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[open] Sᴀɴᴄᴛᴜᴀʀʏ - May renovations

The Sanctuary - RENOVATIONS START

MAY BEGINNINGS

Following the discovery of a guardian sapling within an abandoned and ruined monastery on the edges of Crenshaw and the sudden growth of purified plant life around it, there's a growing bustle of activity around it. Word of mouth first from the boy who first found it talking with those on the street he knew and had helped before, asking if they might help him clear some of the debris in order to reach it more easily, and then people they told, and so on and so forth. Small, relatively nonviolent and previously animal Beasts have been observed flocking there where they begin to slowly regain themselves, and so inhabitants of Trench start coming as well to see it for themselves. Those suffering corruption or despair come to sit under its boughs and let its tranquil aura help set them at ease. People start chattering on the street, marveling at it and the unprecedented greenery it's brought with it, and begin setting up small shops and carts out front to peddle wares to those who are basically pilgrims. Some are useful... some aren't. Incense is common.

Residents of the Trench and Sleepers both can be found milling back and forth, sweeping, dusting, moving debris, or taking hammer and nail to build anew, and anyone who lingers and looks for too long might be asked to help pitch in and quickly saddled with tools they may or may not know how to use. (It's fine.) Alternatively, someone might try to just slip by and explore to see what else there might be that hasn't been fully uncovered yet.

A white-haired boy in a wheelchair is there almost every day, and most inhabitants if asked "how did this place come to be" would point and say "Ser Allen" seemed to be here first and began asking people he knew to help him start to clear out the debris. Others followed and began lingering around, curious and drawn by the idea that something new might be starting, as well as feeling and marveling at the tree's tranquil aura that now blankets the grounds. If the boy is asked, he'd say it started because of Lady Amaterasu planting one of her trees here and it's something they should take care of. That it was meant to help give people hope and some comfort. "What is this place called?" Well, most people would shrug and look a bit confused as well about that at first. Before answering, finally:

"It's a Sanctuary."

WHAT

Humane beast purification efforts. Renovations begin on a ruined monastery in Crenshaw following the discovery of one of the purifying Guardian Saplings. Join in! Or not! Heckle and pry!

WHEN

Mid-late May

THINGS OF NOTE

➢ only a handful of rooms are currently cleared/accessible.
➢ the guardian sapling/sakura tree is in full bloom
➢ the primary focus is on renovating the space, protecting/cultivating the guardian sapling and cloister, and providing for/protecting those that show up for help with their corruption
➢ community/NPC involvement is heavy, especially at the beginning as more Sleepers are filtering in and taking roles
➢ actual organization around beast purification efforts starts next month
➢ permanent roster and location info HERE!

Courtyard

The heart of the Sanctuary, one of the special guardian saplings planted by Amaterasu. The old monastery revolves around a large courtyard that is surrounded by cloisters, at the center of which is a large sakura tree in full bloom. The whole of the courtyard is covered in greenery and flowers unlike can normally be found elsewhere in the Trench aside from where there are similar such trees, and a pool of forever-pure water looks like it's just waiting for some fish. It's in full bloom this month, and some residents have started trying to make a tea from its petals. It's said to be very relaxing (and delicious, delicately floral and positively... heavenly. But don't drink in excess.)

It's the most common place for both residents of the Trench and Sleepers to be, as its tranquil aura helps soothe one's mind and ease corruption. Napping at its roots or in its branches seems quite popular, and birds and small animals can often be found there, drawn by it. Because of this, one Sleeper has started leading meditation sessions for corruption relief there.

Small and non-violent Beasts also seem drawn in, similar to how they are with the salt lake under the full moon. Twisted little fairies that are not so consumed that they don't still desire to be saved, they can be found resting there before slowly beginning to slip back to their formal selves; perhaps a dove, or maybe mice. Perhaps one could find similar such Beasts, either non-violent or easily restrained, and help bring them there in the hopes that they might also be able to be healed...?

