Word had, as it often does within Arx, spread quickly. A Mirrormask of unknown rank had been seen here and there - first within the Ward of the Lyceum, preaching in the Reflection Square, then elsewhere, outside the Murder of Crows, and even, most recently, gesticulating wildly from Sovereign's Bridge. Now he was here, in the Shrine of the Thirteenth itself. There were those that said he received permission, and others that said he took it upon himself to do so. Some people said there was inner turmoil amongst the Mirrormasks, cynical individuals who, having noted the infighting amongst other members of the Faith, saw the discipleship of the Thirteenth as no different in terms of secularity and worldly desire. Then there were those who were positive, absolutely positive, that the one calling himself Brother Mysterion was born down from the heavens, at the best of the Dark Reflection his very self. Of all the gossipers, these were the most adamant of them all. They were men and women with the fevor and zeal of believers, the likes of which are not seen outside of the more traditional faithful of the Oathlands. The truth was, though, not anyone knew where Mysterion had come from with hard fact.

Though they were few in number, their presence made the shrine, so often empty, feel full. Crowded, even. They were of all social ranks, from poor to wealthy, men and women, some few Crownsworn though the majority were of Lycene descent. The interior of the shrine remained quiet, and solemn in nature, though the worshippers found therein were by no means unwelcoming. Indeed, they all seemed overjoyed when another person strode through the entryway.

Brother Mysterion, however, was himself lying stretched out across the altar. Hands behind his masked head, the Mirrormask appeared to be in a state of repose. The torches had been lit, of course, because even were it light it (it was, in point of fact, late evening. Mysterion only ever preached at night), was perpetually dark and gloomy within the Shrine of the Thirteenth itself. Eventually, however, as more and more began to filter in, the Brother rolled onto his side, head in hand, elbow propping him up, and revealed unto all a face entirely obscured by a featureless mask made of stygian. The dancing firelight did not reflect upon it, though it did illumine the perhaps curious choice of affectation. The Mirrormask was robed in umbra, and would perhaps strike some as a living shadow were it not for his strikingly white hands - the only visible flesh to be seen.

Quiet, a Valardin champion have been dismissed.

Aioni, a regal snowy white owl have been dismissed.

Driskell enters the Shrine, his particular robes of the Faith dyed black as they flutter behind him through the long corridor of mirrors. At his side is a Silent Reflection who seems to be assisting the Mirrormask priest this moment by holding a few old looking books. Driskell, for his part, stands near the side and front of those gathered, his gloved hands clasped behind his back but the gold eyes silently observing Brother Mysterion.

Orathy checked dexterity + stealth at difficulty 15, rolling 19 higher.

This isn't usually Calaudrin's hangout spot, but when you hear about something like this through word of mouth? Sometimes you wander over to get an eyeful for yourself. He enters the shrine and stands near the back, not exactly interested in mixing and mingling with the other people there. At least not yet. His eyes narrow briefly as he looks towards the man laying on the shrine, then he casts a slow look in the direction of Driskell.

Joslyn should perhaps have brought her mask, but upon hearing the rumors of this individual, decided that it might be best to face his own mirror face-to-face. Should he be a crazed heretic, she'd hate to look like she might be with him, after all! She spots the man lying upon the shrine, curiosity and confusion abound in her expression, eyes glancing back towards Driskell.

Orathy has rolled a critical success!
Orathy checked dexterity + stealth at difficulty 20, rolling 66 higher.

Orathy had blended in long ago with the poor and the crownsworn; he was just another forgotten face in the crowd of mundane. The non-descript black leathers with the common weave jacket weren't going to make him stick out like a sore thumb, though the axe and the multiple swords - might. He at least is wearing his cloak which hides as much as possible without causing the Templars a heart attack; the obvious ones were peace-tied, though it's hard to keep track of really in the press of the poor... He slides into a group of people, pulling up his deep cowled hood while he stood in the middle. He blended in and watched this Brother Mysterion rise from where he had been stretched out from underneath the shadows of it.

