View Full Version : Of Angels And Angles (Solo)
Of Angels And Angles (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTwh01MLSjY)
1933
Part One Of Three
On invisible wings, doth the moon rise
bringing to the black and violet sky its faithful hue
of magic bold, of life’s eternal dance
It burns the skies with enchantment strong
And through the course of time, through birth and death, stars continue on
lighting the night with mists of hazy white
Wonder for the heart is hidden in that shimmering song
What we see is only the tiniest piece of an endless universe so bright
And when leaves fly, like emeralds on the wind
and on winter days when snow does take its roll
and on warm summer days, when the sun’s to be enjoyed
night still finds it’s way, ethereal inspiration for the wandering soul
And although it is dark, it is also light
Don’t be afraid of shimmering moonlight, of halos of stars
such beauty is rare
and the miracle it is lies far beyond compare
Next time the sun goes down to sleep
go and imagine what is in that stellar sky
Gaze upon that surface of un-expected deep
think of an angel in flight, or of rain as falling hope
Think of all there is and will be
think of yourself, in the bath of moonlight
think of all you know and long to see
think of how you’re thankful for the day
as well as for the beauty of the night
- Andrea Reick
The remarkable and compact nature of the Midwinter household did not lend itself to the modern notions of personal space or private reflection. When living with siblings and an inquisitive matriarch, your dirty secrets tended to be aired out in the dining room or around the kitchen table on a regular, hauntingly futile basis. As Oliver strolled into the wide convex soul of the house, he was greeted with a sudden and hushed silence from his sisters on the couches and his brother, who watched through the glass doors which lead through the small corridor pantry to the open planned glass roofed kitchen.
Collectively, they scrabble for air and tried to distract themselves and their surprise by thinking up all manner of tedious conversation pieces. The common room was well aired and the early morning sun streamed in from every open window, corridor and adjacent room. The red colour on the walls was luminescent, fiery, and alive.
“Oh, Maria’s getting married,” said Juno, trying to look as if he had wandered in just to tell them something they no doubt already knew in great detail.
“Yes, to the baker’s son!”
“Stop,” Oliver said and sighed, rolling his shoulders and clicking his still semi-catatonic limbs to life. “I know you were talking about me, its okay.”
“It’s not,” Juno dusted off his glasses and stepped in the common room’s warmth. The front of his coat was speckled with white blotches from his daily attempts at making the day’s bread. “It’s not that we’re talking about you per say,”
“It’s just we’re worried,” they all chimed together. “It’s more; we’re concerned for your ritual.”
Oliver rolled his eyes and strolled over to the sofa to sit next to his would be sisters. Despite the fact that titles separated them further in the traditional roles of the family, he had always considered them to be as good as the real thing. The ‘ritual’ they referred to was the coming of age walk into death with the matriarch or tutor of one’s magical academia. Whilst the harvest rituals and family events were a highlight of the coven’s calendar, it was also the occasion when recently actualised witches took their true initiation test. Many witches took their birthdays close to the ritual, and had little time to prepare as a result, but since Oliver had been away at the last opportunity, walking in death and thus the horrors of the moonlit sonata and prayer were nothing more than a daily occurrence to him.
“There is no need to be, I am more than ready to walk the shadows with grandmother. It is a formality, a twinning of soul with magic. Worry less, and come help me prepare the food – unless you’re going to lie to me and tell me you’ve been up all hours doing it in preparation?” He ruffled his hair and longed for the coffee he could smell brewing in the battered copper pot on the aga a room away.
They all shook their heads and burst into cautious chuckles.
“No, we have not, and it’s taken Juno long enough to prepare; come, Aunt Hilda and Grandmother are already baking the pies,” Maria took his hand with a smile and half dragged him upright. They swanned into the kitchen and the airy bright white surroundings that they all loved so much. Lavender and poppy seed intermingled with the brewing beans to remind them all that life was full of too many pleasures to be worried about the darkness that rested in all their souls.
Fate after all spiralled around like Maria's golden locks, or Oliver's ancient helix artwork embroidered into his scarf - the spiral and cycle of living were there for all to see, wherever one looked.
The remarkable and compact nature of the Midwinter household did not lend itself to the modern notions of personal space or private reflection. When living with siblings and an inquisitive matriarch, your dirty secrets tended to be aired out in the dining room or around the kitchen table on a regular, hauntingly futile basis. As Oliver strolled into the wide convex soul of the house, he was greeted with a sudden and hushed silence from his sisters on the couches and his brother, who watched through the glass doors which lead through the small corridor pantry to the open planned glass roofed kitchen.
