#occultusstarter

edgar loved weddings, not just for what they represented, but for the rare sense of joy they brought to netherbridge.

he expected joy. he didn’t expect the bride and groom to skip their own wedding.

for the past half an hour he heard some ridiculous comments from people and even more ridiculous suggestions of where they might have gone. eventually, tired of the noise and needing to move, he joined the search and was one of the first to slip away from the main group to cover more ground, thats when he ended up in the woods.

thankfully, he wasn’t alone. one person had agreed to come with him and edgar was very grateful for that, even if the silence around them was smothering him. that's when he spoke, his voice low as to not draw any unwanted attention for them, “what do you think happened?” he asked, turning to look at the person next to him, “and dont give me the ‘cold feet’ theory. i’ve already heard it from no less than three old ladies.”

she didn’t fidget like some. no tugging with her sleeves, no anxious glances toward the altar. katherina barbosa simply watched.

katherina stood off to the side, arms neatly folded, spine straight, her expression unreadable as her eyes swept across the room. the whispered theories sounded a bit too loud in her opinion. and most of them, she found laughable. she waited a moment longer, for some brave soul to offer logic, an explanation or even a decent lie. but when no one came, so she spoke, her voice soft and curious.

“and here i thought this family had a reputation for punctuality.”

she let it hang there. not an accusation. just an observation. “forgive me,” katherina added after a second, “i was under the impression today was a celebration, not a witch hunt. unless, of course, i’ve misunderstood the performance.”

the garden was never truly quiet.

even in the stillest hour of the evening, you'd hear the rustling leaves, the wind running though the trees and ophelia’s soft hum, playing some old tune no one would recognize. the smell of the flowers lingered in the the air. she was kneeling in the dirt, sleeves rolled up, gently trimming the flowers. focused entirely on the task at hand.

it wasn't until a twig snapped, sharp and sudden, that her concentration was interrupted. her hand stopped mid-motion and her eyes narrowed as she turned her head, just enough to catch a glimpse of the intruder.

“i do hope,” she started, her voice cold but not in a rude way, “you didn’t come here to criticize my gardening skills.”

after a second, she shifted, turning to face them fully, a small smile starting to form on her face, “though i suppose there are worse things to interrupt a person over.”

It is not a question of whether or not the power lives in you. The question is whether or not you can channel it, articulate it. Humans have come to a certain understanding of consciousness and science, but without the proper tools, his understanding can never equate to being.  Being is for what man should strive, above all else, and your being cannot crystalize until your mind, your body, and your soul are in perfect agreement. Make it so. After all, there is an image of a perfect being — anthropomorphized as to be relatable in form and practice: Jesus, Buddha, Zoroaster, Krishna, Odysseus, yes, of course — but an image alone cannot convey the essence of divinity. It cannot transpose the Ray of Creation. You, as those I have named have done, must seek the sublime resonance of union with the Absolute. You must have the hunger to harness it, to master yourself or you will be lost. Only when you are whole will transmutation begin.

The scratch of his quill stalls when he hears his office door open. He sets his half-moon glasses to the side and lifts his head to greet the parishioner. ❝ Come in. ❞ His Irish accent is thick and common, but his tone is calming. Composed. He gestures to the chair across from his desk. The room is simple, as a priest's workspace would be, but the furnishings are fine — dark, ornate wood for his desk and shelves, stately green velvet upholstery for the chairs. Light filters in through stained glass window panes overlooking the modest chamber, and the scent of incense, cigarette smoke, and strong tea leaves ( no doubt curated by his wife ) threads a rich tapestry.

AN ENDLESS PROCESSION of crates are carried up from the belly of his largest ship, insurgence, promenaded down the docks and loaded into wagons, one after the other. lasher looms over the proceedings, barking orders where needed, pleading for his men to mind the precious cargo they tow. he cuts a rather menacing figurehead at the end of the dock, towering over those that pass before him like an obsidian obelisk. his arms are crossed over his chest, the dark leathers he wears a stark contrast to the pale blue of a perfect day, and to top it all off, an intense, serious glare ensnares his features.

his men are accustomed to him, however, and do not jump when his growling voice targets them. to those that know him well enough ( that number being limited, mainly, to the men that work his ships ), he is a gentle sort of beast, and the imperious stature is but a first layer to his true manner. every one of them takes home a generous salary, only working the hours they're contracted, and afforded benefits and leave whenever needed. they are lasher's family — or the closest thing he has to it.

he's tying off a heavy rope when he spots one of his patrons hailing him. delegating the direction of his men to his first mate, he makes his way down the dock to join them near the wagons.