Hadrian walks briskly into the Shrine of the Thirteenth, a gaggle of Ducklings in the form of House Mazetti's Guardians not only keeping pace, but some of which actively pass by him in the Marquis' brisk steps. Ducklings no more. They've all grown up. Hadrian turns his attention back to Luigi and Camilla, two personal assistants that earn a comment from Hadrian as his chin inclines and he fires off a bright smile toward the two, "Now you two don't get lost now and don't get too immersed in the mirrors," he shares with a tinge of humor bleeding into his words. Soon enough he and his little retinue of guards and assistants begins down the long hall of mirrors. Briefly harlequin green eyes flash from side to side, taking in his own profile within the mirrors as he passes them by, but inevitably Hadrian's focus turns to the altar and the man sprawled out across it. That brings Hadrian up short and his hands casually drift across his chest where they clasp at his elbows. His chin inclined and a lone brow raised, he watches on in half-amused silence that gradually gives way to curious inspection from afar.

"Ahh," Mysterion breathes, his voice no less audible for wearing a mask that contains no space for his mouth, or his eyes. "Welcome, welcome all of you. And you, Brother Driskell, I am most heartened to see you here. Most heartened indeed." Drawing himself into a seated position upon the altar, Mysterion looks out to those gathered, his head slowly swinging from left-to-right, then right-to-left. "You are all here tonight," he begins, stabbing a long finger into the air. "Because each and every one of you was called. Not by earthly rumors, no. Though the breath of man carried it to your ears, what gave it life was the *promise* that rooted in your hearts."

Seated upon the pews, many people murmured amongst themselves, the general consensus that of agreement. Yes, yes, they had felt it! They were called! They were meant to be here! Mysterion allows the chatter to continue for a moment, his featureless mask bobbing with a nod, moon-pale hands resting upon the cold-black surface of the altar on which he was still seated. "Your faces may be new to me, but none of you are unknown to me. Nor are you unknown to yourselves, the Other You, the one that no one can see unless it is in the Mirror or," he giggles. The sound echoes within the shrine inordinately loudly. "Unless you are a god. Neither here nor there! Some of you may not be familiar with worship of the Dark Reflection - and that is okay! Not only am I here to guide you on your journey, but we have Brother Driskell with us as well," he extends a long arm towards the man as he speaks. "So I shall ask all of you: look around you! Look to the stranger at your side. Meditate on those things we name sins, as well as folly. For whatever wrongs you ascribe to the stranger are your own. Do you seek the true reflection? Then look to those you don't know, than the friend that you do."

Calaudrin looks entirely skeptical of this sweet talking man sitting on the alter. It's hard to tell if that's how he /really/ feels or if his face is just stuck in that position. His eyebrows knot together and he stares intently at Mysterion while he speaks, occasionally looking to the other people that have gathered. His mouth slants into a line as the murmurs of agreement begin to pass around the room. Anyone looking to Cal as one of 'those you don't know' is going to be met with, well, a closed book expression.

Driskell keeps his usual stoic mask upon his facial features when he's named by brother Mysterion, but for his part, he is silent while the Mirrormask is giving his sermon. There's a single nod though at the last part, giving his support.

Dark eyes remain looking forward as Orathy remains with the commoner crowd, a slight shuffle to the side to get a better look at this Mysterion. He does cran his attention aside when Brother Driskell is called out, the dim lighting of the torches catching a glint in his eye and reflecting off his dusky skin as he marks where the Brother was. It's hard to say if he meets anyone's gaze in the torch fire lit shrine, or really what he does beyond shifting with the crowds around him.

Joslyn looks as skeptical as Calaudrin, her eyes move immediately towards Driskell, curiously searching to see if she'll hear a sign of anything from him. The nod Driskell gives possibly surprises Joslyn the most of all. Mouth agape, she looks then back to Brother Mysterion. Okay, he apparently might be on to something.