Collectively, they scrabble for air and tried to distract themselves and their surprise by thinking up all manner of tedious conversation pieces. The common room was well aired and the early morning sun streamed in from every open window, corridor and adjacent room. The red colour on the walls was luminescent, fiery, and alive.
“Oh, Maria’s getting married,” said Juno, trying to look as if he had wandered in just to tell them something they no doubt already knew in great detail.
“Yes, to the baker’s son!”
“Stop,” Oliver said and sighed, rolling his shoulders and clicking his still semi-catatonic limbs to life. “I know you were talking about me, its okay.”
“It’s not,” Juno dusted off his glasses and stepped in the common room’s warmth. The front of his coat was be speckled with white blotches from his daily attempts at making the day’s bread. “It’s not that we’re talking about you per say,”
“It’s just we’re worried,” they all chimed together. “It’s more; we’re concerned for your ritual.”
Oliver rolled his eyes and strolled over to the sofa to sit next to his would be sisters. Despite the fact that titles separated them further in the traditional roles of the family, he had always considered them to be as good as the real thing. The ‘ritual’ they referred to was the coming of age walk into death with the matriarch or tutor of one’s magical academia. Whilst the harvest rituals and family events were a highlight of the coven’s calendar, it was also the occasion when recently actualised witches took their true initiation test. Many witches took their birthdays close to the ritual, and had little time to prepare as a result, but since Oliver had been away at the last opportunity, walking in death and thus the horrors of the moonlit sonata and prayer were nothing more than a daily occurrence to him.
“There is no need to be, I am more than ready to walk the shadows with grandmother. It is a formality, a twinning of soul with magic. Worry less, and come help me prepare the food – unless you’re going to lie to me and tell me you’ve been up all hours doing it in preparation?” He ruffled his hair and longed for the coffee he could smell brewing in the battered copper pot on the aga a room away.
They all shook their heads and burst into cautious chuckles.
“No, we have not, and it’s taken Juno long enough to prepare; come, Aunt Hilda and Grandmother are already baking the pies,” Maria took his hand with a smile and half dragged him upright. They swanned into the kitchen and the airy bright white surroundings that they all loved so much. Lavendar and poppy seed intermingled with the brewing beans to remind them all that life was full of too many pleasures to be worried about the darkness that rested in all their souls.
Fate after all spiralled around like Maria's golden locks, or Oliver's ancient helix artwork embroidered into his scarf - the spiral and cycle of living were there for all to see, wherever one looked.
The kitchen of the Midwinter residence had long been a traditionally female domain, the pride and place of every matriarch for centuries, and every family’s matriarch in every house many centuries before that. As needs grew greater than social conformity, it had slowly become a mutually owned part of the house and in recent times, as his magical ineptitude lead him to greater heights of boredom, and more and more free time needed to be filled, it was Juno’s treasured hobby and pastime.
Whilst the other siblings of the Midwinter line took to the other worlds and dabbled in the holistic properties of white magic and tending to the needs of the sick villagers, troubled by ailments and malady, Juno delved deeper into the ancient arts of short crust pastry, apple stew and carrot roulade. Despite his relative culinary genius next to Maria’s abysmal soup or Helen’s dire attempts at pork pie, Juno had yet to master the art of raising bread and tending to the needs of yeast – flatbread was smothering the table, eager to be dipped in hummus and lime.
The kitchen itself was in fact two rooms, connected by extension of the building’s original boundaries some fifty years ago. The inner room, part of the brick and mortar of the original chalet was a small, red brickwork kitchenette, with a large, durable oaken table in the centre and a heavy iron aga set into the external wall. Various pots and pans and durable hand me down utensils hung overheard from the suspended rack, which was as old as the kitchen itself, and herbs and spices and braces of game dried over the fireplace and on whatever tender hooks were spare. It was literally crammed.
The second half of the kitchen was more of a conservatory, a wide open glass structure with a table of its own in radiant white. The glass began at waist height on all three of the external walls, with the dusty brick work of the original building propping it up. The view it offered to willing vegetable peelers was a spectacular panorama of the house’s grounds and the meadows beyond which sloped down to the raging great river of Albion itself. Along its lithe banks and dangerous currents sparkling diamond trails gleamed in the morning sun and over eager lovers dozed on its rolling green spring jack banks.