INFIRMARY WING

Many of those who have come seeking some sort of tranquility are taxed, injured, or suffering in a way where they may need to rest within the confines of safety. One of the first spaces that has been cleared and made useable is a makeshift infirmary. There are simple beds and cots, a series of rooms for some privacy for those who simply need a clean and restorative place to stay temporarily versus those who need more medical attention. It's no Lumenarium, no place with any advanced medical treatment, but there are basic supplies for treating wounds and illness that have been donated. No one will be turned away, though violent individuals would be... dealt with in order to not be violent or cause harm, and anyone is welcome a bed for a night if it's needed. Some healers filter in and out, and most medicine practiced here is not the blood ministry common in Lumenwood but a mix of Sleeper powers from their worlds and basic aid.

A stockpile has been started for various items known to help reduce corruption or Beasthood as well, notably orbs of hope and a few precious moon drops, though most of those have been reserved for study. Anyone helping to assist, or who gets care, would be asked to just help return the favor for the ill and corrupted by donating what they can when they can.

KITCHEN AND DINING HALL

Where there are people and the needy there is a need for food! A ramshackle affair currently, lunch and dinner is usually provided in the dining hall for anyone who is helping with the renovations or assisting in some manner, as well as anyone who has come there for aid. All the food is brought in via either donated supplies from local merchants or farms, some Sleepers, and pot luck style.

The kitchens are easy to access though, currently dominated by a stout Crenshaw woman named Abigail who is very thorough in how she wrangles any lollygaggers into chopping mushrooms or gutting fish. No one is safe from her. No one. Heaven help you if you make a mess of her kitchen. She is there almost every day, will lecture a grown man like he's her child, but has a soft spot for young people and will sneak them extra helpings even if she'd deny it. Heaven help you also if you have cooking skills or show any interest in it, because you will find her immediately recruiting you.

Her daughter often comes by bearing a huge bushel of sometimes-questionable "fish", a middle-aged fisherwoman named Joanna.

MAIN HALL

Wide open at the moment, this is used primarily as an open community space at the moment. It leads directly through to the cloisters that surround the courtyard, and so all foot traffic passes through here. At the moment, it's used as a staging grounds for all donated materials that are being used for the reconstruction effort.

Intricate carvings, statues, and faded paintings are throughout the nave and altar area -- but all have been damaged or worn in such a way where it's hard to make out what sort of shrine this was originally, or to whom. Some people will chime in and say it was to Moon Presence herself. Others to Argonaut, or perhaps The Reckoning. Maybe something else entirely, some bygone remnant of another civilization. Who's to say, there doesn't seem to be any consensus or proof yet.

Lunar flowers have begun to grow again around the monastery grounds, so perhaps there's something to be said for it.

What is this? The start of a long term player-based movement of characters pushing for more humane treatment and purification of Beasts using canon and blood magic abilities! Questions? More information, character sign-ups, and questions can be asked over on the location page!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Not exactly. [ It's damage control, which is adjacent. ] I've left you rather out of the loop, Palemedes, and I am beginning to realize that does none of us any good. It's easy for me to fall into old habits... I'm a bit out of my element, here.

[ He gestures, vaguely, as though here might indicate being among strangers or simply being on a planet. ]

Viktor came to talk with me about Lyctorhood. [ That hangs for a beat, to let it sink in. He's genuinely curious to what degree Palamedes had intended this. ] I shared a bit about the history... and the rationale behind the trials at Canaan House. It's information Harrowhark and Ianthe have held for a while now.

[ Maybe they discussed it is implied, as though Harrow or Ianthe would tell anyone anything. ]

[Palamedes generously doesn't comment on loops he's been left out of, primarily because he hadn't asked; no sense belaboring a point not technically denied to him. He's quiet for a long moment after that, expression still neutrally even, until he blinks and raises his eyebrows, halfway surprised after a few lingering seconds of silence.]

—Oh, you're done. Well, I'd prefer it if you'd just ask, but alright: I told Viktor about Lyctorhood because he asked and I know what it is. Should I have believed I was sent to Canaan House for some other arcane purpose?

[He quits organizing his clipboard and puts a hand down overtop it, waving idly with the other one to indicate this, that and the other thing one might learn at Canaan House.]

