It was not unusual for his followers to act this way; starstruck and reverent. He had been taught to affirm such behaviours, despite their inconvenience.

"I — I’m sorry to ask. But we’ve ran out of options. My wife is sick. We’ve got three boys, and our doctor told us —" the man paused, choked up. "I have come to ask of your assistance… please, your holiness, grant my wife a moment of Ultima’s light… it might —"

"You knew the rules when you came in," one of the security officers interjected. "Step away."

"I’m sorry," Cassiel said — and he meant it. There was indeed a good chance that he could be of assistance to the woman, who indeed appeared to be sick; but he had long been forewarned about the consequences of using his Dominant form for such a reason. He couldn’t guarantee his power’s efficacy, but should it cure this women of her disease, he would forever be plagued by similarly desperate families who sought his services — and Cetra would simply not allow it. This wasn’t even to mention the possibility that this man was a charlatan or a junkie who sought to tease Cassiel into his Dominant form, only to scoop up the residue and run for the hills. "I am afraid there is nothing I can do," he continued.

"But there is, my lord," the man said with wildness in his eyes, tears biting at his ducts. "I have read the scriptures. I know what Her light can do. It could save my wife. Please, sir, please!," he cried, reaching out his dry, calloused hands and placing them on Cassiel’s. "I spent my last coin on an enhanced pass, just to help my chances of seeing you!"

Every synapse in Cassiel’s mind screamed out. He hadn’t accounted for being touched by anyone, and immediately felt a wave of disgust pass through him. He couldn’t express such a feeling, however, lest he seem cruel and unsaintly, nor could recoil from the man’s grasp. He had to show compassion. He swallowed heavily, closing his eyes, and bypassing his revulsion, allowing the man to clasp his hands for a few moments.

"I’m sorry," he repeated. "But I assure you that She watches over you both. Her love radiates upon you, whether you realise it or not. I offer you my greatest sympathies."

"Enough," the security officer said, yanking the tearful man away from Cassiel. "Move along; now."

With the security’s growing impatience, the man and his wife had no option to oblige — and although they had failed in their quest for Ultima’s radiance, they seemed somewhat soothed by Cassiel’s blessing alone.

As soon as they were out of sight, Cassiel allowed a shudder to pass through him. "Sanitizer," he ordered quietly, side-eyeing one of his assistants. Swiftly, a small vial was emptied into his now steady hands, and he cleansed them of any imperceptible filth that the man had carried.

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^{[Shrine to Ultima]}

A Very Belated Hello

Regalia

I like to think that the committee would place very stringent rules on not allowing Cetra to assert their influence over the festival; banning their holy order, protecting against political intervention, etc. But surely they would want the belovèd Regalia of Ultima in attendance.

Regalia

True! LOL What are the other teams then?

@Aeolian

"Blonde Ambition" for Laura and Cassiel. 😂

Regalia

All the best characters are named C[-]cile~.

(Our duo name is -seel team 2.)

Regalia

If any of you are lucky enough to walk in the radiant Haagent Gardens of Malkuth, you'd see the golden likeness of our lord and saviour. 😇

Regalia

"So, you committed heresy against Ultima."

Regalia

Love everyone's images - each one as a unique vibe that's in line with the character.
It almost feels like the photographer's distance implies what sort of person took the picture (professional studio, selfie, friend, stranger)

Thanks @Mirandae! You captured how I imagined Aethalos' gaze.

@rabidbacon

Good point, Cassiel's is the most 'formal', the least personal, which fits him very well.