prismspark

[prismspark]

The Burdens of Progress

"You do realize that publishing these correspondences might spectacularly backfire, right? True, there are some voices in the House that might desire progress, but there are many more who will circle the wagons and use this as fuel to vote against it. Her Grace..." As Father Besançon droned on, Marti seemed to lose herself to the world. Legislation was never a duty she had prepared herself for, and never much desired. At times she almost wondered if perhaps Her Grace had been wrong in naming her as successor. Perhaps the priests and monks of the Bishopric had been wrong in listening. "So that's why 'she' is here." Lord Grimm's words hung in the air about her head, and had since their meeting. She had no recollection of ever offending the man, indeed she only recalled friendly reactions. But in that moment in the meeting, none of that had seemed to matter - she had become the Lord High Prosecutor... ...And she had hurled at her accusations of abuses which occurred before she ever stepped foot in the Parliament. Was this really what politics was like, where even friends would in a moment of benefit leave aside all hope and good faith? Would all her blessings, prayers, all her hopes to raise up the lowly be seen as a farce - as a nefarious end? "D-do you think he - he hates me?" A simple question, one filled with worry. Father Besançon paused in his scribing, glancing up from the table to peer at Martinenche over his spectacles. "Lord Reignsford? Yes, undoubtedly. He hated Her Grace too, most of that lot did." He went back to scrawling, as if the comment was a simple truth to be stated and moved on from. Martinenche felt her heart sink. Maybe she should withdraw the legislation, maybe it wasn't worth it if it made people angry at her. Her mind drifted then to the hope it had received from others, the joy at knowing their voices might be heard. In that moment, Martinenche felt like she was caught between two rocks bashing themselves together. Her hand sank to her rosary, idly fiddling with the beads. Another sigh from the Father as he heard the soft clinking, setting down his quill and peering across at Martinenche. "What would her grace say, Marti?" Martinenche chewed on her lip for a moment, her falter fading as usual when quoting Her Grace: "We, each one of us, deserve to be despised. We should desire to be hated, we should desire to be scorned. We desire it because we are trash, we are refuse, we are reprobate. We, each one of us, are the muck on the boot's bottom, with nothing to commend ourselves - we are worthless. The Light, in Its mercy, reaches out to us even so. It loves us despite our unworth, in It we find solace and love. But amongst our brothers and sisters, those not called to or able to see the perfection of the Light? From them, invite hatred - invite scorn, invite being despised. Not only do we deserve it, but by making ourselves - who can bear it by nature of our clerical state - an object of scorn and hatred, we spare others weaker of character from receiving it."

She fell silent at the end of the recitation, a silence which was broken only by the soft clearing of Father Besançon's throat. "And so, Marti?"

"And so..." Her hands shook, clutching her rosary tightly as she stared down at her desk. "...And so I should do what will m-make me hated, if it means up-p-plifting and p-protecting others. I - should...Should we p-publish all the letters then, his as well?" Father Besançon clicked his tongue, already having returned to scribing. "No Marti, that'd not be politick." "But Her G-Grace always scorned politics, she implored me and others to never engage in them."

Another clink of the quill being set down, Father Besançon peering across at her. "Her Grace's view was correct, but you miss an important point, Marti. As she said, 'Do not play the game of the politician, but play along when they begin to damn themselves with it.' It's a brilliant strategy, really - Her Grace stood firm as a moral roadpost during her time in the House." Slowly Martinenche slipped the rosary away, resolve returning. "Did - Did she have m-many friends in the end, Father?"

Father Besançon did not look up from his work this time. "No. Only those who took advantage of her deteriorating mental faculties..." A few moments of silent scritching. "...Oh, and she had the Light of course. And that's all we really need, isn't it?"

[prismspark]

Does the drama that happens with niklos ever backlash towards you

I've had to deal with the fallout it's caused in the past, yes! Overall though, I try to just stick to my own lane and do my thing and encourage people in a healthy way to do the same. Be who you are, and be that well! Church and Holy RP is about building characters up and helping participate in someone's own character growth - When it comes up I just let people know I wasn't part of that situation, I don't approve or endorse x or y, and I'd like to just do my thing - and enjoy my rp!

[prismspark]

When the Spark has Faded, Part I

((Written with the lovely @shandaumath - Find part 2 there!))

Vynlorin had made his way through the city and to the small apartments that the Bishop kept with no small amount of trepidation. The time was drawing near, that much was obvious. Rumours swirled, stories circulated - and already guesses were being made as to when it would happen. As to when Bishop Prismspark would make her final journey.

He arrived as the bishop had requested, but his steps lacked the boldness of presence that he carried with him in the city, in official affairs, in personal matters. His steps were soft, cautious, and filled with hesitation and dread; yet he did his best to retain the confidence he often held despite how it wavered in that moment as he turned down and made his way through the garden gate into the small enclosure where the Bishop was sat.

