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Post by Martyr on Aug 4, 2021 21:58:02 GMT -7
Mary Walker, Patient number 9231-869. Also known as Mary Mezinis, and at least 4 other names depending on which of her identities was being referred to. It was uncertain if Mary Walker was a metahuman with dissociative identity disorder or if her metahuman abilities somehow stemmed from it. Her case file was as extensive as it was daunting.
She was considered to be a patient who was impossible to treat. All that meant was that the most obvious and intuitive methods had failed. Something more abstract, something more arcane? That would certainly work.
It is why in this moment, Leyla Demir was not in a white lab coat or a pantsuit. She was not taking notes on a client or monitoring them as they slept, at least, not with any normal equipment.
She wore a silver shroud with a high collar. The interior lining seemed to bear endless numbered stars. A clasp holding it to her was black with a stylized silver "A" based on a more ancient symbol of part of her name: argent. The rest of her costume was midnight blue and was a full body suit with matching gloves and boots. Her hair blew in seemingly unnatural wind.
In the Gallery of Slumber within the Castle Under Fog, were dozens and scores of portraits each showing the world of a single dream. The newest addition to the gallery however was fundamentally wrong.
It was something like a tesseract when it should only be a portrait. Even in the world of dreams, capable of the greatest heights and lowest depths of man's imagination, it was something that was hard to fathom. The mind's eye could barely comprehend it.
<<Are you sure about this?>>
The voice was a familiar one to the mage. Aurum, currently a female Abyssinian, was in a way as much a caretaker of the Castle Under Fog as she was a caretaker of its champion. It was she who drew her to it what felt like so many years ago. It was she who pushed her further and further into the world of dreams.
"Of course."
Into this turbulent dark omen the Sentinel of Slumber went. Already it was hostile here. She found herself in a lonely valley under an overcast sky. The blades of grass throughout its expanse were in fact very truly blades from serrated knives to full on machetes.
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Post by Judi Strange on Aug 5, 2021 6:55:25 GMT -7
"A Malicious Fever burns..In our hearts, in our veins.
Your blood, my blood- All blood runs the same."
The darkness within, not many can grasp what it means, they assume for the one not top, to means the others dwell in absolute darkness. More to the point it is a hell that is absent from "True Light" , true vital existence. It means to feed on scraps of memory and moments you have when the top relinquishes control or is forced to do so. Beyond the field of blades lies the field of glass, jagged and wicked a lattice as made by Daredevil when he errantly pushed one working girl out the window and into destiny. Moving along this trail there is blood, , fresh and old side by side as if coming here mandated the trek through the blades and shards to find the truth.
After one such trek Mary Walker had come at last to the darkness within, she had hoped to never see it again. Here she found herself in the lobby of the Holy Cross Church. She couldn’t see Matthew again, the others either wanted him for themselves or wanted him dead. The came the idea, salvation through the systems and beliefs that had forged him, made Matthew strong enough to survive the heat of Hell’s Kitchen, perhaps with this she could be free of the medications that could hold the door closed on the others, but at a cost of her small life having only empty fogged flashes of life.
She had come and knelt before Father Fortea, she begged for guidance while the others in the “Inside dark place” snickered. They seemed amused, like they knew an inside joke she was not privy to, yet she pressed on. It had been weeks, but it spooled in this dream time with the alacrity dreams gave. The catechism; One's introduction to the Sacraments did well to keep the others away. For once she felt stronger, stronger than whatever had made her what she was, that she could overcome it with faith.
Beyond the field of knives, the path of broken glass this Church stood, as her faith grew, as Mary Walker grew, so too in this dream did the Church and its resilience. Father Fortea was a goodly man, if he had any knowledge of her, of them, he never said and she could not risk losing this, losing this chance to tell him, to be cast out as Matthew had cast her our- first form the window by accident, then out of his life because of the others. It was not the sin of a lie, it was seeking a new start she swore. The Initiation Sacraments, study was going well, perhaps soon she could move onward, the others in this blissful dream had grown silent as she studied faith, perhaps it was at last the key.She remained kneeling as unadorned unpainted her thumbnail moved and counted the rosary, perhaps even in absentia Matthew had shown the way, a way she had not seen until now.
Outside, however the sky was darkening, as the wind blew hot over the knives, over the glass with such a ferocity there on the planes would see them waver, it was decidedly an ill wind.