Tridentarius thinks she's the only one with eyes; I know how to extrapolate between theorems. I'm honestly the best at it.

[Well. They can get into brass tacks in a second, but first, much as he would rather coolly pretend he is unaffected by the obvious:] I don't put Viktor up to anything, for the record.

[ The sass just doesn't stop, today.

None of this, of course, is the point. The point is that Viktor walked up to God and demanded to know about His cavalier, which is either a very haphazard guess or an indication that things are getting a bit out of hand somewhere. Augustine comprehends the gravity of that gossip. Gideon doesn't, but he's not inclined to corner her just yet; things are still delicate, there.

That leaves him with this conversation, such as it is. ]

I believe it. [ He puts up a pacifying hand. ] And this is, again, not a scolding. There are certain truths held only by the First House. You were sent to uncover them at Canaan... and you may have learned others here.

It doesn't sit well with me to have a conversation [ under duress, with punching ] about the deepest secrets of the Empire [ about the Tomb ] with someone who lacks the context, and not extend the same to you.

[ He is gambling that Ramina won't take this as invitation. ]

[If it's not a scolding, Palamedes thinks, what is it, actually. Extending context doesn't seem— well. It wasn't offered to him before, which leaves only one, maybe two, feasible options.

The first, that God is covering his ass, holily as it were, before someone else speaks some manner of truth. The second, that Viktor's assumptions were incorrect, and he himself is being lightly pressed into being a more palatable source of correction.

One of those things, he thinks.]

Okay. I'll hold questions until the end, then, I suppose.

[ God drums his fingers together, again. Then he says: ]

Lyctorhood was not my invention, exactly.

[ Remina does not descend from the heavens to make him retake that one, so he carries on. ]

I'll be honest: the early days of the Empire were a bad time for everyone. We had to build a new world from scrap and ashes. I had the power to do anything, but it isn't easy to be man and God... I needed people I could trust. My disciples, my family.

[ He twists his fingers together absently, gaze gone faraway. ]

I take it you've seen the labs. That was our home, once. That was the best era, if you ask me... Constant breakthroughs. Necromancy was still brand new, and we had all of it to discover. We knew I couldn't sustain them forever, not if they were to go far afield and do all the work that needed doing. So they devised their own immortality.

[ There is a longing note to his voice, now. ] They saw the poetry in it, back then. The ultimate sacrifice... a soul entwined with your own, forever. It was a horrible choice, but it was a choice, and I don't know that we would have survived without it. That was back before the war really hit, you know? It was the first time anyone lay down their life for the Empire, because they wanted their death to be our power.

[ This is not the end, but it's where he pauses for breath, and to look at the expression on Palamedes's face. ]

[It takes a certain amount of self-control to stop Palamedes from looking down at his papers on his clipboard again and multitasking, while God speaks. Instead he leans an elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, and he listens, and does not burst out in any rage, or make any commentary, as promised. Idly he tries to guess which parts of this upset Viktor the most (he doesn't need to be told Viktor was angry, he knows the man); he's pretty sure he can pinpoint the big ones.

So.

This is indeed a story. He wonders, also, which parts are intended to tug at his heartstrings, although not for very long. It's all very... sentimental, which is either performance and therefore useless, or genuine and therefore dreadful. Unbidden Palamedes remembers what Patience had said to him about the founder of the Sixth, that he looks nothing like her, and the ten thousand year gulf between himself and the first Lyctors remains as immense as it was before.

He wonders how long it took the shine of poetry to dull after the choice was made. How long before Cytherea's anguish tarnished her love for God, how long before sacrifice into legacy became grief into suffering.

God says, I had the power to do anything, and Palamedes thumbs at the corner of his papers, and he holds his questions until the end.

He's an iota or two better than his other half at compartmentalizing, so it takes nothing at all to keep his expression schooled into something neutral, waiting, listening. He lets God have his pause, and says,]

And then what?

[ Well, he's coming out ahead of the guy who threw two punches. He is also, notably, not giving any useful tells as to how many dread secrets he already holds. God considers him, and says: ]

All that time, we'd had enemies. Out there, waiting... looking for us.