Kessanella Prismspark had performed many miracles in the political realm throughout her life and tenure. And now she had begun to perform miracles in other fields as well...For she somehow looked even worse than Vynlorin remembered her. She sat there on the bench, coddled in blankets and pillows. Where once was a strong gnome who would stare you in the eye and find the smallest look to call out? Now there was a bent and twisted thing, withered with age - more purple and blue over the bruised, withered skin of her arms than aught else. 

Mother Martinenche hovered nearby, sparing constant and worried glances in the direction of Her Grace. The Bishop herself was humming gently, seemingly tugging at the sleeve of her robes now and then - completely in a world of her own. At least by the humming, it was a happy one. 

The Bishop didn't hear Vynlorin’s approach, or at least didn't respond to it. Finally Martinenche leant over, voice soft. "Your grace..." Kessa's head slowly rose, peering in Martinenche's direction. "...Hmmm? What is it, Mother Rosewood?" 

A look of extreme hurt crossed Martinenche's face, but she merely pursed her lips - clearing her throat. Her next words were near silent, tears being choked back. "...Company." 

The Bishop blinked, a little frown as her eyes - long ago clouded from sight - peered about. "Oh, oh...I...No, we can't have company like this. We've not even lit the room. We must find some candles, yes...At least something to see with." 

Martinenche simply stood there, glancing to Vynlorin...Then glancing away. "...I'll....I'll find them, your grace." This seemed to please the Bishop, who nodded before returning to her soft humming and sleeve-picking.

Vynlorin paused in his steps as he watched the exchange, and a heavy question of all the universe's mysteries fell into his eyes, looking to Martinenche as if for an answer or guidance or -something-. But when silence fell between the two, the elf gently cleared his throat to announce that he was indeed standing there, and his eyes flitted onto Kessanella. "Bishop," he muttered, soft and hesitant. "It's good to see you."

The Bishop didn't glance to him when he called for the Bishop...She didn't even flinch. It took a few more moments of silence before Martinenche spoke up once more. "...Your grace. I - They're addressing you, your grace..." Kessa did glance up then. "Hm? Oh...Oh right, yes...I am - I was...Yes, right." She turned her head slowly to peer at Vynlorin.

The smile that crossed her face seemed quite real, quite happy - and so very foreign to the stern little Bishop. "Oh yes - Hello, Light's blessings, yes - that's the proper thing to say."

A little hum between her words. "Have we been introduced? No, no - Introductions must be done. They take a long time sometimes, though. Long name, though a good one. Did you know most of my names are from the children I helped deliver that went on to ordination? Yes, yes - Three became Bishops even - the first three. That's why I have the names, so I can pray for them each night. Very good, very good - Each night. Kessanella Henrietta Octavia..." 

A pause, brow furrowing. "...Octavia..It was-oh, it was..." Her brow furrowed, her gaze trailed - silence for an uncomfortable length. She'd eventually glance back up at him, smiling again. "Oh, hello. Yes, I think we had a meeting. We should start with introductions, those are always a good thing." 

Martinenche had closed her eyes by this point, glancing anywhere but at the pair.

Vynlorin swallowed deeply as the gnome went on with a hint that he had been forgotten, and the wound of the words began to spread through his chest. The weight that threatened to fall from his shoulders finally did fall with a heavy thud into his heart, and then its infection trickled into his throat where it tried to strangle his words.

"Vynlorin." A single word is all he could manage, and his composure threatened to shatter. Then he stepped forward, swallowed, blinked, and regain another breath of strength. "It's been a while."

Kessanella pressed her tongue against her lower teeth, frowning. "Vynlorin - Vynlorin, yes. That's a good name. Yes, no - Yes...I think it's a good name. I think...It's..."

Martinenche spoke up, almost hopeful. "...Baron Dreadmist?"

Kessa's face lit up then, a bright smile. "Oh yes, that's right .Yes - the same name as Baron Dreadmist. Yes, a good name, then." A happy hum, patting the spot on the bench beside her. "I'm to visit him soon, you know. The trip kept being put off. You shall have to come along, yes - It'll be a good joke, two of the same name together. Yes, he's good humoured you know, at the center. Bit of work, but good humoured."

Vynlorin thinned his lips, and his eyes sparkled with the moisture that dared to fight against him. When offered a seat, he slipped into it and kept his gaze forward where he could bite at his lips and flutter his lashes to try to shake the sorrow away. "Is he? I'm sure he would enjoy the visit." 

He paused then, space for a breath to slip up his nostrils, a moment for his finger to pick moisture from his eye. "You seem in good spirits. It's good to see."

Kessanella smiled as she heard him taking a seat. An old, withered, bruised and bandaged hand slowly trembled as it was lifted and moved towards him. As it sought out his own hand. "Oh no, I don't think he will. But I'll try..." She leant in, voice dropping as if sharing some great secret. "...He thinks I just want him to join the flock, you see."

She didn't bother trying to sit up, the old Bishop slumping slightly against Vyn as her attempts to find his hand continued. "But no, no. Sometimes I just think someone needs to know they're loved. It's a rare thing, you know. Oh no, many people will say it - but not many mean it...Not truly. Lord Quill has the same problem, you know. Thinks he doesn't deserve love."

