Serafine enters quietly, somber and observant, dark eyes searching the place, taking it in. Silent.

Maximilian of Darkwater has been here for a few minutes, lingering near one of the side walls. He examines his own reflection with a certain sort of non-chalance reserved for men in a police station who clean their teeth without realizing the other side of that mirror has police watching him and taking bets on what he ate.

Lady Juliet Fidante is, of course, present to show her support and to honour the thirteenth. Her hair set up into a bun that evokes the flowers of her hometown, and said bun held in place by pins in the shape of the white sword of Tor, real spring roses twined into the metal, and pale pink, almost-white blossoms slowly blooming. The gown she's chosen to wear is simple; an armless dress in shimmery, silver silk, with a bateau neckline that could be considered modest. Could be. Given that the dress mostly consists of two ankle-length pieces of fabric held in place with silvery rose-shaped buttons, atop the shoulders, allowing a gap for sleeves that goes all the way to her thigh before it is equally held together by a second set of flowers. The split along the side giving ample view of the Fidante's sun-kissed flesh, while still offering at least a pretense of modesty. She wears this along with similar-coloured, and similarly adorned slippers; the blade of each foot adorned with a decorative flower.

Fidelia, Juliet's lady-in-waiting, wears similar garb, albeit hers is in a burnished bronze that contrasts against the plainer woman's paler skin. Keeping a position close to, but behind Juliet.

The Ladies Fidante move reverently among reflections and Reflections, finding their place at the Shrine, Juliet looking carefully around. The Inquisitor and his lackeys get a quirk of the lips. The Jester a nod of her head, as does Max and Serafine. And the Acolyte at the shrine earns a curtsey, before Juliet, and the lady following her, both stop and let their movements still.


%As quiet as those who have entered before, Darren arrives with his sister, Deva, on his arm. He sweeps the shrine with a hesitant, careful sort of look before his eyes settle on the Acolyte for a moment. Then, he gives Deva a tug and brings her to a place towards the back, where they can watch most of the goings on around them.

Not long after the harlequin, Eleyna drifts into the shrine, not looking gleeful whatsoever. Loose blond curls frame a face made of alabaster, frozen into an expression of what might appear to be icy boredom. She ignores the mirrors once she's inside, preferring instead to focus on the people present as her pale blue eyes sweep over those in attendance.

Reese enters wearing white armor with rabbits fashioned on the shoulder pieces and red embellished hearts on the chest piece enters. She might have been a half-click quicker just outside the entrance before stepping further inside to join the gathering. While there's reverence and solemness heavy in others, her face has a pretty smile as she takes the helmet off and lets those golden locks free.

Julea slips into the room without any fanfare, and while initially the hood of her cape is drawn over her brow, shortly after stepping into the building, a bare hand sweeps it back, exposing a head of black hair, cut at an angle over her brow. Beneath it, she's wearing leathers that look to have seen better days, with more than a few patches and mends. She takes a few steps to the side of the door, and takes a moment to take in her surroundings and in particular the people that have arrived before her to the Shrine.

Blacktongue slides on up to Eleyna's side and murmurs something quietly to her, the cheshire mask of his never waning amid any somber airs the temple may hold.

Deva settes into a seat next to Darren, murmuring something lowly as she looks up and around the room. Her expression is reserved, and she even manages to sit up straight on the bench.

Serafine stays towards the back, hands tucked into her pockets. She's behind the crowd but she can see alright, having procured a box to stand on. It might be a prayer ottoman but, well. She's short.

    A single lift of a hand, Silent Reflections standing as attendant move to close the doors of the Shrine. While not barred, it sinks the sanctuary into deepest darkness, the eerie lights of black candles dancing off of mirrored sconces, playing about the features of all gathered. No one is prevented from entering or leaving, but each has to decide on their own if they wish to run that risk.
    The Acolyte lifts her hands, commanding attention with that simple gesture, lifting her masked face to the sky. Her voice, distorted through the mask holds within it the fanaticism and strength of the truly faithful. "In the Name that shall not be uttered, in the Darkest Reflection of our souls, we invoke thee, Thirteenth amongst the gods, Fulfillment of the Pantheon and embrace thee." She slowly lowers her hands, the Silents moving to set up a small table with the implements of ritual upon it, as the Acolyte moves with deliberate grace. "Be welcomed in this most Hallowed Hall, bravest of the chosen people, to receive His Blessings and strength."