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Post by Martyr on Aug 9, 2021 19:15:47 GMT -7
Knives divided. Knives separated. At best, they chopped vegetables. At worst, people. They were dangerous things. They were marks of worry and guilt, like the sword of Damocles. It was made more worrisome at this moment because of the howling, cold wind. The blades shook, as if they themselves were fearful.
The Lady of Lullabies was for a moment stuck. She could move through the sea of sabers, certainly. It would not be a pleasant journey. So, she sang a lilting lullaby.
As her voice raised and fell, her hands moved, and magic flowed. Her hands were open, palms out, her fingers were up and together and hers thumbs spread out, like she was giving a high five.
Centered on each of her palms was a complex symbol made of six different alchemist's symbols for silver. From here came a thin seven-pointed fairy star. Around the star, a little below the points were a pair of rings with magical writing in Enochian script, allegedly the writing of angels. From here, each point of the star was met by a crescent moon with points down turned. These points were offset by a third ring. Finally, each of the moons fit the width of the edge of a second thicker seven pointed star that spilled over the rest of the shield.
The whole shield shifted between silver and white as it glowed. The script spun slowly clockwise and the moons moved quicker counterclockwise.
In theory they were a pair of barriers a bit bigger than her hands. In practice, the seals were in front of her as she crouched, pushing the blades away in their wake. She moved slowly through the cutting cutlasses.
She went further, not through blades but through glass. Shards scattered across the ground. She did not need shields for this. The glass was not a threat, to her at least. Her boots were thick.
Further still, blood did spill and blood did pool. To the dreamer, it was caused by wounds both old and new. Her boots squished and sploshed through it.
Finally, there was a church laid with red brick. It was flanked by two gothic towers with flat roofs. The whole thing looked to be five stories. The center structure had a triangular roof with a pair of spires on either side. A cross was at the center of the roof, below that was a two story stained glass window and below that still was a big wooden door with a stone archway. It was a place of worship and contemplation, at the least for now. Its doors opened with a loud gust of wind before the door was shut. A woman within it kneeled and prayed with a Christian form of tespih. It was hard to get to her though. Unlike a normal church, the pews were arranged in a labyrinth. Some even floated in mid air. It seemed as if every statue, painting, cross, or religious symbol of any kind had been moved around the entryway. Beyond all of this, a woman was praying with prayer beads. The visitor was not the Daredevil. It was not any of the other women within her mind. It was a woman wrapped in silver, cloaked in stars. "If there is anywhere that could provide sanctuary from a nightmare, it would be a place like this."
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Post by Judi Strange on Aug 10, 2021 5:13:00 GMT -7
"A Malicious Fever burns..In our hearts, in our veins.
Your blood, my blood- All blood runs the same."
If she heard, the pale, sickly young woman said nothing until she’d finished her prayers kneeling in the exact proper spot despite the dissarray of her icons, her statuary and the tabernacle itself. By all accounts she would seem in here, in the “Inside Dark” as she was described in her case file for most of her young life if not more exaggerated by self image in her own dreams. Slowly, her thumb moved bead by bead, head bowed.
The impediments that had been gathered around to make it difficult to approach the kneeling figure seemed authentic in all the details save for the Crucifix itself, which also offered perhaps part of the deeper rooted problem or just lack of complete understanding, it was not accurate in so much as the figure depicted was far less divine but the visage of a beaten, bloodied daredevil so recognized by his distinctive costumed look in dark woof with wounds exceeding most crucifixes executed in sculptor in fastidious detail. The candles cast a yellow pallor and so many were lit it felt stiflingly feverish and cast long shadows.
“.. O Saint Dymphna grant them the relief and cure they so much desire. We ask this through Christ our Lord who suffered in Agony in the garden. Amen.”
The thin, pale girl rose and crossed herself reverently before the Icon of the martyred her and turned. She paused, taking a moment to take in the visage she offered s soft meek smile. “Faith is the greatest of sanctuary, above human failings and personal sinful weakness.” She said simply and approached, she avoided the statues turned her away, their eyes it seemed..particularly Mary. “Father Fortea isn’t here he..” Mary froze as the smile flickered to worry and settling on a guilty, nervous one. After all, lying was a sin, but saying the others by name let them know, they might come and do more things to take her from divine grace she mused eyes moving to the improper crucifix. “He isn’t here.” She stated once more, stronger, she thought even if she was not very in fact- it was at least the truth and there was sin.