Out came Vynlorin’s hand then, soft and warm and gentle for the old bishop's reach. His touch spoke a thousand words more than his tongue would let him, thumb brushing over the back of the bruised and aging hand.

He watched their touch meet and tried to focus on it, but his heart became strangled by her words. They made him bleed, and his eyes couldn't manage it. Again he smothered his tear ducts with a pinch until his gloves were thoroughly moistened. "Perhaps he knows. Sometimes people know, but pride keeps them from accepting it."

Kessanella leant there against him, though her head remained aloft, peering out over gardens she had long ago lost the ability to see. A little hum. "Oh yes, yes - He might. But it's not pride, no - he's not proud at heart I don't think, Baron Dreadmist. No, no - proud doesn't turn to things for its cure, but itself. Do you want to know what I think it is? I think he turns to them because he thinks he needs them, that he's broken." A click of her tongue. "A fool. No, no - he has it in him, he can grow and shine.” 

“That's what I always tried to tell him, you know…” A soft sigh escaped the Bishop. “...I'll have to tell him that when he visits. He doesn't need things to patch a break, there's not much of one there I shouldn't think. No, no - Just fallen in the dust, just needs brushing off. I've hoped to help him, you know. Do you think you'd like to help, when I go to visit him? I think I'm supposed to be visiting him soon."

Vynlorin wouldn't remove his finger now, holding it beneath his eyes wherever it needed to go to catch the next stray drop that tried to escape. At times his breathing stopped as he tried to keep from sniffing wads of snot upward, and for now he opted only to breathe with slow and calculated breaths through his mouth. His head nodded first to answer her. "...Yes." The word nearly cracked. "I don't know what I'd say, but I'll help. Whatever you need."

How the Bishop smiled at that, and now she let her head rest against his arm. "But here I am, talking about Baron Dreadmist to you, just because you share a name. No, no - That won't do." She canted her head slightly, still resting there against his shoulder, now peering up towards him - though her blind eyes saw not a bit of his display. 

She paused then as if she had caught something - that little catch in his voice perhaps. A frown, a look of worry. "...Is something wrong? Have...Have I upset you?" True concern began to blossom across her face. Her own voice suddenly sounded more feeble, as if she was about to cry as well. "I...I didn't. I am sorry, my child..." Her hand gave as firm a squeeze as it could. "How can I help you, what can I do?"

He was quick to shake his head, eyes turning away for a moment. "The cold weather," he chirped back. It was easier to speak when the topic wasn't about himself from a forgetful mind. One final brush against his eyes brought his relative composure back. "Quel'thalas is warm. I don't do well in the cold here. Forgive me."

Another sniff, and then the elf's reddened eyes peered down at the gnome. "This time is for you. I came to see how you're doing. ...How are you?" Intention fell into the words -- intent to be strong, and intent to truly know how the bishop felt despite how she seemed.

Kessanella would never have been fooled by such a weak play before - she never would have let it slip like that. But now? Now she gave a happy little hum, a nod. "Oh, yes...Yes - I imagine so. I think, no - it was never like that in Lordaeron..." Her other trembling hand came up, shaking as she seemed to lift it towards him, trying to use her sleeve to dab at his face, his nose...All very poorly, and it was easily stopped if he turned or pushed her arm away...Though it would reward him with a look of sincere hurt from the Bishop.

"No, no - we must get you a winter coat. That'll do it - a winter coat and some ear muffs. I think that's perfect." A pause at the final question, taking her time to consider it - a hum. "Oh, well...I feel...tired, I think. Tired, yes - tired. Just a bit, though. I think I shall be as right as rain soon enough." 

Vynlorin didn't turn away. He had no mind to refuse the bishop anything, and so he let her dab away wherever she could reach. His eyes skipped over to Martinenche and found her in as poor a state as himself, but he found some quip to try to chase the emotions away.

"It's hard to find ones that fit," the elf retorted on the topic of ear muffs. "But a coat might do me good. I don't have a proper one." Then he drew in a deep breath, held it, and looking the bishop in the eyes. "If you're tired, you should rest. You've worked hard." It pained him, so he dabbed his own eyes again.

The Bishop had settled back to resting there, leaning against him - head against his shoulder. "Hm. I don't...I don't think I've often rested, no. It doesn't feel right. Besides - I might miss my trip to visit Baron Dreadmist. I've not gone yet, that won't be much good. I'll do my best to find good earmuffs tomorrow, though...I think the market's tomorrow, yes...I'll find some there, I'm sure. A good coat, too. That way, you can come visit Baron Dreadmist with me."

He looked away again when she spoke of him, and he shook his head. "He'll understand," he started, words struggling again as if speaking through a hand wrapped around his throat. "Rest is important. He'll understand--" The words choked. "--if you're late. He'll understand."

Kessanella gave a slow little nod of her head. "Yes, yes. I'm sure he will..." A little pause. "...I'm sure you will." She let her eyes flutter shut as she leant further against him, a heavy sigh escaping her. "You're not broken, Vynlorin. You just need a little bit of polish."