    A single lift of a hand, Silent Reflections standing as attendant move to close the doors of the Shrine. While not barred, it sinks the sanctuary into deepest darkness, the eerie lights of black candles dancing off of mirrored sconces, playing about the features of all gathered. No one is prevented from entering or leaving, but each has to decide on their own if they wish to run that risk.
    The Acolyte lifts her hands, commanding attention with that simple gesture, lifting her masked face to the sky. Her voice, distorted through the mask holds within it the fanaticism and strength of the truly faithful. "In the Name that shall not be uttered, in the Darkest Reflection of our souls, we invoke thee, Thirteenth amongst the gods, Fulfillment of the Pantheon and embrace thee." She slowly lowers her hands, the Silents moving to set up a small table with the implements of ritual upon it, as the Acolyte moves with deliberate grace. "Be welcomed in this most Hallowed Hall, bravest of the chosen people, to receive His Blessings and strength."

Eleyna glances in Juliet's direction and gives the lady a small nod before turning her attention to Blacktongue, who earns the faintest of smiles from the princess. She leans in to murmur to the jester before glancing ahead to the Acolyte to listen.

Niccolo steps into the shrine, his arm linked with Calypso's. Once they're inside, he takes a moment to study the surroundings. The duke leads Calypso to a place for them to settle at, just before the doors close behind them.

There's a few shuffling steps that takes Julea from the back of the room to one of the rear benches, and she sits down on the end, somewhat awkwardly. Her breathing is a touch fast, and cheeks have a bit more colour than most, suggesting that she may of run the distance to the Shrine, or at the very least exerted herself physically in some manner just prior. She briefly fans her face, and starts with the closing of doors, looking to the attendant that secured them. When the acolyte speaks at the front, her body turns and her focus is solely on them.

Bethany slips in and steps to the side of the Shrine's entrance, entirely unremarkable. Expression composed to indifference. Hands clasped behind her back. Present to listen and watch out of simple curiosity's sake.

Maximilian turns when the speaking begins. And he even removes his hat. Now if thats not high praise and humility from the Count of Darkwater, nothing is. He gravites over to the general seating area, but does not sit. Naw. Standing rooms fine.

Calypso steps in along side Duke Niccolo. Her expression is a neutral one, observant and quiet, respectful of the Shrine and those speaking.

Juliet offers a nod in turn to Eleyna - and, as they enter, to Niccolo, Calypso and Bethany as well. But once the ceremony begins, her eyes fix upon the altar, upon the acolyte speaking, and she murmurs quietly along in the invocation, praising the name that shall not be spoken.


    Darren reaches to put his hand upon Deva's shoulder as the shrine is suddenly blanketed into darkness. He says nothing at all, respectful of the happenings around him, looking up ahead at the Acolyte's direction as she begins to speak.

Blacktongue dares a laugh before the ceremony begins at whatever Eleyna murmured back. If any look back to glare daggers at him, he simply holds up black gloved hands in mock surrender coupled with a far too impish twist to his features.


    The Inquisitorial Confessors murmur to themselves as the Shrine goes dark, looking to the Inquisitor that they follow for orders or direction. Alistair is silent, having taken an accounting of all who are present, their various continuances and attitudes to the event. Evidence to be used in future blackmail? A judging of potential? A judging of fault or guilt? His attentions are directed forward as the Acolyte beings the ceremony, his eyes drifting to watch the Mirrors as the last light retreats from the coming dark with the doors closed.

    "We are called, this day, and all days, to be a Balanced people, within us the potential for great light, and great darkness. Without one, there is not the second, and only as a whole creature, may we fulfill our role as champions of the Pantheon." The Acolyte speaks, pure and utter confidence exuding from her, beyond even she as the Princess. The Acolyte turns that featureless mask, with no expression to be seen, only one's own reflection in the dancing candlelight reflected back upon them.
    "It is through Passion that we find Strength. It is through our Wrath that we defend what is ours from those that would harm it. It is through Lust, for flesh, for battle, that we make anew the light in our lives. Greed serves us, not we it, to better our lands and people. We embrace the Passions within us, from which Change comes, and we hone our very souls in Strength."

Damon scurries in, halting himself at the door after what was clearly a sprint across the city to get here. He takes a deep breath and adjusts himself before heading deeper inside.

