The Beings of Light sit around a table; they appear to be having an animated discussion. There is a bearded man in a blue tabard doing most of the talking and the others, a cloaked figure with a scythe, a hermaphrodite holding a golden staff and a lizard-man seem to be clinging on to his every word; asking questions and making astute observations on what he seems to be describing.
A regal woman walks over and the party at the table rise to their feet, bowing as she enters.
“My dear”, she gestures to the bearded man, “I believe the Hierophant is in need of you” “Very well”, replies the man – his axiom the Three of Wands.
He folds up his GM screen and places his dice back in their bags. After apologising to the others and bowing to the Empress, he swiftly takes his leave.
Manifesting in a desert landscape, a warzone, he runs towards the man whose call he has heard.
He slows to a walk as he nears the bleeding priest, and then seems to reach down. He lifts out a glowing shape – adorned in a deep red robe, and wearing a crown which glows with a fire as bright as the torch carried by the Three of Wands. This shape solidifies into a person. Not the priest as a young man, but rather, the priest without any flaws - the priest as many of the soldiers had imagined him - kind, but firm; compassionate, but authoritative. In his hand, a golden staff tipped with a cross flashes into being and the night is illuminated in a warming, golden light.
The bearded man smiles. ‘Hello, mister Hierophant…Or, perhaps you’d prefer pope? Or would that be blasphemous?’
‘Damus, my friend. It’s been a while.’
‘Yes, it has. I seem to find it harder and harder to visit you, Father. You seemed so sure of yourself - or at least, sure of what you wanted to know and be. You didn’t need me – until now, of course. But, well, I figured I’d come, and invite you to tea…’ The Three of Wands finishes, smiling.
The priest turns. His voice is quiet and calm, but carries over the massed crowds with no problem at all as he replies ‘I’d love to. But I’m afraid I’ve got an appointment elsewhere. I’m sure I’ll see you, eventually, Damus. You’re a good man, and a good friend. Watch out for them for me?’
The staff disappears from the man’s hands, and the crown winks out. The red robes bleach to white, with both the colour and substance draining away, and the glow around the man increases. For a split second, music can be heard – and a loud voice which is both commanding and forgiving, harsh and soft seems to speak, saying something on the edge of hearing. Then, in a single, illuminating flash, the man is gone. Damus looks bewildered.
‘What? Well…I’m going to need to think on this…maybe I’ll write another paper.’ He looks down, and sees the book the man was carrying, lying in the sand. ‘Oh yeah. I guess that would be plagiarism. Or is that blasphemy?’
The battlefield is clear. Large gaggles of soldiers stand milling around, and regimented rows of lumpy, charcoal bags show those who were too far gone.
Revelations moves among the living, speaking to them. His face is stern, but not unkind. He seems, mostly, to be lecturing them - ocasionally tending to wounds which he missed first time round.
As he moves from one group to the next, wearing different uniforms, an altercation breaks out. A young man, with fiery red hair pushes out of the crowd, and catches up with him. Angry words are shouted in the growing darkness. The man is wildly gesticulating at the group with different uniforms. Revelations speaks to him, his voice kept low and level, and attempts to lay a calming hand on the man's shoulder. He nods, as the man seems to calm. He turns, and begins walking. He never sees the man draw a sidearm. He hears the shouts, and turns, just in time to see the flash.
The old man jerks back, clutching his chest. Men from both groups run to him. The gunman is tackled to the ground. There are shouts, screams, yells. More gunshots echo, and several others fall. In the chaos, only a few hear the last croaked word of the Holy Man.
‘Forgive.’
In the chaos, a man runs forwards. He glows slightly – the air around him illuminated with a fiery radiance in the darkness, but the figure seems both more real, and less real than usual. The man passes through obstacles, and, occasionally people as he runs forward. Revelations is briefly reminded of a discussion of Angels he read about as a Theology student - more solid than us. Moving through us like we move through mist. But this isn't an Angel. He wears a tabard, and carries a flaming torch which is far brighter than it ought to be, thrust out before him almost like a weapon, or challenge. As he runs, people around him fall back – the chaos diminishes and silence falls over the crowd. People find looking directly at him difficult, and there's a general sense that somthing important is happening. The world watches…
His black-bearded, young face is quite a contrast to the old priest, but it has the same strength and wisdom in it. He slows to a walk as he nears the bleeding priest, and then seems to reach down. He lifts out a glowing shape – adorned in a much redder robe, and wearing a crown which glows with a fire as bright as the torch. This shape solidifies into a person. Not the preist as a young man, but rather, the preist without any flaws - the priest as many of the soldiers had imagined him - kind, but firm; compasionate, but authoratative. In his hand, a golden staff tipped with a cross flashes into being and the night is illuminated in a warming, golden light.
The bearded man smiles. ‘Hello, mister Hierophant…Or, perhaps you’d prefer pope? Or would that be blasphemous?’
‘Damus, my friend. It’s been a while.’
‘Yes, it has. I seem to find it harder and harder to visit you, Father. You seemed so sure of yourself - or at least, sure of what you wanted to know and be. You didn’t need me – until now, of course. But, well, I figured I’d come, and invite you to tea…’ The Three of Wands finishes, smiling.
The priest turns. His voice is quiet and calm, but carries over the massed crowds with no problem at all as he replies ‘I’d love to. But I’m afraid I’ve got an appointment elsewhere. I’m sure I’ll see you, eventually, Damus. You’re a good man, and a good friend. Watch out for them for me?’
The staff disappears from the man’s hands, and the crown winks out. The red robes bleach to white, with both the colour and substance draining away, and the glow around the man increases. For a split second, music can be heard – and a loud voice which is both commanding and forgiving, harsh and soft seems to speak, saying something on the edge of hearing. Then, in a single, illuminating flash, the man is gone. Damus looks bewildered.
‘What? Well…I’m going to need to think on this…maybe I’ll write another paper.’ He looks down, and sees the book the man was carrying, lying in the sand. ‘Oh yeah. I guess that would be plagiarism. Or is that blasphemy?’