Vynlorin stuttered a breath out. His chest shook against Kessanella, and he wouldn't turn his eyes back to her; instead, his sorrow dripped down his cheeks, and his fingers couldn't catch it all. So much tumbled through his chest and tangled within his mind, but he couldn't find the strength to unravel it all. The only words he could find were simple ones -- ones that didn't convey everything he had hoped to say to the bishop, but they were enough. "--...I know…Thank you."

She didn't seem to acknowledge his thanks, 'nor return a welcome to them. The silence would drag on. Eventually though Vynlorin might realize it. He wouldn't be receiving that welcome, he'd not have to leave a place at the table. And he'd never have to be called a child again.

Kessanella Prismspark had passed on, a soft smile on her face as she leant against him - there on her favourite bench in the gardens she knew so well.

((Continued here!))

#moonguard #moon guard #roleplay #alliance #world of warcraft #wow #wow rp

[prismspark]

Recognition in the Mirror

It had been another day in that hell that Martinenche was supposed to be able to call home. Another day of screaming, of shouting - of argument. Another day being blamed for not being able to do as much as the farmhands her father employed...

...Another day of being told just how imperfect she was. 

Martinenche felt as if she could not take another day, not for any price in the world. And so she had run - she had run as she had in the past to Lakeshire, to refuge - to a place where she might be able to escape the hell that surrounded her everywhere else. 

She sat on the edge of the docks, her knees pulled up against her chest, head buried against them as she mulled over how much easier it should be if she simply rolled into the waters.  "I'm not going to be the one held responsible for spoiling an appetite, I hope." Martinenche froze, that voice - soft and gentle, and so familiar. Slowly she lifted her head, barely daring to hope - but it was...It was Confessor Prismspark, holding out a candied apple out to her. "Granted, it's not your favourite, I know. But what is it I always say about gi-Oph."

Martinenche had nearly lunged forward, breaking down into tears as she threw her arms around the usually stiff and formal Confessor. For her part, Kessanella - after a moment - smiled. Gently she returned the embrace, a hand coming to Martinenche's shoulder, a nod as the apple was handed over. "It sounds like you need to talk. So out with out, I'll not brook opposition." Martinenche stared at that candied apple for a few moments, mulling over what to say. It had to be perfect, she had to say it perfectly to make the Confessor happy. "I...I don't like it. I don't like anything -- I don't like me. No one does, either...When I look in the mirror, I just see failure - I see...I see what I'm not, what I cannot be for others. And I just...just..." She trailed off, only the soft crunch of her candied apple filling the air as she bit into it. Kessanella took her time seating herself, a little nod. "Mirrors, Martinenche, have a very special peculiarity. In that despite their reliability, very few will ever accept the reflection looking back at them is an accurate one." "For a mirror is an honest thing. What we see is who we are - not who we think we are, not what others want us to be - but who we are, plain and simple. Defects, flaws, perfections, us." A soft crinkling as the Bishop fished out a candy for herself. "Mirrors strip away all the expectations put on us from the outside, from the unimportant. They show us, all alone. They show us in our soul - who we are before the Light alone - and many that is very discomforting, and many more not even realized."

The Confessor stowed the wrapper away, nodding. "Most mistake this great discomfort as coming from all that...external garbage. The mirror makes them uncomfortable because others say they use too much blush, or are too pale. The mirror makes them uncomfortable because unimportant standards of vanity they keep. The mirror makes them uncomfortable because others say they should look and be different."

"Now the discomfort a mirror makes is great...and those that mistake the discomfort as coming from all this external nonsense make a great mistake. They think the answer to this discomfort is in conforming. Make no mistake, Martinenche. You should feel discomfort when you look in a mirror, but also hope. Because that discomfort is solely your own possession, you alone can change it. It doesn't come from other's standards, and listening to them won't solve it. When we look in the mirror and ignore the confusion of external expectations? We see how we've not lived fully for ourselves. What we then do with that discomfort tells a great deal about ourselves."

A nod. "So feel discomfort when you look in a mirror - but never because of what others expect or say. Only feel it regarding your own self, your own image, and your own hope. And do not feel that as discomfort of shame - it is a discomfort of reminder, Martinenche. A reminder that you can be perfect, you can be grand - and nothing can stop that except yourself listening to those demands of the others."