"Shut up!" Deva says that a little too loudly as she smacks Darren's shoulder with a fist. Then she lightly clears her throat, shrinking her shoulders and smiling in a strained, apologetic fashion.

Reese stands rather than sits, her hands clasped behind the small of her back as she listens attentively to the voice, a nod even given here and there in agreement.

Maximilian glances sidelong at Alistair, being all inquisitorial. There is a moments contemplation of the ramifications of the inquisitors presence, but he dismisses it after that moment. Turning his hat in his hands, the Dark Count of Darkwater likewise returns his attention to Isolde. Cops man. Always harshing a vibe.


    There is hardly even a blink from Darren at Deva's outburst. In fact, it seems he is ignoring her for the moment, lips pursed as he keeps his focus on the altar, and his hands folded politely in his lap.

Damon moves in and settles near Maximilian, clasping his hands in front of him, resting his right forearm in the notch between his sword and his hip.

    The Acolyte lifts the mirrored bowl for a moment, before setting it down once more, filling it with dried leaves and pungent herbs. She takes a candle and sets the flame to the bowl, and soon, the smoke of the aromatic contents begins to fill the room. "Today, we offer ourselves to the Thirteenth, and embrace the Passions within us. We dedicate ourselves, and our people to Strength, to conquer that which seeks to set itself against us."
    The Silver Athame is lifted then, the mask searching over the faces of those in the crowd, smoke wafting about her, the flames casting more shadows about her. The Acolyte lifts her other hand to the blade, and without hesitation, slices against her palm. Drops of blood, black in the eerie light slowly drip into the bowl, mixing with the blaze within. "And so I do invoke thee, Thirteenth, Master of Passions and the Reflection within us. With this sacrifice I draw in Strength, to bless those that dare come forth and seek thee out, in earnest truth."

When her icy gaze isn't on the altar, Eleyna's head is turned slightly toward the jester at her side. Occasionally, she even almost smiles at Blacktongue. Once, as she looks away from the Acolyte, her eyes alight on her sister and she gives the woman a polite nod before looking away.

As Maximilian looks away the Inquisitor glances to the Count, leaning back to whisper briefly with one of his subordinates as the event progresses and the Acolyte dedicated to the Thirteenth draws the blade to bring blood to the ritual, sliced from flesh and offered in a bowl. Slowly the man's hand flexes as it is clasped behind his back, the Confessors going silent as they stare forward... as if waiting for some creature to lurch from the shadows and partake in the offering. The Inquisitor simply waits in silence.

Julea remains seated at her spot on the rear most bench, but it doesn't stop her from keeping a close eye on things towards the front of the room. Her dark eyes a touch wide, and following every motion, and every word uttered by the Acolyte.

The prying gaze of the jester is focused on the altar when Isolde slices her hand. Blacktongue raises a hand to thoughtfully stroke his beard - dyed a venomous green today. His words to Eleyna still happen but softly, more sparse as the ritual progresses.

Juliet raises her arms, crossing them under her bosom, making the shimmering silvery silk dance slightly. Running the tip of her tongue along the edge of her lip, canting her head slightly forward as she takes in the whole of the ritual.


Darren hardly stirs when the Acolyte slices her open palm, his head slightly tipping to the side. He watches for a moment, before bowing his head towards Deva to murmur quiet words into her ear.

Serafine watches the Acolyte, eyes glittering, her face a mask of its own.

Maximilian murmurs something quietly to Damon when the other man approaches, a careful eye-line given to Alistair.

Calypso's steely expression curls to a vague curiosity as the Acolyte speaks and moves. Her frosted gaze scans the room briefly before settling at the center of the room and the ceremony there.

Niccolo watches The Acolyte, his features schooled as ever. The eyes remain on the ritual, and the robed figured. They do not search others, and there is no glance to the Inquisitor. No, the Velenosa duke's gaze softens some, when the Acolyte slices her palm, but otherwise, little can be seen on the man's face.

Bethany glances down and aside a moment after the Acolyte offers her own blood to the ritual. Hands that were so demurely folded against the small of her back, tense, and twist together until her knuckles go white. She remains silent, still, and immeasaurably grateful for the concealing dark.