Hadrian's attention flickers from one strange face to another before settling on Driskell and the attention paid to him from Mysterion. Briefly Hadrian's gaze lingers, studying the other for a time before his attention turns to more familiar faces in the form of Luigi and Camilla. He squints at the pair too, as if they too were worthy of indepth study. Inevitably his focus drifts back to Mysterion. Only then does Hadrian ask, "We were called? Do enlighten us, please," in a voice that is friendly and casual. He does however lean to his right to quietly speak to one of the armored, robed, and masked Guardians nearby with a nod toward Brother Mysterion.

"Quite," the finger stabs into the air again. "As I have said, it was not by earthly words, but of the spiritual. Consider, for a moment, if you will..." For the first time, Mysterion gets to his feet. His long robes fall to the floor, so that as he walks it appears more as if he glides. He strides towards the right, on which side Hadrian was seated. "Word of some of the sermons I have given has been spoken of on the banks of the Gray River, within the Ambassador Salon, and even in some wealthy Houses peppered throughout Arx. If so many know, then why have not all those who have heard attempted to cram themselves in here?" He pauses, turns back, then eventually pauses before the center of the room, his masked-head swinging to peer (one must assume), directly at Orathy. "We could argue semantics - really, we could, I'd love to! - but let's not. You were called here, they were not. Because you were Chosen. They were Not."

Calaudrin is paying attention, his dark eyes swiftly following the man as he moves throughout the room. Though it's entirely possible he just muttered something underneath his breath about those other people who aren't here tonight. There's a sigh that escapes him and he lifts his chin and raises his voice just enough to be heard, "And what exactly are the people here chosen for?" His expression of perpetual grouch remains painted on his face.

Driskell takes his eyes off Mysterion just a moment to look over at the agape Joslyn while the rest are asking the Mirrormask their questions.

The turn of the mirror mask of Brother Mysterion catches Orathy's attention, specifically when it appears the man pauses before the center of the room and fills that unknown gaze upon him. Orathy's chin tilts toward his chest with a faint curl of his lips in a sneer as the speaker suggests that those who were here, were Chosen. It's Calaudrin that first gets to ask the question, certainly a half turn of his head to hear it asked, before his dark gaze continues to regard the Brother up front, actually /nodding/ in agreement to him now.

Hadrian's brow furrows ever so slightly at the declarations made by the masked Mysterion. As he seems to glide toward the Marquis of House Mazetti though, Hadrian's attention drifts aside to one of the Guardians standing nearby. Briefly his attention drifts to the heavy swords that each of the masked figures carries, though peace-bound by golden silk. The frown persists only briefly before it's wiped away once again and Hadrian's attention drifts back to the seemingly gliding Mysterion. Caluadrin's question earns a nod from Hadrian, as if an unspoken joining with the line of questioning. Though soon enough Hadrian's attention shifts toward Driskell. No questions are spoken. Instead Hadrian seems to consider the Mirrormask in silence, monitoring his reactions toward the proclamations made by Mysterion as if to compare one to the other.

Joslyn catches Driskell's gaze, her expression calming a little as she tilts her head back towards Brother Mysterion.

The Mirrormask's head cocks to one side, impossibly far, in fact, so that it seems as though it is weirdly resting upon his shoulder. He appears to be listening, waiting. His hands hang limply at his side as he does so. Eventually, however, his head snaps upright. He spreads his arms out wide in an all encompassing gesture. "Why is it that we pray to the Dark Reflection? It is so that we might master the dark sides of our souls; to be better than that which we fear; and that He might save us from that which we fear we may *become*." Moving again, now, towards Driskell who shares quiet looks with Joslyn. To say that Mysterion looms over the shorter Brother would be...quite the understatement, as he appears like a haunting shadow. Until he bends his knees ever so slightly so that his black-masked void of a face can hover appear Driskell's left shoulder. Facing, of course, Joslyn.

"Your journey begins here," his voice is always the perfect pitch. "The one in which you face your darker side. You shall master it or you will be enslaved by it."

Calaudrin makes a clicking noise with his tongue and after that answer, falls silent again and looks around at the crowd to see how they're reacting. He seems mildly disquieted by the man's physical actions but not enough to really call any attention to it and the Iron Guard's focus appears to have shifted for now.