"So while others fear a mirror from discomfort, while others mistake the origin of this discomfort and its solution in the dictates of others. Make it a strength, a reminder. You can be so much more. You are not called, none of us are, to be ordinary Martinenche...But extraordinary. So always recognize yourself and your discomfort in the mirror - as long as you see yourself there, you can grow - you can become greater still." _____ "Sister Martinenche, what is the meaning of this? Why is there someone scrying into my personal chambers?" The Bishop was in uproar, and Martinenche was not sure why as she helped the elderly woman up the stairs, towards the washing room. "Your grace, I'm sure it's....Perhaps just a fellow from the Kirin Tor. I'm sure it's just--" "A fellow from the Kirin Tor, Sister Martinenche? Ridiculous, it is not that, they look nothing like that!" The Bishop way stubbornly forward without help, steadying herself on the wall. "No, no - It's one of my brothers and sisters in the clergy by the looks of it - and one far too old to be up to such jokes." Utter confusion spread across Martinenche's face as she peered after the Bishop, who had marched over to the mirror now, staring. "The audacity, Sister. Do you hear me? Whoever you are, you're far too old to be doing this, and I shall be registering a complaint!" Now Martinenche was worried, who was possibly scrying on the Bishop? She made her way forward, pausing...before her heart dropped. "Your grace. That's...That's you." An incredulous expression from the Bishop. "Excuse you, Sister. That's me? That person's nearly three hundred by the looks of it - ancient, spent - past their prime! I cannot believe you, three hundred..." A wave of her hand. "...three hundre--" She froze, having caught sight of her withered, aged hand as she waved it. For a few moments silence hung, the Bishop's brow knotting in confusion. Slowly she lowered her hand, grasping it with her other. "...Three hundred. Three hundred - as if...Three hundred." Martinenche stood stock still, staring. "I...I am sure it was a trick, your grace. I'll find out who did it." The Bishop didn't glance up, running a thumb across that aged palm. "...Three...Yes, three - I have a service in three minutes. Yes, that's right. And I must say my prayers beforehand. Sister Martinenche, did I ask you-Oh, you came to remind me, yes...Very good. Let's be off." The Bishop turned to toddle out of the room, leaving Martinenche to stare at the mirror. She raised a hand, letting it dance along the glass. "It was a trick, her grace's mirror was enchanted." Surely someone as strong as her mentor, as the Confessor on the docks would never fail to recognize herself in a mirror.

#moonguard #moon guard #roleplay #alliance

[prismspark]

Conversations Carried in a Carriage

“Do you think you’ll ever retire?”

A simple, poignant question – the only words to have broken the hours of silence that reigned in the carriage since departing from Shalewind. For nearly two hours there had been naught to be heard but the shuffling of prayer beads and the rattling of rain against the window-panes. Then again, when the Bishop travelled that was often the way of things.

It had been just the two of them in the carriage since Father De Roux had gotten off at one of the small passing towns, just the Bishop – and the newly-vowed Sister Martene. Much of that time Martene had been trying to figure out and formulate just what she should ask the venerable Bishop, what sort of wisdom could be given to feed her starry-eyed idealism.

But Kessanella Prismspark was a difficult person to question. The whole trip she had barely so much as looked out the window to peer at the beautiful sights, focused entirely on her prayers and fixing her brilliant blue vestments. But now those soft blue eyes, eyes that seemed as if they should be so soft and kind, were focusing on her – and Martene felt none of their kindness. To be sure there was a motherly sort of affection, but it felt stern and strict. It felt…foreign.

Martene realized nearly half a minute had passed since her question, and no answer had been given. Her mind began to scramble, perhaps she should clarify.

“I just mean, well…Surely you want to be able to relax, to enjoy yourself? I would one day, I’d like to retire to the convent of Arnbrook and spend my days teaching the children and sewing. So I just thought…I just wondered.”

A lofted brow from the Bishop silenced her, Martene quickly glancing away and out the window.

 “One must have a life to be able to enjoy themselves, Sister Martene. One must be a fool not attending to duty to think they ever have a moment to relax.” The Bishop’s soft voice had risen, and Martene still felt that heavy gaze upon her. “We of the Church have no such luxuries. Soon enough you will realize this, and you will realize that enjoyment, relaxation? They’re lies. They’re petty and passing things that give us no true happiness. Only in utter dedication, only in utter sacrifice of ourselves may we find true happiness. And the more miserable we think we feel in this world, the more we die to ourselves for others? The more we shall be truly happy.”

Martene finally pulled her gaze from the water-dropped window panes to peer at the Bishop, and was somewhat relieved to find her gaze had seemingly lightened, now soft and kindly. “I…But surely there must be some time, some space that—”

  “No.” The Bishop silenced her with an upraised hand. “No. There is never time for that, not for those with true dedication. It is rare to find that, even in the Church – but when it is found, it must be encouraged. Allow me to pose a question to you, Sister Martene. Is any person perfect? Is any person free of flaws?”

 Martene paused to consider the question a moment, before shaking her head. “It would seem not, your grace.”

“Then true virtue, true holiness can be found only in death of the ‘person,’ of the self. Do not take me to mean that we should go throwing ourselves off of cliffs to achieve this. No, we must simply deny all that we are, and embrace all that our office is. You will see for yourself the failures of the wretched sinners who try to avoid this death. Bishop Williams, Lady Thane...Lord Montclair I might once have included too – but work on him bears fruit. They, all of them, they refuse to die to the self. They selfishly cling on to the filthy garbage that is them, and ignore the true happiness they might find elsewise.”

Another little pause, the Sister almost scared to speak. The Bishop’s gaze had left her for the window, simply silence might be an escape. But she could not restrain herself. “And Bishop Prismspark, too?”