The woman, she knew her, but could not place it, perhaps someone Matthew knew? Typhoid would chide her, Bloody would remind her that of course she was, Matthew was rotten as all his kind are, deserving of death she was perhaps another conquest in a battle field littered with such bodies.
She moved closer, “Have you come to pray?” She asked hopefully, since they had taken the father her pilgrimage was alone, they always kept her alone.. She looked past her friend, to the dark, long shadows.
Hopefully the others had not seen her, or she might go the way of poor Father Fortea, she had covered for them as she always had that night, with bucket and sponge to hide the blood from the sight of Matthew and God lest she be punished for their sins again.
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Post by Martyr on Sept 1, 2021 20:03:30 GMT -7
As she surveyed the sundry landscapes of dreams, certain patterns emerged. While by no means universal, there were places that frequently served as fortresses against nightmares. Even among adults, the old paces of comfort remained. Places of strong emotional resonance. It was almost always a physical structure, but the particulars were dynamic, idiosyncratic. Yesterday, it was a skating rink, signed with signatures made with blades. Today, it was this church with all the pews askew. Tomorrow, it could be grandma's kitchen with the wafting scent of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies. The woman who was lost in prayer informed the visitor that Father Fortea was not there. The Argent Arcanist gave her a smile. "That's quite alright. I'm not looking for Father Fortea, I'm looking for Mary Walker."The visitor shook her head no when asked by the atoner if she had come here to pray. "Morning prayers will come in time."
Her eyes scanned the chapel. She had read the case file, the hundreds of pages in the case file. It was entirely possible in this world, in this dream, Walker and her other personalities were even more separate than they were on Earth. "Pews are not normally a maze.", she said bluntly. "Was that your doing?"
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Post by Judi Strange on Sept 3, 2021 8:14:22 GMT -7
"A Malicious Fever burns..In our hearts, in our veins.
Your blood, my blood- All blood runs the same."
The pale ghost of a woman, thin and frail tilted her head as the newcomer had asked for her by name. Even the Beast and Harlot never said her name except as a curse or to imply weakness. “I- I am Mary Walker,” she said simply, eyes scanning for recognition, perhaps this was a messenger and there was yet another mess to clean for her stronger, bolder others.
“What would you want with me?” The voice, if possible, was more timid, weaker still as if afraid of being tainted by whatever it is the others could have possibly done now. “I can’t save you or stop them, I’m their prisoner, I am very sorry if they are hurting your loved ones. I am trying, but they have cut away the means of Grace.” It did trouble her obviously what they did with their hands, and left the blood on her and it never seemed to come completely clean. Not since the Father had helped her clean them. It was kind, beautiful and probably why they did what they did, outside of grace she would never be strong enough to stop them.
When the pews were mentioned she turned her gaze to them, then to the shadows that seemed ever deeper. “Mother Church must be protected, I do as best I can without the Father to interpret the will of God.” She looked back to the large Crucifix that was woefully improper in all respects. “I want to keep them out, the beast and the harlot both, to save the Church as my patron saint wished to do for France and the Dauphin Charles, but it did not work and they may still be here.” She warns a furtive glance sent the direction of the Confessional. “If they are and you see them run, I, I cannot save myself let alone you.”
The heat from the candles seemed stronger now, almost stifling and oppressive, beads of sweat rose on Mary’s brow as she lifted her hand to touch her index and middle finger to the moisture. “You should go, I..I don’t want..” She stammered the calm seeming to come undone by even the hint of the others, it fit with the case file and only seemed magnified in the dream. Mary Walker, the presumed core personality seemed to be growing weaker due to the machinations of the others to undercut any support structures.
Mary backed away, crossing herself once more as a resounding thunk echoed in the stiflingly hot dwelling. A long gleaming blade of purest silver fell, landing not inches between the pair. “You won’t get anything meaningful out of her, she’s not much of a woman, little more than a simpering child. Would you believe she's in love with the man who threw her out a window and left her to die, pathetic right?” Came a warm, purring tone from above. Typhoid sat up like a cat waking lazily from a nap and looked down. “New blood, cute hair. Go pray and pretend to be a nun Mary, the adults are talking.”
With a feral grace Typhoid dropped down between the two, cutting off the Arcanist’s view of Mary nearly entirely. She leaned in, violating the personal space of the woman if she did not step back, seeming to try to catch her scent. "Now if you want to talk and have fun, that would be me.” She offered with a wide alluringly pretty of not really very sane smile, “But, I'm not really into the whole “Church” thing, I’m sure we can find a lot of other things to talk about between just us girls, rough or not.” She hinted with a wry playful delivery as the remaining candled lit themselves and offered just the right mood lighting to compliment her feverish glistening form.