    A sinister black band is wrapped around the wounded hand, stemming the flow after only the faintest drops fall. The fire within the bowl dies almost as quickly as it flared, the tinder within turning to ash, embers alone remaining as the Acolyte picks up the bowl, reacting not at all to the heat of it, or, well, if there is, it's hidden in robe and mask. With her opposite hand she holds the athame, then with a finger, stirs the drops with the ash and ember, a single note of tension in her voice as she continues, the pain only adding color to her words.
    "And so all are called before the Acolyte, Favored of the Thirteenth, to sacrifice and be made strong." Silent Reflections flank the Acolyte. "Come forth and kneel before the Thirteenth, and offer yourself to your passions." She motions with a soot-stained finger. "As you kneel, whisper the passion you embrace into the smoke, or write it on a paper. Set it ablaze, and offer a drop of blood, if you choose to do so. I will bestow a blessing and mark you with the sign of his favor."
    ((In case none of that was clear - if you choose to come up, kneel, and pose either whispering, or writing on a paper and putting it in the bowl. If you're going to add the blood, pose that too. Page Isolde with questions!))

    A sinister black band is wrapped around the wounded hand, stemming the flow after only the faintest drops fall. The fire within the bowl dies almost as quickly as it flared, the tinder within turning to ash, embers alone remaining as the Acolyte picks up the bowl, reacting not at all to the heat of it, or, well, if there is, it's hidden in robe and mask. With her opposite hand she holds the athame, then with a finger, stirs the drops with the ash and ember, a single note of tension in her voice as she continues, the pain only adding color to her words.
    "And so all are called before the Acolyte, Favored of the Thirteenth, to sacrifice and be made strong." Silent Reflections flank the Acolyte. "Come forth and kneel before the Thirteenth, and offer yourself to your passions." She motions with a soot-stained finger. "As you kneel, whisper the passion you embrace into the smoke, or write it on a paper. Set it ablaze, and offer a drop of blood, if you choose to do so. I will bestow a blessing and mark you with the sign of his favor."
    ((In case none of that was clear - if you choose to come up, kneel, and pose either whispering, or writing on a paper and putting it in the bowl. If you're going to add the blood, pose that too. Page Isolde with questions!))

Damon lifts his head after being whispered to, watching the proceedings with a firm interest. After Isolde finishes speaking, he immediately steps up to the altar and kneels, closing his eyes and whispering those sweet nothings into the smoke before offering his hand to Isolde for a little cut. Once he's got a cut to work from he squeezes his hand and drips his blood into the bowl before rising and nodding slowly and respectfully to Isolde.

Niccolo stands, and approaches the Acolyte, right after Damon. He waits for his turn, before going to his knees, and offering his drop of blood as he whispers.


    The Hoods do not further disturb the proceedings. They do not step forward to make offerings or receive blessings, and they do not bother the clergy or the patrons with any questions. There is always time for questions in the future, in rooms filled with more darkness then here.

Maybe its the brash nature of the young Count of Darkwater. Maybe its the way he has an instinctive need, a soldiers need, to piss off 'the man'... but he steps forward almost in time with Damon, pausing only a moment so the other man to finsh. He draws a black obsidian bladed dagger from his boot - drawing it across the inside of his forearm. Blood wells smoothly, the blade wickedly sharp. Several drops are added to the bowl, then the Count of Darkwater, with dark blood welling, steps back to tend himself. "Strenght always costs blood." He mutters.

Reese watches with interest what Damon does from her standing position. She doesn't move yet, although a finger rubs against the ring she wears held behind her back. Her gaze looks over towards the others.

    The Acolyte pricks Damon's finger, allowing a single drop of blood to fall into the bowl. She uses her finger to mix in the soot, drawing a symbol on his forehead in ash, not enough blood to show through it. "Embrace this passion, and nurture it, controlling it lest it control you. Be blessed by the Thirteenth, and flourish in strength."

Julea rises from her bench, but doesn't immediately come forward, instead watching others move to the front of the room and offer their own whispers and offered blood. She draws a slim notebook from an inner pocket in her cape, and plucking a charcoal pencil she scratches a sole word on a page. This is carefully torn from the slender journal.

Eleyna leans in to murmur something to Blacktongue and then rises as well to approach the altar. She offers up a pale hand to be cut and watches as dark red blood wells up on her porcelain skin. Icy blue eyes glimmer as she whispers a single word.