Whatever Driskell might have shared with Joslyn across the room ceases as he looks back to watch Mysterion as he listens intently to what the Mirrormask says, the gloved hands clasped behind his back. While Mysterion might move angled and jarring, Driskell's reactions are stoic and unflinching. As the larger Mirrormask speaks his words, he gives once more a single nod in agreement.

Joslyn meets the non-gaze of Mysterion unflinchingly. "I face my darkness every day, Brother Mysterion. It is my devotion, and my life. What new darkness in me is there to face?" she wonders, crossing her arms, studying him curiously.

Hadrian quietly murmurs to himself, "Party at my place then." His attention snaps back to Mysterion and Driskell however. He watches with a detached curiosity. Joslyn's question though draws a glance from Hadrian. He watches for a time before he finally openly smirks. Then he laughs, low and quiet, before again his attention returns to Mysterion. Hadrian seems to prepared to step away but, for whatever reason, he shifts aside and settles down onto one of the pews. The Guardians linger, but do not move to seat themselves with him. This affords Hadrian the opportunity to stretch out a touch, one arm up and over the back of the pew while he watches on with curiosity.

Orathy's expression is one of casual dismissal and non-belief, his hood covered head turning away and slightly lowering as he peers out the side of it when Mysterion speaks further, as if unable to fully deny that the mirrormask's words were catchy. His voice lifts into the air, "And if we are already mastering it, what then?!" It might be a heckle, it might not be.

"Some are further along the Path than others, my dear Sister," Mysterion assures as he strides away from Driskell at last, returning to the altar. Which he then faces, his hands running along its smooth surface while he has his back to the gathered for the moment. Silence reigns for several long heartbeats before he next speaks. "When it is dark, black as pitch, you know not what is lurking within it. It takes a light being shined upon it to reveal the truth. So then," his hands lift high, as though petitioning Tehom himself. "So how then can you tell me you have mastered anything, when you cannot for a certainty tell me - or yourself -you have scoured every inch of that darkness clean? Are you a god, a seraph, to have such omnipotence? Or do you admit it is possible that there are parts of yourself that have more control over you than you do of it?" His shoulders begin to hitch, and laughter fills the room. "Let me show you!"

The man begins to laughs and Calaudrin purses his lips into a line and waits patiently to see where exactly this is going. Nothing like potentially manical laughter!

"Is something funny?" Joslyn asks Hadrian with a lift of her eyebrow before looking back to the man at the altar, brows furrowed a little bit. "Are we purging and scrubbing the darkness from ourselves, or are we to look within ourselves and master it?" The laughter doesn't seem to bother Joslyn, she just crosses her arms and nods. "Well, I suppose we can see where this goes," she says simply, levelly, lips quirked in thought.

As the conversation begins to unfold, so too does Hadrian's discomfort. Not in the topics being discussed, but instead the theatrics of it all. Hadrian's attention drifts from Mysterion to Driskell and then back to Mysterion. As the apparent man approaches the altar and lifts his hands high in apparent supplication, Hadrian's chin lowers and his harlequin green eyes narrow. He begins to slowly rise up to his feet as though he were preparing to make a hasty exit. Joslyn's question though earns a faint nod of his head and a bright smile cast in her direction, "Why yes, something is quite funny. Hilarious, even. See?", Hadrian remarks with a vague gesture toward the altar, Mysterion, and his laughter which fills the Shrine of the Thirteenth. Already though Hadrian begins to sidestep his way down the aisle formed by the pews, seeking to rejoin the Guardians at the end for a bit of light conversation. Or hasty withdrawal.

The questions posed to Mysterion are reflected on by Driskell silently, and what the Mirrormask says isn't given a rebuke or correction by Driskell. Instead, he continues to watch as if he's wearing a mask. But perhaps to those who are watching him, they might see that his lips move just barely. As the laughter fills the altar chamber and the echoes reverberate throughout the shadowy chamber and corridors which take a darker tone, the third reflection continues to stand silently.