Humidity in the conservatory allowed dinners to be left to stand and bread to rise efficiently, whenever Juno was not near it, and the double doors set thrice into the longest wall opposite the entrance could open out into one great canopy room to allow free passage into and out of the herb garden and lawn beyond. It was an adequate and well used arrangement, dining room, kitchen, parlour for parties and prayer chamber all in one.
Oliver stretched as they walked in to the smoky chamber and gathered around the vegetable and bread laden table. The smell of yeast, pepper, coffee and pie made them all very hungry, but non dared to touch a morsel until Juno gave his approval, and they all knew that would only come once High lunch was set out on the great long oaken table to the front of the house; it was part of the festival, and all the coven would seat with them beneath the white blooms of the Concordia Tree.
“Break bread, tear carrots from sprigs and chop potatoes,” Juno commanded, pointing a sibling to a knife and hefty chopping board with authorities speed and Oliver to the conservatory table. “Set out the glasses and crystal and fill the jugs with the usual cordials from the decanters, enough for the full Quarter of Women!”
The young witch smiled as he bent to open one of the many cupboards built into the worktops set in both short walls and along the main support wall of the house and rummaged in the store for the best crystal. Soon, he would be a man proper, and a witch whole.
Soon, they would all be a lot heavier, a lot less sober, and closer to the summer’s Bounty.
The cordial glasses rattled on the tray as Oliver pulled them from the cupboard and walked precariously over to the long table and deposited them. He adjusted the long lace tablecloth to restore it to its immaculate state, so as not to anger his sisters and turned to collect the second load. Juno wandered in, hands clogged with dough and flour, and a stern expression on his face that usually foretold an argument.
"It's just occurred to me," he said in a matter-of-fact voice that was unsure of itself. "I don't have any watercress." He let the statement hang in the air for a few seconds as his brother set the second tray onto the table and rested his hands on his hips.
"Oh alright, I'll go!" He said eventually, taking the hint. "You finish the drinks and I'll be back in a short while." He walked over to the summer doors and pulled them wide, and relished the blast of warm air and its honeydew aroma.
Stepping out into the rear garden of Caroline Haven was like walking into nature's throng. The immaculate lawn and Oliver, jade and cardinal green stripes were the only reminder of man's interference. The rockery and trees which sprouted in almost uniform patterns from the central garden and the surrounding edges were ablaze with colour and variety. Truth be told, Oliver's Grandmother spent most of her time tending to it under the cover of the moonlight, and it was always magnificent by first light.
Oliver knew some of the names by now, but there too many for someone so young to recollect. There were poppies, red, yellow, orange, and pink too, and lilies in wicker baskets hanging from the tree branches ensconced in shade. In amongst the ferns that added green and bulk to the arrangements were forget-me-knots and bluebells, and snowdrops during the spring, and a wild fiery flower he liked very much to eat, but could not pronounce its Tradespeak name, Lingui Fiero Reom.
He walked around the verge of the house, stopping to look into each window as he passed to try and catch a secretive glimpse of the house's inner workings and eavesdrops - it was a gift he had picked up being a man in a woman's world. Relinquished of any joy, he strolled out onto the lawn and made towards the line of reeds at the far end of the garden, and for the glimmering waters of the Midwinter's prized possession. The only lake in Albion, if not the world, that reflected the soul.
Ever since he was a child, Oliver had been warned to never swim in the lake. You could look, perhaps, if you were brave enough, you could touch, but never swim. "The waters held a power unlike any other," his mother had said, and his grandmother had echoed many a time since. Few people in the family, least not the village as a whole knew exactly what sort of power the lake had, or where it had come from, but they told the tale and passed on the omen all the same, generation to generation, and witch to witch.
There were many tales of people, long lost relatives, who had succumbed to temptation and lost their souls. They had been discovered on the far side, stooped over the water's edge and obscured by reeds that had grown about them in time. They had a look on their face that expressed serene happiness, contented notions of satisfaction, but at the same time, a look of death. They were rotting statues, caught and snared by the fae powers of old and left to act as a gargoyle to others.
Oliver had looked into the lake once himself. It had been three years ago, on the cusp of adulthood and the time in which a witch of Albion was traditionally expected to make mistake, promise and fortune all in one fell swoop. He remembered it not as fondly as he padded over the lawn and approached the water's edge. It was still and calm today, for sometimes it was bobbing and the trout, or whatever beasts survived in such a place disturbed the surface, scattering concentric rings of half seen scales across the water.