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Post by Martyr on Sept 3, 2021 21:02:08 GMT -7
"Are you sure that that is your name?", she asked the woman. "I'm here for her."
Mary asked what the stranger wanted. "I want to talk, Mary Walker, like we're doing right now."
"You know the funny thing about prisons? Much of the time, they're self-inflicted. We put ourselves in cages, Mary Walker, and then somehow decide we can't just open the door."
"Beast and Harlot . . ." she repeated.
"Jeanne d’Arc had an army. All you need is yourself, Mary Walker, and God's will."
The Argent Arcanist smiled when she was told to run. "I do not run from nightmares; they run from me. They will run from you too, Mary Walker. Just give it time."
"Are you Mary Walker?" She asked the stranger after her grand entrance. It was an odd question. Hadn't she just been speaking to Mary Walker.
"Love is blind.", she responded when the newcomer spoke ill of a certain crimefighter. It was an oddly specific statement that might still be coincidence.
The stranger was soon corrected. "The adults were talking, dear. Mary Walker, is this the Beast or the Harlot?"
She took a similar blasé attitude toward Typhoid's attempt to violate her personal space.
"So, Mary Walker, do you say a particular prayer to call on your saint?"
The usurper spoke ill of their surroundings now. "Ritual can be important.", she advised as her hands moved. It looked as if she were making a cat's cradle without string.
"Do you fear it, Not-Mary Walker? Ritual, churches. Theophobia is not uncommon. Al-Qushayri believed that fear of God came in stages, much like Kohlberg's stages of moral development. The Bible calls the fear of God the beginning of wisdom."
"To contemplate that which is All-Sacred, Ever-Reckoning, and many countless things without being prepared for it, can be overwhelming. Terrifying."
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Post by Judi Strange on Sept 4, 2021 4:25:47 GMT -7
"A Malicious Fever burns..In our hearts, in our veins.
Your blood, my blood- All blood runs the same."
Mary Walker stood back, just as Typhoid had said she surrendered her space, meekly and without hesitation. She did however answer the newcomers' questions; “Yes, I am She, I’m not sure what I could speak about.” She shied at Typhoids gaze which withered her to the core, she did however seem interested in the cage analogy. She seemed to weigh it, ad it did offer comfort which was of course easy to see in her features as they shifted to look back to the Arcanist. She seemed delighted to hear her patron's name spoken well as it should be and not simply as “St. Joan” as was often the case. “Saint Jeanne d’Arc endured much, and at times it was unfair, but she endured so shall I.” She whispered, it was very uncomfortable it seemed to speak of piety with the harlot staring like a hungry Hyena.
“Perhaps with God’s will, I am not very well and they are so very strong. Powered by lust, sin and revenge.” She could not in truth ever conceive of Typhoid, let alone Bloody fearing her they were powered by the world around them that was also steeped in Lust and violence. They were, it seemed to her the patron Saints of such a world. Worshipped by the men and women they consumed not in love, but in pain and torment. Had not Typhoid won Matthews heart, Fisks heart? The irreverent Harlot was every mans dream, and for those wanting more painful embraces Bloody was their nightmare.
Typhoid had listened, she always did, while listening of. Course she was pushing, pushing her mental gift to push into this stranger's mind, to draw and demand her attention, as she had done with the Father before Debasing him, proving all in all grace meant nothing, he was just a man. Led by words or leash, they all fell in line with the promises of warm moments and sinful indulgences. Just like Matthew, her very favorite chew toy. “What is a Mary Walker, I am Typhoid.” She dismissed even the concept of Mary. Mary Walker was the dirt the blazing flower grew out of, weak and a damsel to her core, Pathetic. She would turn the archaist to fully face her - forcefully if she must to eclipse Mary from view entirely. “A canvas is not art, the painting and passion of the artist is.” she purred and would try to drape her arms on Mary’s new friend.