The Bishop’s eyes returned to her then, but it was a smile and a kindly visage that peered at her. “Not Bishop Prismspark, no. Kessanella Prismspark? Yes. But she died many years ago, Sister Martene – I slew her myself. Desire, wants, enjoyments – all of them are dead. All are passed away. And by doing so, I am truly happy. To be sure, Bishop Prismspark has some things that emulate the appearance of those. But they are the Bishop’s, not the dead Kessanella’s. Far more content would she be to still be a curate wandering Elwynn—”

  “Far more content would you be, you mean, your grace?”

A pause then, the Bishop letting her gaze flit to the window, to the passing scenery. “If Kessanella Prismspark lived, you would be correct. But she is dead – and Bishop Prismspark remains. A Bishop cannot retire, cannot falter, cannot shirk. And so I shall never retire – not matter how loudly the echoes of Kessanella try to cry for it.”

#moonguard #roleplay #moon guard

[prismspark]

Against the Chaos Tide

Another of the mysterious ‘Mother B’s’ Poems soon found its way into circulation, with a surprising reach for a simple ‘Mother.’ The picture of course not included. How do we find peace, we ask, amidst the surging throng. Where is our joy, our happiness? That we’ve desired for oh so long?  How do we stand against the mass, that surging chaos tide?  How do we fight a foe so massed, there on the other side.  They seek to bring disorder here, to sow then doubt and their despair. To ensure in angry words, that trouble always will fill the air.  To sow in us that doubt, that woe. To make our hearts to heavy sigh. To drive us closer to our graves - to the day that we all die.  The answer friends, not easy be. It is one ‘oft despaired. Pursuing it will make no friends, and leave repute in disrepair. Yet this course some must take, those who can withstand the tide. How then do they fight a foe so massed, there on the other side? By speaking truth, by speaking plain - by speaking up in voice. By speaking when they’re the only ones - championing goodest choice. To sow in us that joy, that peace. To make our hearts seem to fly. To keep us warm in every day - to the day that we all die. Yet though this path is difficult, my friends you must realize  The strength for it is from within, yes within you it does lie.  You can this course yourself then take, you can withstand the tide. You can help to fight a foe so massed, there on the other side. Take up your heart, take up your words. Yourself a message be.  In prayer, in voice, in action loud - and in quiet serenity. Sow in us that joy, that peace. Make our hearts seem to fly.  For only by your inner strength - may we fight that day we all will die. - Mother B. ((Accompanied by a lovely piece by the ever-lovely https://twitter.com/actualsailboat!)) 

#rp #moonguard #poetry #alliance

[prismspark]

A Broken, Returned

It was a gentle breeze which wound its way through the gardens adjoining the Bishops’ apartments, bringing with it all the unwelcomed warmth of summer. The heat was practically unbearable, the stones of the garden path casting up the shimmer of heat radiating off of them. 

The flowers enjoyed the sun and warmth at least, the brilliantly coloured tulips showing off their petals to the radiating light above. The Bishop of course had found her own favourite place in the gardens, nestled between the lilac trees and patches of purple lavender. The sickly sweet scent was overwhelming for most - but Bishop Prismspark loved it.

She loved the sickly sweet scent for two reasons in fact. The first was that she found it pleasant. The other and equally as powerful reason? Most people hated it, they couldn’t stand it. This latter reason was perhaps a telling sign of one of the Bishop’s favourite activities.

Finding what made people uncomfortable and subjecting them to it, putting them in it, keeping them around it.

She did not do this out of hatred or dislike, in her mind she didn’t even do it cruelly. No - to her it was an aid, a boon. Sour medicine - but needed medicine. She was exposing a weakness, a flaw. The person would root out the flaw eventually, accept what they could of it -- or the person would break.

Of course it was always considered good when someone recognized and overcame on their own - but it was better when they broke...

...It meant she could begin fixing them herself, in her own imagine - in the right and true way of things. Then they wouldn’t falter if they were strong, they wouldn’t return to vice. No - they’d cast themselves away as she had, and realize that only duty in the Light mattered then.

Bishop Prismspark of course believed with all her heart that this desire to break and rebuild was nothing more than an act of love. She was a shepherd, a guardian - she built up the fallen, she brought others closer to the Light. Only in the rebuilding and the fixing could she once more love them as her children -- and she did love all, even the stubborn, as such.

It had been a good week in that regard in the Bishop’s mind. The knight? Broken. The zealot? Breaking and Exposed. The Proud? They had been put back in their place too.

But little did she know one whom she had broken - but not yet fixed - would find her once more.

The box was beautiful to say the least - the fine wood carved with the image of a resplendent gnome fighting off a corrupted lion. The imagery was obvious, and she did not care for it. For indeed Bishop Prismspark’s pride was of a very insidious nature - it did not revolve around her self-glory or her self-worth. No - she debased herself constantly, she spurned marks of pride - of fine robes and garments. Thus the box only caused her nose to crinkle.