"We meet again, anon and done." He mumbled, stooping with his eyes squinting and half turned away. He reached over the mud-bank and ripped up a great wad of water-cress from its home and stepped back. The cold, icy waters tingled his sleep addled fingers and splashed onto his heavy boots.
A deep rumbling sound cracked over the horizon and scattered the birds in the distant trees that formed the edge of Caroline Haven before giving way to the Yardley Woods and riled Oliver's wits. The sunny midday sky was awash with reds and purples and scintillated with prospects, but something was amiss. The energy that he had felt at the moment of his awakening returned, if only briefly, and he drew his gaze instinctively to the lake.
He stepped forwards.
He looked down.
Time passed.
"Oliver!" A familiar voice called across the lawn.
Juno scowled, and realised that after his fifth attempt at calling in his brother to finish off the salad that something was amiss. It had not occurred to him that the lake was to blame, he did not grasp the concepts at work and he had not been told the true tale of the Soul Water at his awakening, for he had not undergone the ceremony.
In a world of magic and mystery, he had longed to come to an understanding about some of the things he saw and trials he endured in the name of family. Slowly but surely he supposed he would come to appreciate that he was a black sheep in a fiery family, that he would never have all the answers. He sighed and walked over the lawn slowly, as if not quite believing the sense of urgency and worry in the pit of his stomach.
"It's been almost an hour, what have you been doing, dredging the whole lake?" He chuckled, and his voice cracked like a slave-driver's whip into Oliver's despondent ears.
He rocked and gasped, as if he had been away with the faeries, and looked over his shoulder to be greed by his brother's top hat and tails. "Oh, I'm sorry, I was...miles away," he glanced back at the water and shook his head in disbelief. "Come, let us finish lunch and take the food out onto the table before our guests arrive. It'll soon be three O'clock and we've still got to hang the lanterns and prepare the Grande Circle."
Juno scrutinised his brother's face for signs of lying, but saw only confusion. He patted him on the back as he walked past and they strolled back into the house together. The only sound that broke the uneventful walk was the meeting of boots on paving stones that encircled the house. Oliver struggled to contend with the mysterious visions he had seen reflected in the crystalline waters, and furrowed his brow and ruffled his scarf to try and kindled some small memory of his childhood to help him make sense of it all.
If the lake, as the legend foretold reflected a man's soul in all its natural glory. Then why had the vision he had been shown reflected nothing more than death, skeletal ruination and glimmering winged beings surrounded by an aura so bright it still burnt his eyes. He felt like a foolish child discovering for the first time the effects of staring too long or too close to the corona of the sun.
The first guests arrived four hours later, which in Juno's world, was too early for his food to be given time to mature, and too late for the Matriarch, who had spent the afternoon garnishing her hair and gown and prancing up and down the stairs commanding the younger siblings like a furious tyrant queen.
The sun room table had been conjured, with great duress, out onto the lawn. It sat lengthways parallel to the sun room itself, and tucked under the canopy of the grand juniper tree that had stood by the house and thus in the family's lands for almost three hundred years. Each event, and for most of the long, hot summer nights, it served as a stage for the family and coven's meetings and occasions.
Oliver had festooned the lower branches with simple paper lanterns in an array of reds and gold’s, and had tremendous fun lighting them from the ground with delicately ushered flicker wisps of fire, conjured from his fingertips and the world between worlds. As Albion was very much at the bottom of a wide valley, the sun set earlier and dusk approached as the first line of guests wandered down the garden path and took their places at the table.
The Matriarch sat at one end, with the Theosophist at the other, and members of the Midwinter family in two rows of three to either side of the Matriarch herself. The other sixteen guests sat in two rows of eight, in order of seniority and age and femininity from left to right. The high hat of Arthur and the delicate lavender adorned weave served as a proverbial king and queen, female and male and the duality of the spirit.
No guest touched the food, knowing that they would incur the wrath of Juno's magical contraptions if they did so without permission, and discussion took stock of hunger instead as guests were introduced and re-acquainted after long intervals of absence, time away, or just the busy every day turning of the tide. As the sun cut across the horizon and bloomed into a corona of fire, Oliver, sat next to Helen with Clarion, the Baker's Daughter to his right, felt at home.
He sipped on his wine and gazed at the lanterns, occasionally nodding in agreement or muttering some half-arsed anecdote when an appropriate break in conversation turned up, and waited for the truth of the matter to sink in. Tonight, with the Coven all around him, he would witness first-hand the power of womanhood and magic. The seasonal Sabbath, the great festivals, where the only time in which a male witch could enter a circle cast by the High-Coven. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered about the meaning of the vision in the lake, and how it might affect him; should he step into that Circle to embrace his initiation with a shadow on his mind...