“Love is painful in many ways; blind as you say, but also broken, confined in exquisite restraint, even left to die after flying out a window by the hand of a lover. That's the way of the world, who are we to disagree sweetness.” Mary Walker started to answer, she barely drew in her breath before being cut off by her betters. “She will say harlot, I, am a harlot only because I am strong enough to say what I feel, act on my passions. It’s an unfair thing to say, considering our past life,” she gleefully pointed out. “The difference now is, I do what I want on my terms, not for a roll of filthy bills that a husband hides from his wife. I would say more, but Bloody loves to wax on about the horrible nature of men, not my wheelhouse. men and Women are delightful things to play with”
“I do,” Mary Walker spoke, trying to wide in verbally as Typhoid seemed poised to discuss their shame so readily, perhaps to drive away someone who wanted to speak, wanted to talk about faith. “I have a few, but there is one I use regularly, it speaks to strength in faith.” She clutched tight the rosary, and continued. "Father Fortea had taught me prayers for strength, for healing once we are not well, since.” She paused “I am not all together well.” A conscious choice “I” and not “we” she did not want to be a part of them with all they had done.
“A Mary Walker is the dirt, I am the vibrant life that grows from the dirt.” She externalizes this time with a smile trying to pull a kiss using her gift of the mind. Server the connect between the two in its infancy. “Not even a Superhero can love the truly pathetic, so she runs to God and Saints who can’t reject her. A Cross dressing French woman is a poor substitute for warm, human contact, even if she did hear voices." The later part of her words were more intimately hushed as she leaned to go for the kiss she coaxed mentally, to through mental force compel an intimate exchange. “I hear voices too, I don’t see anyone lining up for my beautification.”
The terms very specific, despite her scoffing she did seem to pay at least superficial attention to Mary’s “study” if only out of boredom. "Don’t be so quick to call her “Holy” that’s not a real crucifix, face is all wrong, it doesn't even look like a hippy.” Typhoid of course referred to the large one that bore a passing resemblance to Daredevil, not that she would betray his Identity, it was a shared trust between lovers after all, she fought hard to take him from Mary, that was her card to hold close, her trophy.
“Why should I fear that which cannot exist pretty, pretty?” Her eyes blamed as she spoke, to the stranger, but indirectly to Mary, as she sought to pull another mooring free violently. “There can be no God, not in this world we live in. Not with the suffering of even a Harlot.” She cast a gaze to Mary Walker which implied she was speaking about their “before” life. “WE have killed many, WE have proven there is no heavenly interventions WE have broken sinner and Saint alike! No, good angel to save the pious or the wretched from the horrors of the world. In a holy and kind world WE and those worse than US could not exist, so if Rome is burning why not enjoy it, together.” After the diatribe she pressed again for an amorous response, the delight of it achingly tempting for Typhoid, she wanted to shatter this so very badly with a longing that came from deep within. To kill Mary's faith and take the only soul in here that listened to her, why it could be 1 down and 1 to go to be on top..forever.
“Pay attention to me lover, she’s just a broken part of we..Typhoid is the real deal.”
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Post by Martyr on Sept 4, 2021 12:13:25 GMT -7
Mary spoke positively of Joan of Arc again. "Indeed, it is said that even the English knew they were before a saint."
The woman negatively compared her own prowess to the invader and the one that was still hidden. "And what powers you, Mary Walker? God's love surely can overcome such simple sins."
The Sentinel of Slumber shook her head at Typhoid Mary. "The vibrant life in the dirt will also wither and die without it. The dirt will be fine with or without the plant. You need to think through your analogues better, Not-Mary Walker."
Typhoid Mary tried to belittle the possibility of love between Mary Walker and some unnamed superhero. "Quite the contrary, Not-Mary Walker. It could be said that of all the people, a superhero loves the so-called pathetic. What does a superhero do all day but put their lives on the line fighting monsters and nightmares?"The Harlot stole a kiss. The Ardent Arcanist did not seem to be particularly receptive or repulsed. Ordinarily, powerful magic would force her back. Now, and in this moment, it was protecting someone else. She in no doubt responded to Typhoid Mary's advances with words that cut like daggers. "I am much less interested in playing games with you than I am in speaking with your Mistress."Typhoid then dismissed Mary Walker's devotionals. "An untrained woman who came out of nowhere and turned the tide against the men who had invaded her nation with a will and skill beyond what seems possible and who was punished for this audacity by a misogynistic jury made up of those very men. Which among you could find something positive in that?"As she spoke, the Lady of Lullabies continued to play with her hands, muttering what sounded like a prayer under her breath. Typhoid Mary critiqued Mary Walker's crucifix. "For a self-described artist, you have a poor grasp of the breadth of iconography found in Christian art."
