06.11.3013: Live Your Own
Summary: Devon and Flint have a brief chat in the Chantry.
Date: 12 June 2013
Related: None.
Devon Flint 


Grand Chantry, Primus
The air on Primus is parched, dry enough to almost crackle. Or perhaps it is the sense of reverence and power that fills the soaring spaces of the Grand Chantry. The nave stretches nearly one hundred meters from the soft glow of the always-open Waygate to the altar where the transepts stretch out perpendicular to the nave, each running another thirty meters from the altar and forming a cruciform floorplan.

At the point where the transepts meet the nave, a dome soars high into the dry air, pierced near the top by small windows that throw light onto mirrors where it bounces down and around the open space. Along the sides of the nave are tall aisles, allowing the easy passage of people around the worshipers in the center. Tall, thin windows draw in even more light in from the landscapes of Primus, making the Grand Chantry nearly glow from marble paving slabs to vaulted ceiling and from Waygate to the gilded statues of the Six behind the altar.

June 11, 3013

While Landing is swathed in night, the yellow Haven sun shines down on the Grand Chantry with all its warmth and brilliance. The skies, all blue and clear of clouds, bear no omnious signs that just hours before ships had come to clash over the planet's atmopshere. The grand cathedral is quiet — quieter than normal. One would expect the chantries to be busy, accepting worried wives and husbands, mothers and fathers, daughters and sons, of those who face against the Hostile forces. Instead, there is a strange stillness.

Seated in one of the pews is the violet-haired Grantham widow. Her hands are folded solemnly in her lap, her eyes tilted toward the swooping ceilings above where thin windows bring in the pale, desert light. Perched in a gilded cage beside her is a vibrantly-colored tropical bird that sleeps calmly, one foot curled up against its belly, and head ducked under a wing. It croons softly, adding a pleasant noise to the otherwise silence.

Flint comes to the Chantry about once a week, not always like clockwork, but common enough that he seems to come around on the same day. And it's always on the same spot in the same pew. His usual friend, his bar-mace is left beyond the waygate, probably somewhere in The Pit. Something he said once about it being wrong to bring weapons of war into a holy place. But especially today, when he's nothing more than another witness to the battles going on in the skies have left the former heir of Grantham restless, almost pacing to the point within the Red House. And he can only train so much before that too gets boring. Walking along the asile, he finds his pew, and then his seat, which is a spot next to Devon. In lieu of assuming she's praying, he doesn't say anything intially, figuring to at least be polite and let her finish first.

"I finished my prayers a while ago, Uncle," Devon whispers to the Grantham, though her soft voice carries easily in the silence. She lifts her gaze toward him, those ever-clear eyes alighting on him with familiar ease. She casts him a warm smile that sends rays of golden sunshine into her window-colored eyes. She scoots down just a touch to invite him wordlessly to join her. She lifts her gaze back toward the statues of the Six. "There are times I think I have become to patterned in my prayers. I pray for the family, I pray for the hearth. If my prayers never change, do you think they just become white noise?" She casts a sideways glance toward him with a slight arch of a brow.

"Just being polite." Flint offers easily. If he was praying, he seems to be doing a bad job of it, but it's always been rather to tell. More of a quiet mental thing. Steely eyes flicker towards the image of the Crone before he moves down a little next to her. "This sounds a little like a crisis of faith. But, I'm fairly you're having the same thoughts countless others have shared in the past. Wether or not your prayers means anything to the Six, what matters more is if they matter to you. If they bring you a sense of…what's the word. Composure?" he grasps at the last word. "But, I think our patterns are more or less the same, though I probably swing around more grandiose prayers, like my end in battle and the hopes that it's a glorious one. But are they white noise? I don't think that's really my place to say so. They're to there to give you comfort, not to distress. If you think they help, then they do."

"Hardly a crisis," Devon gently reassures him. "Merely an… obstruction." She rests one hand gently on the crown of the bird cage, though the avian hardly stirs from its deep snooze. "In some ways, my prayers don't mean anything to the Six, but they do mean something to me." She then shrugs, as if to say that was good enough for her. She does glance up toward the Crone not long after his own gaze. "I have been thinking, Flint," she says softly to him, wishing these words not to carry. "That I might offer assistance to the ground forces of Imperius." She folds her fingers together. "Zayne would have… he would have been the first on those ramships, destined for the front… We are good allies with the Khournas. Perhaps I will offer medical aid to them and theirs when the Hostiles start to rain down."