He would cease to exist.
"So tell me, little brother, what's on your mind?" Helen's finger jabbed Oliver in the ribcage and he whelped with surprise. He glared at her before answering.
"I...think I need to tell you something."
"I know, which is why I prodded you - I know these things," she made another passing reference to her intuition and recursive abilities and Oliver cringed with jealousy. He was an open book to her, emotions and thoughts were written in the air before him in golden, screaming letters. "What did you see?"
"I think I saw what mother saw, and what father said he saw when he looked at mother."
He sipped his wine and ruffled his hair, unsure of what to say but intent on saying it all the same. His sister was the wisest of the family, bar his Grandmother, and the one he felt most comfortable around and connected to. His gaze settled on the red headed girl across the table to his right as he whispered to his left.
"I saw angels."
Helen smiled and traced his eyes to the woman he was watching.
"No, that's Miss Delacrouix, and she is not for the taking."
Oliver sat upright and turned back to speak with Helen proper. "I am not joking!"
"I know, I know, forgive me," the conversation grew in intensity and frivolity as the wine continued to pour and the evening went on. Anticipation and expectation made the air sticky and heady and sickly, and greed and lust filled the guest's hearts as Juno's banquet continued to tease them.
"What sort of angels?"
"Golden...with wings like the sun and hair and faces as fair as any maidens."
"Why worry then, if dreams are so heavenly and future's bright?"
"Because..."
He sighed, and settled his drink onto the table.
"They were carrying skulls and bones - and rags of clothing."
The silence purveyed a sense of misunderstanding, and Oliver looked up to his sister with worry plastered on his brow. She was already frowning, chiding back the terror she longed to express but feared to in such company.
"They're...your clothes..." She whispered, as if she were driving a dagger into her own back.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Grandmother almost roared, and the guests dimmed their conversation to a silent wave of excitement almost instantly. "It is time, as you all well know, for the Grande Circle to be cast and the Sabbath to be observed." There was much muttering.
"We shall eat first, for to walk in the realm of spirits on an empty stomach invites only danger and hungering shadows, thanks be to the harvest for its bounty, and of course," she smiled at Juno, "to the cook; for such unbridled enthusiasm in bringing you such wonders of the earth."
The guests erupted into applause and quickly exchanged glasses for plates and quick-witted riposte for carving knives and forks. Oliver and Helen continued to stare at one another as chicken breasts and salads of every description were piled eagerly onto plates, alongside still steaming vegetables, quiches, pies and freshly baked bread slavered in garlic butter and oregano relish. Whilst the Creed told its followers to take only what you needed from the land, it also told to not waste; they were hungry, and they would not leave one drop on the fine china and earthenware crockery.
"Should we tell someone?" He pleaded for help, his eyes sparkling with the first forming tears of innocent falling. "If I go into the ci-"
She placed a finger against his lips to silence him and smiled, all be it with visible signs of lying. "Make nothing of it. Whatever you saw was just a vision, a cruel trick of the light cast onto you by the twisted magic of a long dead sorcerer. That lake is trouble, Oliver, pay it no heed." She leant forwards and started to pile apple sauce and pork onto her plate.
A minute passed, and she glanced back at her brother, who was slumped into his chair, exasperated with worry. "Come now, eat!" She pulled him forwards and he meekly smiled, before attending to the needs of his shaking limbs - his remedy, for now, came in the form of spiced poppy seed bread and rolls of cured beef and mustard. All of Albion's many traditions, legacies and goods was represented on a single table - a community of fathers, mothers, bakers and lovers all seated together, in fear, sickness, health and joy.
The Grande circle had been prepared an hour or so earlier, just before dinner. It permeated energy of its own that Oliver could feel, even from the dinner table. It was a simple chalk Sigil, bound in two layers of writing that was distorted as the wind shook the grass and the magic began to come undone. By the time the guests had finished, and the Matriarch ushered them out onto the lawn to bathe in the moonlight, several more learned scholars of the Creed had to dust up the pattern and re weave its arcane nature to ensure success.
At the circle’s centre was a star, five points, one for each element, at the head of which the Matriarch stood. The coven formed a circle around the circle, careful not to tread over the outer line to awaken the protective properties and bring an omen upon all their names. They gathered closer, and held hands in a great human chain and fell into silence. Oliver felt a deep sense of foreboding that he could only describe as deathly as he took Helen’s hand and closed his eyes as he had been instructed in his formative years.