The Harlot relished in the not necessarily related concepts of atheist and hedonism. "No good angel to save the pious? Perhaps not, but given some other allusions, I wonder how many times this hero of yours has come in to right your wrongs, Not-Mary Walker."Typhoid called herself the real deal. "That's where you're wrong. I've read your case file. If your own reality is defined as deviation, that way in which you are by definition Not-Mary Walker, would not the so-called Monster be truer than you?"
"You at least seem to have some sort of love, even if it is eros and not agape. The Monster, it would seem, would lack even that. Does she not come out when you have failed, when you, not-Mary Walker, are broken and discarded?"Self-doubt was usually a tactic of Typhoid Mary on Mary Walker. The reaction of the bully to someone else's verbal fists would be an interesting sight.
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Post by Judi Strange on Sept 4, 2021 13:24:24 GMT -7
"A Malicious Fever burns..In our hearts, in our veins.
Your blood, my blood- All blood runs the same."
Mary Walker looked up, likely for the first time since Typhoid had joined them, up form the shoes of this assembled. “They knew and used tricks and lack of good counsel to trick her because they knew she was a peasant, I do not have such powers they do all I have is my faith and honest desire to not become a monster.” Her eyes shifted over to Typhoid was was growing angrier by the moment an countered. “If so, then why is her heart's desires always mine in the end! Men wag their tongues, oh so lovingly for the purest of women, the weakest of mice, but at night where do they go. To revel with the women they loathe in the light of day, her HERO is no different, he may pity her but he loves me.”
The scorned affections made her skin burn with fever all the hotter, this was their place they held dominion not some stranger. “Her? She doesn’t even command herself, let lone us, there is no reason to gif her even a minute of breath.” The coy playing seemed to be burning away to naked anger, not unlike a spurned lover. As the Arcanist spoke onward to the heroism of resisting the misogynistic jury it did indeed get a response..
Typhoids eyes grew wide as both paused, looking around almost in unison. “Shut up!” She would draw a long thin blade from her hip. Rather than risk the third of their trio of self torment she would openly seek to slash at the stranger, aiming for for the throat to be specific. All the mocking, all of the stealing of her power in front of the weakling, it would end.. It and this place would burn to ash with Bloody none the wiser.
It was, in review a well played move the words that were chosen by the stranger. As the silver blade was drawn, for what would be a killing move. One delivered with a passion Typhoid had not felt since Cutting Matthew to red ribbons, it was to be a gift, making a proper crucifix for dear weak Mary to weep at like the very Mary Magdalene she seemed to wish to be. But it was halted, held fast as Typhoid struggled to lash out, to carve away the stranger.
The blade gleamed in the candle light, in these moments the candled seemed to melt so very quickly as the stuffy, warm church felt by contrast to be growing into an inferno of heat.
The Hand that caught the blade hand was that of Bloody Mary, who stepped out of the long shadows behind them and held the arm nails digging into Typhoids flesh. The two looked similar save Bloody was appropriately faded in color and offered no smile standing behind her “Sister.”
Bloody Mary looked at the Arcanist, “Go on..” Said what Mary called the beast, the slayer of men. The misandrist with no mercy for those who hunt and kill the flesh and the spirit of women. “About the Jury, the trial.” she added with a cool even tone.
Typhoid desperately trying to sink her blade into the stranger “She’s playing you, it’s a trick!” He roared, the response was a simple gesture and with a silent Telekinetic push Mary walkers Harlot was slammed into and through the confessional that crumpled in on her.
Shocked, Mary Walker stumbled back and held her beads tighter she began a refrain to her beloved Saint with a trembling fearful voice, worried don’t for Typhoid, nor herself, but in this moment worried for the stranger, the one singular person who never lost sight of her and listened. The one who spoke of God and the Saints without benefit or reward except hers.
“By Your power,
O King of Heaven,
Give to Joan of France
The halo and the altar.
A conqueror for guilty France
No, that is not the object of her desire.
Joan alone is capable of saving it.
All heroes weigh less than a martyr! "
The cold, dispassionate eyes remained on the Arcanist, the crush of Typhoid and crumpling of the confessional nor Mary Walkers prayers pulled the eyes of the beast within. “You called and I come, but I don’t want you as Typhoid wants you, I don’t adore you like Mary adores you.” The words calm as she would move around her visitor. “I only listened because you said something I agree with. But you, are certainly an enemy to me, to her, perhaps to all our kind if you want to stop me. Like her Saint I purge their filth that drags us all down to their level- all of them.” No rage, just calm, cool words as she moved to circle the Archanist. “Mary will die without me as almost died before when one of her John’s enemies threw her to her death, Typhoid will die without me because she is the very image of what men make us into.”