[ He says: ] They found us.

We lost a lot, in those days. [ That bit's complicated. ] And we've been whittled down ever since. We wouldn't have made it half as long without the Saints. The past few millennia, we've been stretched to breaking... fighting a war on too many fronts, with only a handful of survivors left to do it. That's why I called for backup... and asked you to sift through all our old ghosts to join us.

I know what I was asking of you. [ He scrubs a hand back through his hair. ] I know what it looks like from the outside. That's why I waited so long to put out that call, until things got truly dire.

Sainthood was conceived of as the ultimate sacrifice, the heart of the Empire. But you've met my Seventh Saint... I imagine you've seen what that can do to a person. Ten thousand years is too long.

[Palamedes thumbs at the corner of his papers again, flip flip, flip flip, and what he thinks first is: This is a secret? Not for any depth of having every detail in his pocket, but this? "War is hard"?

After a moment, he says,] 'From the outside' is a strange way to conceive of the bulk of your Empire.

[And then,] I don't know why you'd rush all the way here to tell me about your war machine.

[Or how he anticipates "poor little Cytherea, sad because she was old and definitely not because she was dying the same death for ten thousand years" to go over, but the day is still young. Flip flip. Once again he thinks this is a tragic and old story, but God would not come all the way here to pour out his history (allegedly secret) because Viktor didn't say nice things about the (allegedly) noble sacrifice (because he wouldn't), so here is what Palamedes can surmise:

1. Viktor pressed some other button, which means that
a. Someone else has told Viktor all of the Empire secrets, or
b. he, Palamedes, is being handed the blame for an accurate hypothesis.

(He takes a brief moment to be just a little incensed that Viktor's ability to add 1+1 is likely being doubted here, at least somewhat.)]

So, when do you imagine we'll all be on the same page?

[ He tips his head in acknowledgment without response. Murmurs, a little wry: ]

That's a good question.

[ He settles forward again, drops his hands back to his lap. ]

I will not pretend to tell you everything, because I truly believe some secrets should be left to lie. But I hope you can understand that I don't leave anything buried out of malice. Many of our neighbors in Trench seem to think we don't respect the dead, in the Nine Houses... It's the opposite. If I lay something to rest, I believe it should be kept that way. I only unearth those graves if we really, truly need it.

[ That's what he's been telling everyone for a damn long time, anyway. ]

I see. [Even, measured.] So what you actually came here to do is inform me I'm not allowed to be 'in the loop'.

[He stops plucking at the clipboard at long last, folding his hands on the desk in front of him.]

I've rejected joining your inner circle multiple times, so I see the logic in that.

[A beat.]

Viktor is going to tell me about his conversation with you; that's a given. And— he has certain biases, as I'm sure you've learned, but he doesn't tell me his opinions to be a gossip, or to sow discord. [So, with that in mind, the most overtly he can announce This is a significant moment! without making a neon sign for it,] What did he say that inspired all this?

Oh, I'm sure he'll give you the play-by-play.

[ Definitely not ominous. God rubs at his temple, for a moment. Then he taps a finger beside one oil-black eye, and says, in the same being-very-reasonable tone he's said everything else: ]

He asked who I get my eyes from.

[ Which would be nothing, if it weren't so recent a raw nerve. It would be nothing, if God weren't acknowledging it as something now.

Harrow wouldn't talk; Ianthe didn't remember. Augustine doesn't seem ready to rekindle that fight. But someone's been saying John to everyone he knows, and even if he's curbed that damage now, it's hard to gauge how many other weapons she's handed out against him. He's been putting this off since day one. Remina's just the latest in a long line to rub his nose in it. ]

We had a chat about— and I don't like to call her this, because everyone starts making assumptions and it just gets very awkward— the first cavalier.

He will. [Palamedes shrugs; yeah, like, that's just something to be assumed as default? He's gonna.] And I'm not surprised he would ask; Lyctorhood offends him, and he wouldn't have any other context to proceed from.