After a few moments, the clouds pulled away from the moon and it’s deep, pallid light descended onto the circle and revealed all his friends and family and the villagers he knew only by profession in an otherworldly glaze. The Matriarch knelt, and placed a dagger into the grass and made to lift the veil of the circle up and over her head. With baited breath, the Coven watched their spiritual leader enter the circle and stand at its centre. Her bare feet left a trail of passage to the star’s heart.
“Tonight we gather, sisters scorned and brothers granted – for this is the Eventide, when the moon passes weakest over the barriers between life and death.” The Coven repeated the introduction in a ghostly chorus, devoid of harmony but inundated with soul and meaning.
“We shall visit grandmothers, fathers and sisters of old, and watch the dance of the dead – we shall wax lyrical with the spirits of yesteryear and pay homage and celebrate their lives.” The second wave repeated the same verse, but added ad infinitum to its culmination, for such service was never really ended in the lives of the coven. To disrespect one’s ancestors at any time of year, in many cultures beyond Albion’s, was a mortal sin.
Four of the coven bent to place knives of their own beneath the four key points cut into the circle, and with their silver athame blades, they lifted the circle and its spiritual ward with a sprig of lavender, thyme and rosemary and a clump of horsehair on each dagger’s hilt. “Come,” said the Matriarch, her voice drenched with ritual, “embrace the circle, and walk were no one dare tread together – united, unbridled, Coven eternal!”
As Albion’s witches stepped forwards, the circle descended in their wake, and a rush of power filled all their lungs, eyes and souls. With a great torrential crack, the very fabric of time itself snapped and hairs on the back of necks stood on end. Silence descended, and then the chalk began to glow. As the circle fell into the ether, into the realm of the dead, there was not much time for the Coven to bolster the defences and conjure a Circle Bright about their magical capsule – if they did not, they would perish as food for thought and ambrosia for the dark horrors their art unleashed in the dark.
“Fire, burning passion, scour the stars of horrors unheard,” the Matriarch spoke, but the lips of Coven moved in sympathy. They all stood at the very inner edge of the circle, afraid to approach the centre of the star and the slowly forming whirlwind of spirit energy that rose from the village’s combined might.
“Water, calming cogitation – divine ambrosia, give us insight into death itself,” the chorus of one grew louder and louder, gathering the pledges from the ancient memories of spell craft before the gathered congregation. Oliver huddled into his sister’s arms as the roar of the unseen wind grew louder and louder, and the outside world, barely visible through the thick membrane of raw energy faded from view entirely. There was nothing beyond the shimmering dome of the circle except infinite bleakness.
“Earth, powdered memory, ancestral recall and shield domineer. Cast us in stone to ward away blades of malice,” the crowd began to sway in the wake of the ritual, and the four dagger bearers drew their athame across their left palms and cried only briefly. They clenched them tightly, careful not to let any blood fall to the Sigil and spoil their work until the correct moment. The earth’s power folded into the dome overhead, and it transformed from a translucent membrane into a heavy, rocky cathedral of nature.
“Air, giver and taker of life and structure, show us a path of chaos in silence,” the last guardian incited, the Matriarch drew a cross in the air and threw it at each of the corner stone bearers. A light faded into view before each of their foreheads, a glowing symbol of ancient Albion pictography that resembled their respective elements and then faded. The Guardians, the Watchtowers of life itself were in place. Oliver glared it Griselda, the coven healer who had been chosen to represent Water and feared one day he would be in her place, but would not be so spectacular in upholding the ways.
“Let us see, the children of Albion, the Eventide sweep away our fears – let us face the past together, take arms, show faith, and remember,” she clicked her fingers and made a spectacle of herself, more to do with her own personality than the dogma of old, “The Daughters of Albion hear her sighs, and echo back her woes.”
The coven repeated the line, and it whispered and rolled through every multi-verse, every dream of the green earth and the rolling plains in the minds of children and country folk.
The coven sighed, and the circle grew as bright as the stars themselves, burning almost with white and fiery passion. Oliver pushed away from Helen and hurried through the forest of women, fair and scorned to the side of the Fire Guardian and readied himself. The Angels, he knew, would come, but had to burn the flare for his soul and theirs before he faced the angles of destiny. He swallowed a lump in his throat, and drew the sorcerous energies from his heart into being.