Blacktongue bows with a flourish to Eleyna as he departs her side and moves to wait his turn in line to make his offering. There is a soft tune he hums as he approaches, a graceful and languid beat to his stride as he steps up to the altar at his turn. Removing a silken black glove, a few of his fingertips are stained a deep purple along with the palm when the Acolyte moves to prick it.

Damon dips his head in thanks before returning to his seat.

Juliet moves along as well, though Fidelia remains in place. Adjusting her dress to kneel properly, without pulling on it, Letting her eyes water slightly from the smoke, as she leans in, and whispers her words to the smoke - and though she brings her hand frightfully close to the flame for a moment, it seems her sacrifice is in pain, and not in blood tonight.

With her sacrifice offered, she rises, too, straightening her garb, and pressing the hand held over the flame to her stomach, offering a deep bow of her head to the Acolyte, before she moves back to her spot - or rather, rather closer to Reese. Murmuring a few words to the woman as she walks past her.

Calypso rises from her seat as well and follows through the line of those who offer their words and blood. With a steely somberness she follows suit and kneels, extending her hand for the blood to be drawn and whispering her words.

    The Acolyte dips her head to Niccolo, using the athame to prick his finger as well, reverently mixing it in with the ash. She bows her head to the whispered word. "Most revered servant of the Thirteenth, continue to embrace this Passion you hold dear. Let it burn and intensify with you, under the bonds of your will." She draws the symbol on his forehead, bowing her head. "Be blessed and go forth as a voice unto the people of the Might of the Reflection."


    The Count of Darkwater will find his demonstration has not gone without notice. Although Alistair's gaze is locked upon the Acolyte and the bowl that slowly fills with more blood, one of the Confessors stares directly at the Count, making note of him clearly and the excessive offering he made to the Thirteenth. Only silence and stares come from the Inquisitor and his subordinates though, no accusations or judging is levied against anyone, and perhaps it is just a show to entertain and keep the image of the Order in line with what people think. They play the part well enough.

    Max receives a slight nod as well, as he, well, offers a bit. Silents come and more tinder is added to burn until it's mostly ash. The Acolyte draws the symbol on his forehead. "I call upon the Thirteenth to bless you. Embrace your passions, lest you be consumed by them. Only through the strength of your will, does your Strength in completion grow. Be blessed and go forth, marked by the Reflection."

Fortunato slips in past the doors, his rainbow coat turned inside out, a little dimmer that way, if any color could be anything but dim in this lighting. Lack of. He skirts near the door, back wall, as is his habit, a dark shape in the rearward mirrors.

Maximilian resumes his place after Isolde's bendiction, a murmured thanks before he does so. He glances sidelong at the inqusitors, a dark brow lifting in sarcastic amusement. One hand idly pats his belt. Yep. His 'tobacco' pouch is at home. Good.

    The Acolyte nods to Eleyna, using the silver athame to prick her finger as well, mixing with the soot and blood as before. "With this choice, the choice to embrace your passion, you bind it to your will, and grow strong. I invoke the Thirteenth to bless you, and call you to go forth with his might." She uses the finger to draw the same symbol -- Three intertwined circles, cut through with three sharp vertical lines -- upon her forehead, nodding to her.

Once his blessing has been received, Niccolo rises and inclines his head respectfully to the Acolyte. The duke remains silent, as he slowly turns around and steps towards where he was sitting at. The Velenosa duke reclaims his spot.

Damon leans to the side when Max returns, murmuring something to the count.

A messenger arrives, delivering a message to Bethany before departing.


Darren shrugs his shoulders at something Deva whispers to him before lifting to his feet, though he does not immediately step up to the shrine. Instead, he casts his eyes to those who are already making their offers, and those who have not, lips pursing thoughtfully. It will take some time, but Darren will amble forward, waiting his turn before he kneels to utter something in the flame. He'll offer his hand up to the Acolyte for the prick as he does so.

Serafine watches the -incredibly- brave messenger sneak in, and then back out.

    As Blacktongue approaches, the Acolyte dips her masked head, using the athame to prick the purpled fingers, a light squeeze given to them. "Blessed servant of the Thirteenth, embrace thy strength, bind it to you as you bind yourself to duty. Go forth filled with the might and strength of the Reflection, to be a beacon to his people." She draws the symbol upon his forehead in soot and blood, dipping her head once more when complete.