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Post by Martyr on Sept 14, 2021 5:51:13 GMT -7
The Argent Arcanist did not have quite the level of fear of the so-called Beast as Mary's personalities seemed to. This could easily be a case of a lack of familiarity. She had no knowledge of the consequence of pulling at the tiger's tail. It could also be a case of an abundance of confidence. She was, after all, dealing with just another nightmare.
Her first words to Bloody Mary were identical to her first words to Typhoid Mary. "Are you Mary Walker?"
It was an obvious but necessary question. She was asked to continue on the martyrdom of the Maid of Orleans. In preparing to meet with and persuade Mary Walker of her own power, she had read about this trial extensively. "On March 1, 1431, Jeanne D'Arc was asked about her visions. She said among other things that St. Margaret spoke to her in French. She was asked by the Englishmen if Margaret spoke to her in English, her response was "Pourquoi devrait-elle parler anglais alors qu'elle n'est pas du côté anglais?"Neither her talk nor tenor changed when Typhoid Mary was sent flying. She had seen tantrums before. "In all of human history, mercy is often lacking because nearly universally people do not practice the rule found in nearly every culture on Earth. From Mary Walker's own faith comes the notion twice: the famous one in Matthew and the less-quoted one in Luke." She paused as if to think, . "From Luke: And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise." Men in this sense is humanity, not simply those with male anatomy."
"Therefore, Not-Mary Walker, I cannot in good conscience join you to kill all men and save all women, because inevitably among the throngs of humanity is a superpowered misogynist that is your polar opposite. If I then go to the other heroes and say, "Will you help me to defeat him?" would it not be within the rights of the others to ask why I think such a thing is ethically wrong now that the shoe is on the other foot?"
"You believe Mary Walker will die without you, Not-Mary Walker? You are surely mistaken. She is the most powerful one in the room. Here, in this place, none of the three of us are more powerful than her. Mary Walker, this is your mind. It is not my mind; It is not the Harlot's mind; it is not the Beast's mind. They are only here as much as you allow it. If you want to be free, all you need to do is say so. It's that simple. They may scream and gnash their teeth, they may throw a little fit like a toddler being put to bed, but they are as and of the Devil, they only have power through deception and lies."
"You, Mary Walker, are more powerful than you give yourself credit for. I believe that all you need is a little push. All you need is a little push.""My plan was to use magic to protect you, Mary Walker. It was to use magic as Solomon did to give you a bulwark, using the collective hopes of thousands to give you more strength to fight them. But, I will do neither. It is not because I refuse to help you, Mary Walker. It's because you already have everything you need." Template adapted from Silv. |
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"Tall, lean and Gamma Green- that's me!"
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Post by Judi Strange on Sept 19, 2021 5:32:40 GMT -7
"A Malicious Fever burns.. In our hearts, in our veins.
Your blood, my blood- All blood runs the same."
This time, this alter did not answer the opening question, was it to be contrary or simply due to lack of interest? Could it be it felt a danger in giving? The French did annoy, visibly so perhaps she had no tongue for it. “How can you not see the suffering the cause, how can you act with such grand moral restraint as others of us die by the score of male pleasure?!”
Typhoid, so coded the harlot in their morality play extricated herself, hatred for once not at Mary, nor the outsider but at Bloody herself. “Not all, men do not own women, they don't destroy all of us as dolls. I can make them do anything by their own wants, their Cravings! You can’t kill them all my hateful sweetness. Sorry, and surprise we wont all help you make living such a dull, bland thing.. we like men, they're too fun to just kill.”
As the two alters for the first time she could recall seemed to be on the very opposite side, Mary, the true first Mary held the sides of her head as the raged. “If I am powerful how, how do I stop them they are tearing me apart, us apart.. we apart.”
Bloody shifted her gaze from each in turn, Typhoid’s lusts forcing somewhat of a truce, but in the end as the stranger had said only one could be the master, as such she went for a very quick easy fix.
Everything seemed to be in a slowed motion, actions long and drawn out as she stepped close as Typhoid fastened her hands around Bloody’s throat, bloody reached past her not for Mary but for the Arcanist, a gaze to burn as sure as it did on the outside.