With a push, Oliver flicked the spiralling fire ember from his fingers to the effigy of flame. It ignited the herb and sent a plume of smoke rolling upwards into the nothingness of the twilight the Circle had summoned. He smiled, and turned on a heel without as much as a thought to run to the Water mark. As the ancient ways returned to him, he relished the opportunity to summon the elements with his own hands, to work the ways of the world with his majestic command.
He mopped his brow with his sleeve and dripped the excess onto the effigy, and it glowed briefly to give a sign that it was called and bound. As the energy in the air grew, the Coven began to sway from side to side, their chanting growing in pitch and their eyes glowing with divine presence. The air began to crackle, reality breaking bolts rocked from fingertip to fingertip and bounced around the enriched floor.
The third effigy was a simpler task, requiring nothing more than Oliver's gentle breath to bring it to life. A deep rumbled grew from nothing, and began to permeate even the cacophonous chorus of prayer. The house and its gardens fell from view, and the view beyond the dome of power intensified into an impenetrable blackness. The Ancients called it The Void - Oliver gave it a foreboding glance as he skipped over to the fourth effigy and the Coven snapped to silence for the culmination of the Grand Circle's formation.
His voice was husky and dry, as if the moisture and the mettle were stripped from his bones, but he spoke the last of the incantation with a saintly whisper. "Thus the pinions of the four elements are raised, a shield against the sadness, the infinite woe, the eternity of death and the fragility of life." Earth was an easily accessible if not sacred resource, and all Oliver had to do was pluck a handful of grass from between the chalk markings and drop it onto the effigy.
In a harmonious moment of uplifting euphoria, the runic circle burst into light, a bright blinding pattern that could be seen from the stars above. All voices, heart beats, souls and sounds were stripped back to nothing, and as it faded, the Coven stood mouths agape and hearts racing.
Oliver stood, and gasped himself, as he looked out across a sparkling ocean surrounded by planets, vortexes and mysteries he could not even begin to imagine.
The Coven of Albion stood on a floating glowing rune, amidst the Realm of Death itself - they had arrived in the Spirit World, in the core of all things and none.
The atmosphere scintillated and grew thick with anticipation. Oliver walked to the centre of the circle, still amazed at the sights swirling around the Coven and knelt. He held out both his hands and conjured flames to both, and sat cross legged with a tuck of his boots. The Coven encircled him, hand in hand, and the Grand Matriarch stepped forwards to speak.
"Sisters, brothers, layman and sinners - we have gathered here to remember our ancestors, those who have died in service to the Heights of Albion, and those who have perished to time's caress. We call upon them to dance, to show themselves and rejoice in their progeny's folly!"
Oliver closed his eyes, a sudden pain striking his stomach and mind like a lancing spear burning bright with flame. The shrill roar that filled the air and fell down over the circle's dome a second later confirmed his fears, and all the Coven looked up in fear and dread. The heavy rhythm of wing beats followed, and through the mists at the apex of the Spirit Realm, six figures descended with fiery valour and glowing weapons and wings.
"ANGELS!" Helena shouted, and the Matriarch repeated it in silence. Panic, terror, crying, women knelt and hands clasped to faces - signs of impending doom and dread from the people who walked amongst the dark creatures of the world.
Oliver opened his eyes slowly, and stood even slower. He crossed his twin spiralling flames through one another, and it burnt brighter as one for a brief moment before sputtering out. "They are here for me..." he whispered, "They have come for my soul..."
Helena crossed the circle and took Oliver into her arms, with a stern voice and a crackling urgency she whispered into his ear. "Do not blame yourself, do not take this to heart, fight them with all you can muster and we shall stand by you, arm in arm! They will not take Albion's son!" She stepped back, clapped her hands together and a shock wave of calming energy rushed over the Coven.
"Sisters of Albion, Brothers of the Cliffs - to arms, damn the Creed, to arms!" A wind spiralled up around her and ruffled her dress and hair into frenzy, and with that same gusto, she pushed up a lance of bone shattering wind into the air.
The Angels screamed their devilish cacophony, and fell closer to the dome and began to encircle it with malefic in their fiery eyes and one intent on their singular minds - death.
Silence Sei
01-13-11, 03:31 PM
First thread of the new rub, grats to you, Duffster.
Story: 6/10. I had a decent feel for who the characters were, but only in the vaguest sense. I knew Helena wanted to protect Ollie (and she had precognitive abilities), that his brother was a chef who couldn’t make bread properly, and that the matriarch was respected. However, each of these NPCs, and even Oliver himself were just lightly touched upon. He stated that his mother saw something in the water, and his father saw something in his mother, but it was the first time I had heard of Oliver even having parents (I had assumed his grandmother and the coven raised him). It would help to flesh out your characters a little bit more, even if you simply give them a few more lines, we can better understand them for ourselves.