Flint smiles fondly at the memory of his nephew. "If he had the chance, I know we would've sung his deeds to roof and beyond the grand mead hall in the Red House. And I know your voice would've been the loudest. We were both so proud of him. I know it would have been an honor to fall next to him in battle." There's a wistful at that. "I told you a long time ago, you can't base your exsistence over what Zayne would have wanted. You have to do what you feel is right. And we go where the Hostiles go, no matter the theater. If it's your desire to meet the Hostiles with Khournas, then do it. But it because it's what you want, not because you think it's what Zayne would've done."

Devon does her House proud. She does not mourn. Instead, she steels herself tight behind an ever-thickening armor that guards her emotions save for when she is in the presence of her mentor. She casts a gllance toward Flint, offering him a somber smile. "Alright, I rephrase… I feel it would be right to offer my assistance to our allies, the Khournas, during the upcoming ground battles on Imperius." She pauses a moment. "I told Lady Grantham that I would try to make some alliances, to tighten up the political slack." Then she starts to grin, showing off a rather wide smile that gently brightens her eyes. "You should come with me."

"You're too much like Marah." Flint observes after a moment. "She'd probably be doing the same thing. She always did say that dad didn't do enough. You know, in that lovingly critical way she says things. Her and her 'I'm a bitch because I care' mentality." Leave to Flint to never mince words when it came to exactly what he thinks. "As long as you or Marah don't get Grantham involved in the Children's Squabble, I don't see much harm in it. I've always liked the Khournas." Something of an amused laugh follows. "I just don't want to get wrapped up in that shit, but my voice only goes so far these days." Even if he was heir for awhile. "And you know if there was a fight to be had, I wouldn't stray from it. Shame all the ramships were full."

"What difference would it really be," Devon honestly asks of her Uncle. "Either a Sad King or an Ambitious Queen… they both want to see the victory of Haven because to see to its failure would be seeing to its destruction. Prince Emund would never allow that because his people would suffer, and Princess Janelle would never allow that because you can't be Queen of an Oblivion." She casts him a knowing smile now. "The Hostiles are coming, Flint… the Crone granted me the vision… hundreds of falling stars streaking the skies, exploding into hundreds of Hostiles upon impact." She does drop her head onto his shoulder briefly, spilling violet across the wide berth. It is a childish gesture, but a fond one. "I will send a message to High Lord Khournas, inform him that a Grantham contigent are heading his way."

"Principle." Flint notes. "Grantham does not involve itself in house affairs. At least, only as much as it has to. We've survived and thrived thus far and to be perfectly honest, we've been better off for it. We treat our people well and I'm proud of that But, I'll give you that no matter who leads, the Hostiles will always be our concern, not who sits on the throne. One lacks a spine and the other can't be trusted, so in my eyes, both are unworthy of the crown until one proves it. I just find it somewhat insulting that those two children are fighting over a chair even before their father has passed on. And I for one hope he stays with us just a little while longer." Flint likes his politics cut and dry, even if they've been anything but. And it's one of the few topics that actually puts him in a sour mood. "As always, she is wise to bepart such visions on you. But this has been a long time coming." In something of a fatherly gesture, he lightly sets an arm around her. "I know you will. You've always been eager to be proactive."

"He might yet," Devon reassures her uncle as she remains gently curled against his side. She is quiet for a long moment as she considers these things, while also admiring the statues of the Six that look down at them through their blank stares. She then sits up straighter, lifting her head from his shoulder as she gazes up at the cathedral ceilings high above. "Not as though there is much else to be done," she offers him with a smile. "I should let you pray." She reaches for the caged bird, slowly rising to her feet as she does.

"It's always the quietest before the storm, Devon." Flint nods. "But don't you worry, things are going to get pretty loud and pretty fast-paced here soon, so I think you'll have more than your fair share of things to do. But, if you're anything like me, prayer and drinking usually take up the majority of burning that time. Might as well enjoy ourselves while we can." Pause. "You should do the same. Prayer is good, but even too much of that should be a good thing. We will have one more grand celebration for those who are dead in the mead hall before we leave. In hopes that our ancestors favor us all before the killing begins." Leaning over, he plants a kiss on the top her violet head. "I won't be long. If you're still around, we'll get a drink."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License