[Here, the detail carefully placed down to both absolve Viktor of any further assumptions about what he might know (from, at least, Palamedes) at the same time he circles around 'other context' like one might circle a landmine.

He considers: the first cavalier, although God doesn't like that term, which implies some level of difference; the confirmation that there is someone who might fit this description without other context, given God has just said so and volleyed in that bit about his-eyes-not-his-eyes; Cytherea's play for revenge tied so inexorably to Canaan House, and to Lyctors.

For the first time Palamedes' perfectly even expression breaks, brow furrowing and frowning deeply, as he takes a couple seconds to decide which type of live grenade to throw on the landmine.]

'Awkward' for your Lyctors, I imagine, because an outsider wouldn't not assume the origin point for the megatheorem— that's what I've been calling it, sorry— is you. Similar and dissimilar, as no one who's never been to Canaan House would know the work was left incomplete.

[A beat, while he drums his fingers, but then he pushes back from his desk and stands to pace around it on God's side, away from the covered art pieces. Here is the frank admission of The Academia, the same as when he'd woken up on a couch and started in about River bubbles.]

What Tridentarius did to herself and her pompous cavalier was a disaster; she's good, but she did all the steps without bothering to give a shit about him, so it doesn't surprise me that she couldn't see all the way to the end. And Harrow— [ah. eh. he shakes his head; no, let's just casually imply that what Harrow did to herself was also ghoulishly wrong, but in a very different way, and move on.] Well, I wish she'd have followed the same trail as I did, but I assume there wasn't time.

Now, Cytherea was upset with you, which I can only assume means she figured it out somehow, too. They invented it from nothing, they lacked the distance to see it wasn't done; I can believe that. Don't mistake this as pity; I can't even begin to fathom how it would have been worth it. Of course, I'm speaking about allowing your Lyctors to leash themselves to an incomplete version of— of the work.

[Which is valid but blame-shifting pettiness unless one happened to come into information that confirmed a complete version somewhere else, like perhaps the knowledge of where God's eyes come from. There's an idea he has about that, but it's too unformed to be of use, so he'll go on with the other one:]

Is she alive? Your... whatever you'd like to call her. Did you know they weren't finished?

[ Palamedes carefully notes Viktor's innocence, and then takes to pacing. That's reasonable, honestly. God sits there, thumb still at his temple, and watches him go.

Palamedes says Cytherea. He says I saw all the way to the end. A silence falls over the Emperor, and hangs, for a long moment. ]

My Annabel isn't like other girls.

[ He touches the pad of a finger beside his monstrous eyes, again. As though that might convey the gravity of it. ]

Death doesn't really work like that, for her. Or for me. But what we have isn't what I'd call advisable... not safe or sane... Lyctorhood, sainthood, the immortality they invented— it hurts, but it's simple. It's clean. No one can comprehend the risks of doing it the other way.

[ He sits forward, but all the fidgets have dropped away. There is a still and silent intent to him, now. ]

I'll be honest: I'm impressed. It took ten thousand years for anyone to realize. I'm sure they must have suspected... but they didn't want to believe it could have gone differently. And it couldn't have, really. I wouldn't have allowed it.

[Oh, she has a name, or at least she has the shape of a name, because Palamedes has already internalized that he will not now or likely ever be handed the whole truth, and if it startled God so much that Viktor could add 1+1 from the outside, he doubts he would be handed something as pinpoint as a proper name. Annabel; she must really be something.

He listens to the rest, at some point stilling his pacing to come to linger beside the other non-desk chair in here, closer to the shelves, leaning his elbow on the back of it. Hmm. He says,] I told you: I'm good.

[Which he leaves at that, because it's true and doesn't bear repeating that he didn't honestly need Cytherea's little message to see that far, or else he might say something insulting about a bunch of very old, very sad people who made a mistake.

Instead he sighs and shuts his eyes for a moment, pushing his glasses horribly askew as he pinches the bridge of his nose. It doesn't feel great to be right, a thing this city has made him familiar with a handful of times over even before this, and it is especially doesn't feel great to correctly guess that God would not allow his Lyctors to coexist with their cavaliers.