Continuity: 5/10 You seemed to carry on a story that I had not previously read. You did a decent job at touching base here and there, but I would have liked to see a few more things. I had absolutely no idea what brought Oliver to his ritualistic right. I had no clue how he had developed his powers, or why he had been called Albions son when, in fact, there seem to fe at least two more males in the story. To help here, I would suggest giving a slight background on what happened to your character previously. You can do this through a quick dream sequence so the reader can touch base, or evn a little ‘Previously’ thing (I figured if you’ll do those nice little songs/poems at the start of all your threads, whats the harm of a 2-3 sentence recap?)
Setting: 7/10 I had a good feel for the setting in this story. I could easily imagine the simple stroll from the house to the lake, and I even got chills as the ritual began to get carried out. Of course, when I imagined the ritual, my mind kept shifting over to cults in anime (where the hooded guys all stand around in a marked out sigil reciting the exact same lines). You did a good job maintaining the senses of the characters, and even giving measurements where they were needed. I’m not really sure how I could advise you to improve in this area other than giving more details to it, because you seem to have that down pat.
Thus Far: 18/30
Creativity: 8/10 This thread is a creative take on something pop culture had turned into a very gender specific term; witch. Witches don’t have to be females, as you’ve shown us with Oliver, and your last post even gave us the concept that angels don’t always have to be protagonists. Sure, Oliver is a witch, but what has he really done in order to deserve his death at the hands of angels? If anything? You could have improved by making the thread longer, but that’s all I can think of.
Character: 5/10 Your characters had personalities, they were there, but they all seemed rather bland. Oliver is cautious, Helena is protective, the brother (whose name currently escapes me as I type this) loves to protect his food, the matriarch is respected. All of these things really just summed up what you had wrote, but in a more flowery poise. To help here would involve giving your characters more lines other than ‘Go fetch this.’, and ‘Don’t worry, we’ll protect you’. The matriarch got a few more lines than any other NPC, and perhaps more than Ollie himself. Yet, they were still rather drab and uninteresting. Perhaps if Oliver had talked to her for a moment before the ritual began, at dinner, you would have got a better score here. Currently, I could have cared less if any of these characters were killed or not.
Interaction: 6/10. The reason this is a 6 is because I would have expected Oliver to speak with the Matriarch at some point on this big day. From what I gathered, it was his initiation. Why doidn’t he have any questions? Luckily, your converstion with Helena, as well as the Matriarchs ritual words saved you here, and the way Ollie interacted with the ritual itself. Sorry if this one seems horter than the others, but I told you how to imrpove in the begginning.
Thus Far: 47/60
Strategy: 7/10. Oliver went and obeyed his brother and got shocked by a premonition. The ritual was entertaining, even if the dialogue felt a little bit forced. An extra point could have been awarded for a brawl starting for real before you ended the thread, but as it stood, a 7 felt justified in the sense that you had some good actions in this thread, and strategically, they were well played.
Mechanics: 9/10. I got about two errors when reading through this thread, twice. One was when you used the word ‘mistake’ instead of ‘mistakes’. The other was when you described two colors as ‘red and gold’s’ (I could have gotten the colors wrong, but one color had an apostraphy, one did not.). Obviously, if you can catch errors such as this before the threads end, you’ll have a 10 in no time.
Clarity: 6/10 I could understand the thread pretty clearly, as far as the start of it goes. However, once we started going into the ritual itself, things became kind of boggy. Keep in mind that sometimes writing pretty will also confuse some people as far as what they’re reading. If you’re writing for yourself, that’s fine, but it may hurt your score here in the future. If your writing for others, try to keep in mind that while some words sound prettier than others, it takes the reader off track trying to find the definitions.
Thus Far: 69/90
Wildcard: 7/10. I enjoyed this thread a lot, I did. Though there was a lack of action or comedy, both of which I prefer over the every day and mundane, I found myself wishing to read more stories by young Oliver. Mostly, I wanna know if those angels are gonna get im!
Total: 76/100
Oliver Midwinter gets 1500 exp, 143 GP, and the honor of being the first quest judged with the new rubric, and given the new exp formula.
Silence Sei
01-13-11, 03:40 PM
Exp-GP added.
Powered by vBulletin® Version 4.2.5 Copyright © 2024 vBulletin Solutions Inc. All rights reserved.