Julea doesn't yet make her way down the center aisle and join the queue, instead lingering with the scrunched up piece of paper in her hand, waiting for the nobles and others of more elevated rank than her to attend first.

The white armored princess continues to observe those who are going forward, Reese's finger continues to slowly run along the ring held behind her back while she leans slightly to the side to speak softly to Juliet nearby.

Bethany seems ever so distant, accepting the message and taking her exit promptly afterward.

Eleyna receives her blessing in cool silence and bows her head afterward. She turns and makes her way back to her seat, offering a nod and long look to the Duke as she passes.

    Juliet approaches the Acolyte, and the woman motions the Fidante to kneel before her. The Acolyte rests her hand on her head, nodding at the sacrifice of pain, and speaks. "She who walks a path of Reflection, be blessed. Let your eyes be cleared and your heart bound in the strength of your passions. Use this night to call upon the strength within you, and walk in his might, unashamed." The symbol is drawn with her thumb, and her hand is lifted, nodding to the woman. "Go forth, servant, Reflection."

Fortunato keeps in the back, enshrouded as far as the rainbow coat will let him be enshrouded. His eyes dart to the front, to the line, to postures and hands. He gleans context. He draws a battered scrap of parchment from one of his (now inward-facing) pockets.

Juliet lets out a shuddering breath, her eyes fluttering, as the Acolyte's touch leaves her brow. Pushing herself to her feet, offering a nod of thanks, her face mussed with hints of ash from where she leaned into the fire, and her eyes watering. But, as she turns and walks away from the altar, her smile is -triumphant-.

    The Acolyte motions to Calypso as she kneels, marking her with the point of the dagger, and mixing her blood with the ash. Always, more tinder is added to the small flame, to keep the ash dominant in the mix. "Your Passions are your greatness, and let them fill you, bound in your will, to lay low your foes. The Blessing of the Thirteenth upon you, go forth, with this dedication of your heart, and be mighty in His Name."

Blacktongue wiggles his fingers once the Athame pricks and muses aloud, "Tickles." A half-smile and he whispers his words to the altar and steps back down into the crowd to take his place beside Eleyna again

Calypso rises from her knees and with slight respectful incline of her head she turns back to her seat beside Niccolo. Her expression remains as steeled as ever.

    As Darren approaches, the Acolyte straightens, though little else of her demeanor shifts. She dips her head, pricking the thumb of the High Lord, resting her hand upon his head as well. "Even the mighty amongst the people pale in comparison to what they could be. With great passion comes great strength, and with this offering, this sacrifice, I invoke the Thirteenth. Let you passions be at your command, your strength filled with the Completion of your soul. Let you be an example to the people, that all come before the Reflection, and all find Strength in him. Rise, and go forth, heading toward completion, in Strength and Might."


     Serafine bows her head and murmurs something softly, then looks up with dark eyes and an impassive expression. As discreetly as she can manage, already at the back of the room, she moves to the doors and slips out.

Fortunato tilts his head especially toward the Acolyte's benediction toward Darren, a deeper flicker of interest brightening his eyes. He scribbles on his parchment.

Eleyna leans in to murmur to Blacktongue as he rejoins her. She then turns her gaze away to eye the red mark that stands out vividly on the paleness of her fingers.


Darren scarcely even twitches when his finger is pricked, watching the blood squeeze into the bowl before he bows his head to the Acolyte in acceptance of her words. He rises after, and returns to his seat beside Deva without further ado, although there is a glance towards Fortunato as he passes by.

Julea finally moves down the aisle, nodding to Darren ever so briefly as she passes, and comes to the front of the room. Without any kind of grace, she awkwardly moves into a kneel, and the scrunched up piece of paper with the sole word inscribed in charcoal is dropped into the flames. Her head bows, an uneven slant of black hair falling over her eyes as the left hand is offered up to the Acolyte.

Fidelia joins her lady Juliet in her new position near Reese, where the Fidante carries on her whispered conversation while watching the proceedings with a feverish gleam of reverence in her eyes.


    The Hoods have not moved from their spot in the back, Alistairs hands still clasped behind his back as he watches the proceedings. As citizen after citizen steps forward, to spill blood, to make offering and to receive benediction and blessing of the Thirteenth. For a brief moment the man's gaze shifts, watching how the fire dances in the Mirror. The distraction is fleeting though and he looks back to watch as the last person steps forward.