The contents were more welcome. The wine, crackers, and cheese she was was going to keep at least. The jerky, sweet crackers, and coffee would be given to Newlight. Yet the gift at that moment was inconsequential - the name far more important.

One of the Broken - One now coming back to her to be fixed. How glorious it would be to fix Simon Whitaker, to see him once more redeemed, saved, glorious. How much she would love to call him her son - how much would she love to see him saved once more.

A grimace spread across the Bishop’s face as she considered his current plight, and it was real sorrow and pain she felt at imagining him lost on his way. No - of all her sheep, all those she wished to bring to the Light - Simon Whitaker was now chief.

“Go fetch parchments and stationary, Newlight. I have a letter to write.”

#moonguard #moon guard #alliance #roleplay

[prismspark]

The Rolling Hills

A work from a recently discovered tome called, ���Reflections Upon the Beauty of the Light’ published around 362 KY by a ‘Mother H.B.’ - Some speculate its author might be Bishop Kessanella Prismspark...But surely they must be mistaken - right?

And far beyond all sight and sound and mind You keep in all your ken our histories. And filled with all the treasures we can find You hide within your folds our mysteries.

Your slopes have seen the passing of an age And measured every footstep trodden there A his'try written not on a page Within the fens, the fells, the lakes, the lairs

But few will stop and listen to your song Preferring to be show haste throughout their days Too quickly do they trod on paths along Not taking time to listen from their ways.

But I will stay and learn your mysteries Oh Rolling Hills teach me our histories.

- Mother H.B.

#prismpoems #poetry #moon guard #alliance

[prismspark]

A Villanelle in Drustvar

“Have you been up all night Ke-Bishop Prismspark? It’s nearly five in the morning - you need to get some sleep.”

The scratching of the Bishop’s quill came to a halt for the first time in nearly two hours. She glanced across the room to the speaker, her brow furrowing. “I awoke at three, as I always do for my prayers. So pious was my devotion that by the time I finished I figured I might as well stay up until morning prayer and get some work done while I was at it.” Back her gaze wandered to the parchment, the quill dipped in ink once more.

“You hate her, don’t you.” 

A little scoff from the Bishop. “Hate her? No - I love her, as I love all of my children - even the rebellious ones who would seek to try and lead the Church to ruin. No, I love my child - but I hate her sin, and she has been graced with the greatest sin of all.”

“Lust?”

“Nobility.”

A pause then, the sound of bare footsteps coming closer. “But you always defend the nobility, the institutions - don’t you?”

“Of course I do. For their sin is lesser still than that which would replace them. But you must remember this. That a noble is a maggot who has found a corpse to writhe in. A noble, no matter how well-intentioned they may pretend to be, is still that maggot at the end of the day who will eat away at whatever surrounds them. And if the person who brings them their corpses shows up with a wound in their leg one day...?” A glance up. “...The maggots will just as happily eat away at them as well.”

A pause then as the Bishop finished her letter, folding it up and setting it aside to be delivered tomorrow. “The fact of the matter is that the only way a noble can be good is if they abandon nobility and embrace the Light. It’s a charge we have set for ourselves, a heavy one too. There are only two outcomes possible...”

“The corpse is consumed, or the maggots are stomped out?”

The Bishop slid from her chair, smoothing her robes. “To bed.”

The Following Day

A letter without signature ‘nor seal was delivered to the offices of a high-ranking noble.

Then black was painted that old weary day With soul by wearied choice made marr As you stumbled blindly onto pleasure's way.

And as the clouds did heavy on us weigh We found new worries, there in old Drustvar Then black was painted that old weary day.

So listen now, and hark to voice's say That little whisper, heard now near and far As you stumbled blindly onto pleasure's way.

In anger you realized you could not our feelings sway And it your pretty world did jarr Then black was painted that old weary day.

That one should fail to dance unto your play Your little stage, oh doubtless seemed so bizarre As you stumbled blindly onto pleasure's way

And so resolved we must now for you pray That this act of yours leave not some dreaded scar For black was painted that old weary day As you stumbled blindly onto pleasure's way.

#moonguard #moon guard #alliance #roleplay #poetry

[prismspark]

When to Smile

357 KY, Elwynn.

“You’re ordained now, Kess. You can’t keep carrying on like this - it isn’t proper.” 

For nearly an hour the small field outside of Norbury had been filled with the laughter of the village children and the soft whistling rustle of the wind through the stalks of wheat as Kessanella and Father Erdyn trailed along behind the joyous, youthful throng.

Mother Kessanella Prismspark looked a far cry from what she would one day become, a stick of a gnome in ill-fitting and grass-stained runecloth robes - blonde hair let free and loose down past her shoulders towards the small of her back. A simple holy symbol hung about her neck, and her hands bore the marks of a day working in the fields alongside the laity.

“As I can disagree with that, I shall. It wa-” She was interrupted suddenly by a cry raised up from the children ahead as they tussled amongst themselves. “It’s my turn with Mother Kessa’s hat!” 

Kessa watched with a smile as she watched the floppy-brimmed hat, the most expensive thing she owned, being tugged and exchanged between the children, one rather frail boy finally winning it and plopping it on top of his head.