For their own sake? Is that the implication? Viktor would have thrown the desk at God by now, a thought that offers some grim amusement.]

No; there's nothing simple or clean about it. The whole process of it— at best, you were negligent to let them go through with it. At worst, consciously callous, which is the only option I can give to letting the rest of us go to Canaan House.

[He refuses to be mollified by that alleged benefit, even if he's only pinching his nose about it. No, of course no one can comprehend the risks of a thing they were not allowed to even know was possible. Obviously not. Despite himself he doesn't ask why do this to them? because he finds he doesn't need to: credit being that good this much, of course he can think of a half dozen reasons someone would concoct this lie and then keep telling it for ten thousand years.

None of them are reasons he agrees with. Several of them are impolite. But notably, he does not immediately ask why?]

I didn't finish the work, myself. [Not yet, although in the absence of certainty and Camilla, that doesn't matter. He admits it now only to keep God off his back, in case his vehement refusal to become a Lyctor already wouldn't hold in the face of this new angle.] Just so you know. And—

[Hmm. Slowly, carefully picking over the words:] This isn't something it would benefit anyone to know.

[ God tips his head in acknowledgment of just how good Palamedes appears to be. It's on him for not gauging the full shape of things early on, back at River bubbles.

He accepts both negligent and consciously callous with good grace. Neither is frankly incorrect, for all that he'll argue the greater scope of the thing. At talk of the work, some remote edge of interest shifts and settles in his face.

He gives Palamedes the space to consider his words. His hands are still; his eyes are very tired. ]

That's what I believe, and what I've believed for a very long time now. [ And: ] Cytherea was angry with me for a variety of frankly very good reasons. I loved her, and she deserved better than what she suffered through. But I am not always in a position to deliver that, no matter how I'd like to. The sacrifices our people undertake in my name can be horrific, and I am keenly aware of that... I can only try to build something worthy of it.

[Palamedes listens, elbow on the chair back and chin in his hand, brittle-bright grey focus in an otherwise placid face. He listens, and after the first sentence he wishes he wasn't listening, and toys briefly with the idea of imagining himself anywhere else but here while God goes on about his sad backstory some more.

It's quite brief; he listens. When he frowns, it is not out of pity, or of reluctant understanding. He sees the reasons a man might tell himself and his loved ones the same lie for a myriad; he does not see the part where the lie becomes such self-congratulatory greater-good nonsense. He thinks of the Sixth, his parents, his colleagues, his people— of child soldiers reaped from across the Empire, and even of Cytherea, despite himself.

Not a death among them worth it, and God sits in his office and mewls about building something worthy, as if he actually believes it. Palamedes' frown deepens, narrowing his eyes, and if God honestly believes in the holiness of his own desolation, then only one word comes slipping past all the others to the surface:

Pathetic.

He says,] Nevertheless.

[And then, after a pause,]

You didn't cure Cytherea, and she was yours. [He adds no qualifiers to that, leaving it presented in the neutral: didn't. Not refused, not couldn't or wouldn't, simply did not.] To that end, you'll abstain from getting involved with Viktor again.

[He'll leash neither of them to mere bursts of miracle, and besides - probably, he thinks, that goodwill has shattered under Viktor's temper. Regardless. He spreads his hands out, like, that's it! That's all.]

Then I'm satisfied, and the work can remain tucked under a rug somewhere, as it ought to be.

[ God's mouth slants tighter, at Cytherea. At didn't. He does not argue it, does not protest; he did not cure Cytherea.

He is unsurprised and unmoved to be asked— told!— he'll keep his hands off Viktor's ruined lungs, from here out. That's simplest: that's for the best. God sets his hands on his thighs, like right then, like that's that.

It's a hell of a truce to strike, but it'll do. ]

Then I'll take my leave. If something pressing arises— squids and chaos, the usual— you know where to find me.

[ Not a total absence of goodwill; he means to indicate his door is open a crack, if only for all that doesn't matter. There's nothing so convenient as a common enemy.

He counts it a success that he leaves this one without getting punched. ]

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[open] Sᴀɴᴄᴛᴜᴀʀʏ - May renovations

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