    The Acolyte nods, lifting the bowl as the paper burns. "Let this passion be received and revered amongst the people of the Thirteenth." She lowers the bowl, pricking Julea's finger with the athame, letting the drop mix with the flame, before stirring it all with her blackened finger. She draws the symbol on her forehead, offering her blessing. "With this, let your passions be claimed, embraced, and lauded as that which makes you strong. Dominate your will and let it fill your senses, that the world know you as toward Completion, and be in the Strength of the Reflection."

The Harlequin's glove is returned to cover up the hand that had been pricked. There is the slightest tilt to his head as he listens to Eleyna's words. Whatever is whispered it makes Blacktongue's smile cruel and too sharp. A flicker of a candle, a shifting of shade and it is as jovial as it ever was.

There's a brief flinch as the finger is pricked by the Acolyte and blood starts to form on her skin, and a quickly drawn breath to accompany it. Julea exhales slowly after and once the blessing is offered, she rises to her feet, and takes a couple of steps backwards before eventually turning and making her way back towards her seat towards the rear of the room.

After whispering to Calypso, Niccolo quietly rises and wraps his cloak around him as he steps towards the doors leading out. But not before offering the altar a respectful dip of his head.

Eleyna's expression remains cold and distant as she watches the last of the offerings and blessings. Even in the darkness, Eleyna's paleness is like a bright smudge in the shadows, all pale golden hair and flawless white skin. When the Blacktongue's expression shifts, her icy blue eyes glimmer and a half-smile tugs at her lips.

    The Acolyte straightens then, looking out over the crowd, to see if any come forward. "Blessed amongst a city of the strong, I call you to glorify in embracing that which the Thirteenth offers you. All are offered the blessing, even if they are unwilling as of yet to embrace his Strength publically. Let all who hear these words search within themselves for that which makes them strong, and know it is but a spark, the faintest glimmer of what we are called to be." She turns to set the bowl on the altar, a bit of oil poured into it, and the flame of a candle set to it anew, until the blaze rises once more, burning more persistently, any remenants consumed.
    The Acolyte lifts her hands. "Go forth, blessed amongst people, and be in Strength. Praise be unto thee, Thirteenth and Completion. Let us use thy blessings to honor thee, and become what we are meant to be." And with that, she folds her hands before her, becoming motionless once more. The doors are opened, the Ritual complete, though no one forces anyone to leave. The bowl burns behind her still.

Deva bobs her head to Darren as he returns to the seat. She sits still the rest of the ritual, and manages to keep from interrupting any further. Her hands fold together in her lap.

For a moment, it looks like Fortunato might step up, eleventh hour. But the artist crumples his parchment, all troubled. Verily, he chickens out, listening to the last portion of the benediction, watching the fresh flame with half an eye as the doors open.

Juliet glances from Reese to Fortunato, offering an encouraging smile - and then a slight pout and a raised eyebrow as the painter changes his mind. Lips moving, voice low, as she whispers to the woman next to her.

Calypso rises from her seat with all the calm decorum she is known for. She turns back towards the door and leaves with out a word. A respectful incline of her head is given towards the Acolyte on her way out.


Darren looks over his shoulder once the doors are thrown open, though he doesn't immediately move to leave. Instead, he leans into Deva to murmur something to her, his eyes still on the Acolyte whose gone motionless.

Reese hmms and rocks on her heels of the boots a moment before unclasping her hands from behind her back. A smile is given to those she looks at before she turns and begins to head out.

"Shall we then?" Blacktongue offers an arm to Eleyna and promises, "Only the best of wine, naturally."

Eleyna rises smoothly and takes Blacktongue's arm, nodding as she murmurs in a dry tone without smiling, "Naturally. I'll have to throw it in your face if it is anything but."

Julea rises to her feet, slinging her pack up to her shoulder from where it had been laid to rest on the ground. There's a brief tug at her cape, straightening it. A pat of her hand to her thigh and the sheath strapped there. And with everything checked, the Northern girl starts to maker her way from the rear benches and towards the open doors.

Maximilian glances sidelong at Damon then. "Well. This city never wants for spectacle." He asides, watching people file out.

Fortunato meets Juliet's glance, then looks away, glaring at the nearest mirror, which surely never did anything to him.

Deva nods to Darren, her voice low in whatever she murmurs to him. With a glance toward the front, she rises and turns to leave as quietly as they arrived.