Your sons and daughters will prophesy - any

[Pentecost]

He could not know how close they had passed each other by. For the Father seldom graces the earth.

He had come from that dark place – the darkest place of all, that nothing-womb where, he imagines so very long ago, the Father had said ‘let there be everything’, and so it was – to shepherd a blessed flock to their promised land.

And then, he had ascended once again.

The Father seldom graces the earth.

The Son wanders aimlessly.

Far above, the stars eat little pinholes in the blue-black sky, flickering away like so many venerable eyes a-blink. He traces their constellations with his nose and dark eyes, following the horn of a great ram and the spoon of some insatiable fantasy – they navigate him onwards into a wide, open extinction.

Nothing. 

The Son eats nothing willingly, hungrily, drawing further away from the same-silver body of his Mother. That holy altar on which he had been made; where he had grown from a godlike seed, suckled and found comfort in the baby-memories of her choral heartbeat. 

That body, whose eyes had, perhaps, seen something vaguely precious in that Son – for, of course, the Father seldom graces the Mother – and so, she had kept him safe enough to wander now, still clung on to by a sliver of awkward and uneven boyhood.

In the darkness of night, he is dulled. A faint reflection hangs onto his angular hips and chest like a halo of fine light. Snaking up the thin, long curve of his neck are the markings, purple like bruises on soft skin, that tell a story of something forbidden and deceitful. A story carried from ancient tongue to uncaring ears, and so it is long forgotten. 

Tattooed on his flesh as a warning. Or, perhaps, they are simply dead verses.

He comes to stand, alone and contented in it, under the empyrean court of sun-fire and vacuousness where the Father stays, observing the slow blinking of his congregation.

[Ryse]

The gray ghost stands in murk of dark shadows as the silver caress of moonlight attempts to disclosure her position. She is the pale lioness amongst the tall grasses of a weed choked meadow. Dapples dust her pale gray form, blending the length of wind knotted hair against the carelessly placed boulders of a time long passed. She remains quiet as she tip toes from shade to shade.

But then something catches her eyes.

Something is glowing...moving. Ryse can not help but allow herself to stare from her camouflage as a creature, more radiant than the moon, moves upon heavy hooves despite his young form. Lids slit slightly as the bewitched nature of his coloring makes her believe he is a magician of sorts. Ryse can almost swear that the moon gleams jealously upon the young male.

When he halts, the ash girl creeps a bit closer as simply staring at him does not satisfy her curiosity. She nears, hoof in from of the other, methodically whilst keeping her green eyes attuned to him. "Hello." The word slips from the tip of her tongue, hushing the sounds of the crickets hidden in the grass at their feet. The girl hesitates in the liquid black that conceals her before stepping put into the bath of moon glow. A fleeting smile touches and goes from her lips as she watching him from the steel hue of her brow. "What are you doing out here?" The question, perhaps to boldly spoken, is really the first thing that tumbles from her young mind. In fact, what was she doing out here?

The gray girl looks at him with more curiosity than anything else. She was not hostile but intrigued by such a shiny, pretty thing. Was he only reflecting the moon's jealousy or did it charge his curious color? What did the marks mean on his skin? Ryse briefly considered their mapping but can not understand it. She was simply not clever enough yet to solve such riddles in the thick of night with a strange boy bathed in summer's moonlight.

[Pentecost]

The Father is prolific. 

He slings many arrows.

The Son is none the wiser. He lives in ignorance of the quiver – grew up in the shade of a silver shrine, tucked away in a valley of singular quiet, with only her as company. These others pass by him like shades shook loose from Gehenna – it seems to him that they carry no song in their hearts, but eat nothing as voraciously as he; they are unclean, so dull compared to their own offerings, Mother and him.

They come bearing gifts of silver cloth and hips; 

—one the Father’s many miracles, turning the dampness of seed and egg into something that shines line an eastern star.

When she approaches him he blinks, slow and dumb, at the night sky, turning his black eyes away only when she speaks. For her voice is like the discordant music from a belltower – one that upsets quiet so savagely; it is in one second the joyful, melodious call to worship, and in the next, the violent harbinger of enemies at the walls. He is drawn to it as much as he is repelled. She is, it seems to him, like a dying version of himself, pale and plain. He cannot, in his own simplicity, fathom the glory that runs through her own veins. Not just of the Godseed, but of the many demi-gods and goddesses that fill the gaps.

The Son is no magician, and this daughter is no lioness.

They are both inadequate products of their bloodlines.

They are not so different.

“Nothing,” his voice is young and untrained, too high-pitched, even now, for his age. “I was doing nothing alone,” the tone lacks any of the words’ annoyance. He is speaking only the truth, plain and sombre. He does much alone. “What are you doing alone?”

(OOC - Ryse's HTML seems to be trying to take over the world xD)