Father Erdyn took the moment’s pause to speak. “It could reflect poorly on you, cavorting about like this - letting the children have your hat and rosary to play with - they could ruin it, they could be spotted by the nobles or the other priests.”

A little dismissive wave of the hand from Kessa. “Let them think what they will - it won’t get them much.” A nod ahead to the children. “Hear them laugh and smile, hear them play as to who gets to wear ‘Mother Kessa’s’ hat and ‘play priest.’ That happiness and joy will serve them far better in finding the Light than any sort of worry about appearances.”

Another shake of the head from the elderly father, nodding off towards the road, where the carriage of Norbury’s baron had halted. “The Baron there, he’s not one to like it if he sees you like this.”

The tussling of the children seemed to grow louder ahead. The play as to who got to wear the Mother’s hat turning into a brief and unnoticed brawl, before the play resumed - leaving the frail boy behind and sniffling. Quick was Kessa to make her way over to the boy, a hand going to his shoulder. “Come on then, Tim. What’s the matter?”

A little sniffle from the child. “They took your hat from me, Mother. I...I had just gotten it, and I tried to say it was still my turn. But they stopped me, see. I wasn’t strong enough to hold onto it like the others were...” His head slumped slightly. “...I never am strong enough.”

“No talk like that, Tim. You’re plenty strong enough and I can prove it...” A pause, a glance about as she leant in, nudging his elbow conspiratorially. “...Come on, lift me up - we can go get my hat back together.”

She didn’t need to ask twice, and in a moment the small little gnome was being held aloft in the air, joining in the giggles of the child as he began to race off after the throng. She even extended her arms as he charged forth with her above his head, imitating the noises of those flying machines particular to her people “I’ve got Mother Kess coming in hot! We’re going to win her hat back if it’s the last thing we do!”

Into the throng they plunged, the laughter and playing only growing the more vigourous as the children began to play keep-away with the Mother’s hat, all while she herself was bundled back and forth in the air as well, pretending to try and snatch at it.

Father Erdyn watched from a distance, glancing to the side and giving a nod as the Baron Norbury came up to stand beside him and join in his observation of the scene.

“She’ll never make more than Curate behaving like that, you know. You should warn her.”

Kessanella Prismspark, for her part, was smiling - for all was right in that moment.

 633 KY, Stormwind City - Present Day

“You’re ordained now, Sister Ellys. You can’t keep carrying on like this I will remove you - it isn’t proper.”

For an hour Sister Ellys had stood there opposite the Bishop’s desk, only the scritching sounds of the Bishop’s quill and the faint chant of the Cathedral’s monks filling the silence as she waited to be addressed so that she herself could speak.

“If I could, your grace. It wa-” She was silenced in a moment by an upraised hand from the portly bishop, eyes quickly cast down to the floor once more. She continued to stare at the floor as she heard the Bishop adjusting the rich silken cappa draped about her shoulders, the sapphires in its clasp sending glinting blue reflections dancing across the floor.

“I’m not interested in your excuses, Sister Ellys, they reflect poorly on you...” Bishop Prismspark spent another moment in silence, before resting her quill back in its font and leaning back in her seat. “...the fact of the matter is that this is the fifth time you have forgotten to address Confessor Tiller by his title.” 

Sister Ellys blanched slightly, timidly glancing up towards the Bishop’s desk. “But Confessor Tiller had said it was alri--” 

Again she was cut-off by another upraised hand. “I do not care about the mistaken beliefs of Confessor Tiller. If tomorrow your friends tell you it is right to push people off bridges, will you do so? No - You will remember the respect and propriety that members of the Clergy are called to. We have the Church’s image to uphold, the burden of representation to the world -- even when we are simply amongst ourselves.”

Bishop Prismspark leant forward in her chair then, her eyes narrowed as they burrowed into the Sister - who suddenly found the floor much more interesting. 

“If I hear you forget the respect that is due those in position or title again, I will dismiss you at once. What is more I will write to every other Bishop of the Synod - every other prelate or Knightly Order explaining why you are unsuitable for any post, any position, or any recognition. I will not allow ‘nor brook such flagrant disregard for propriety and respect within my Church. Do you understand this, Sister Ellys? Have I not been kind and made myself clear?”

A few moments of silence passed, before the Sister returned a meek little nod and a hushed little, “Yes, your grace.”

An approving nod then from the Bishop. “Good. Take the day off and spend it in prayer - this is my gift to you. I hope you learn from this, Sister Ellys - I truly only wish the best for you, after all. Dismissed.”  Sister Ellys was already nearly out of the room by the time the Bishop finished. Bishop Prismspark watched her go with a careful eye, leaning back in her seat once more.

Bishop Prismspark, for her part, was smiling - for all was right in that moment.

#moonguard #alliance #prismspark #moon guard

[prismspark]

From wicked roots comes wicked fruit, by them it has been tainted. Look for fruit which comes from roots, in ground grown consecrated.

Bishop Prismspark of Shalewind

#moonguard #alliance