The goal was simple, kill it before it told Mary how, the time for the civil little war of undermining seemed past, first.. the Arcanist, then Typhoid.. finally Mary… this was the key to the light. The key to always be the one in the sun.
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Post by Martyr on Sept 29, 2021 10:56:08 GMT -7
They fought and they quarreled. It was not entirely uncommon for such a thing to occur in dreamscapes. Quite a few people had nightmares of yelling and a squabbles. Many people needed help to overcome the deaths regulating effects of interpersonal conflict.
This, however, was different. The conflict here was deep-seated and away which wasn’t often found. I dream I could remember what she perceived from someone else’s words or what she remembered of her own, but except for a vanishing few, nobody could know the other’s mind. So, the nightmare duplicates were always incomplete and two-dimensional. These personalities were more fully formed. It was not they couldn’t be dislodged like the squatters that they were, but it would need a catalyst — it would need a certain spark. When it did come, the Argent Arcanist no doubt wished it didn’t come quite so literally.
The so-called Harlot tried to attack the so-called Beast. For her part, the Beast had the wherewithal and foresight to talk in the more ready threat: the mage herself.
The mage began to burn. She did not scream; she did not shout. It was then that she answered Mary Walker’s plea.
“How do you get rid of them? By knowing that you can.”
Her features became fewer and fewer until she was no more.
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Post by Judi Strange on Apr 22, 2023 3:28:42 GMT -7
"A Malicious Fever burns.. In our hearts, in our veins.
Your blood, my blood- All blood runs the same."
Time; it passed and mostly in a semi fugue state these days for the woman known as Mary Walker. She had medicated, dim awareness of it as little knives of light that cut through the haze of the medicinal corrections that evened out her brain chemistry. She had in some vague notion of the past been better, really better- but something had happened since their last session.
She had been released, worked hard to stay clean and even get right with God. The snow haired statuary in her dreams had slammed the door on Typhoid and Bloody. She was in control at last! The grace of the Son and the Sun she dover her as she knelt before Father Delgado in the Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. The Church was old, dating back to 1876, where better to lay the bedrock of her new beginning.The peace did not last, it was all just a jumble in her mind now;
Typhoid was lying again to me, she had to be Father Delgado would not have been so..inappropriate with her would he? Typhoid always lied, said men were evil and were just skinned animals with one need, especially the holy ones. No, Typhoid had to have been lying seeking to drive a wedge between me and salvation- that must be it."
She brooded in her sterile cell, wrapped in the warm fuzzy blanker of her mood stabilizers. her hands clasped together to pray- would God listen after what Bloody and Typhoid had done to the poor other, what she had tried to do to Matthew and the Black Widow? Surely she was cut off from grace, her one anchor- she had sought to crucify Matthew to mock his torments-
"No, not me; please someone see it was not me, it was Typhoid and Bloody- they always undercut me, then ran away when there were bills to pay- I dont even know how the fight ended, I cant remember anything except trying to get control and stop them- then waking here". It wasn't fair, it was like some other person was writing her life while she was asleep. Could no one forgive this slip?
She she stared off into the labyrinth of her own mind the guard knocked, thence in with another, and still a third that linger in the hall. She'd been peaceful as a lamb since waking up, so to merit this more escort means whatever they had done in her sleep Mary, Bloody or whoever else had done a lot she would again have to be punished for. "Stand, turn arms out Ms. Walker; visitor day, I need you to be on your best behavior or Doc will up your meds, understand?"
"Yes Officer Weeks;" she replied almost mechanically She felt the restraint secured, it reminded of the old movie "Silence of the Lambs" She'd seen it once she got out- it must be nice to be this way but also be in so much control like the Hannibal character, even as such a monster to have a sense of self, to never lose yourself inside you self- perhaps that was the normalcy of almost everyone, well except her of course.
She had the feeling Typhoid liked Weeks; tall, strong of for Mary's tastes a bit untraditionally masculine in some aspects- luckily for them both Typhoid was away and asleep in her drug induced feral coma. People Typhoid liked, really liked never lasted long, they burned up like flash paper in her fire- Her longest living alternate was a monster.
Down the hallways they went; she was unsure who she would see today- this year? Time was simply an idea, impossible to measure now; she was not even sure how long she'd been incarcerated this time.
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Post by Martyr on May 9, 2023 18:43:52 GMT -7
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