"Reckon I be knowing exactly what fucking lurks there... I fuckin do..." Orathy grumbles to those around him and he pushes forward now, not blending in as much because of it. Because of the tight press of people, it does slow him down... but he's lurking toward the mirrormask. His intentions might be clear by the way he shoves people aside... a little aggression in his stride.

This time, Mysterion does not indulge in the words of those gathered within, his laughter slowly begins to fade, though somehow the echo continues to bounce back at odd intervals. Slowly, slowly, like syrup pouring, he turns. His hands have lifted to other side of his masked face, and from the angle currently capable of being seen, it appears as though his hands are held over his mask. "Let me show you, let me show you, LET ME SHOW YOU," those hands are peeling back the closer Mysterion is to facing them all fully again. His voice is a shout. A mighty roar. "The depths," softer now, almost gentle. Hands wide, 'revealing'. None are spared. "Of your devotion..."

Blinding brilliance. The words a are a far away whisper, as of hearing underneath water, or after a particularly deafening concussion. They're only almost muffled.

And everyone - everyone there - is somewhere else. Alone upon a high, windswept hell. The world is a grey place. Land and sky. It is cold. So cold. At the base of the hill can be heard the sound of digging. Following this forlorn sound, one spies a lone figure. They turn, squint, then smile. "Oh, you're here," says the face you think you recognize. "Not long now, not long at all..." They point farther off, but the land is so...featureless.

Quicker than thought, everything changes. Images tumble in rapid succession, one after the other. A single candle, flickering feebly in the wind. An old well. Splintered bones. And finally, your arm, reaching, reaching out. Knowing you should not, and touching the wall of onyx or obsidian that is so tall its crown cannot be seen; your arm shatters into a thousand thousand pieces of broken glass, and in every one is a glimpse of your life.

"...And that, my Brothers and Sisters, those Children of the Faith gathered with us today, will be all for tonight's sermon." Mysterion is seated on the altar, as though he had never left it. He clasps his hands together in a benevolent manner, "Brother Stefan," this to a Knight of Solace. "I do believe this good man here has been turned around." This concerning Orathy, who was in the process of approaching even as they were all over taken by the vision. The Silver Knight, whose expression was as flat as Calaudrin's, steps forward to gesture to Orathy. "This way, citizen. The reflection cast by the torches can disorient, I know."

Calaudrin had been leaning against the wall, a sort of lazy-alert to him and clearly not impressed with whatever Mysterion was selling. Until well, until what just happened transpired. He suddenly pushes off the wall and looks alive, looking around to check out the reactions of the rest of the room before his gaze swings cold and hard onto the man on the alter.

The blinding brilliance is enough to stop anyone in their tracks, most especially someone who was approaching the altar toward that manic man's laughter. Orathy is struck by the reveal of their devotion, left to stagger momentarily as he suffers the same vision as everyother man and woman in the room. The 'Brother Stefan' has to literally step in front of him before he's shaken from whatever it was he experienced, disoriented as the man suggests. He will be easily 'nudged' in the right direction, away from the Mysterion masked brother. "What'd he fuckin do to me...?" He can be heard hissing in a complaint... of confusion.

Joslyn finds herself leaning against hte wall when all of this transpires, breathless and finally, her unflappable attitude seems to have been peirced, blinking rapidly, she says, mostly to herself. "What. The. Fuck. Was. That?"

Hadrian checked composure at difficulty 25, rolling 5 lower.

At the conclusion of Mysterion's reveal, Driskell is still and silent for more than a few minutes, the gold eyes look about to the others here a moment before he looks back to the Mirrormask. The gloved hands unclasp from behind finally and one touches above his black robes over his chest while he tilts his head slightly in a bow, "May we ponder upon the mysteries the Mirror shows and understand the truth that it reveals. Thank you, brother Mysterion."

A messenger arrives, delivering a message to Joslyn before departing.

Hadrian inches just a hair closer to the Guardian closest to himself, nearly to the point that he could easily hug the mysteriously masked Hydra of House Mazetti. As Mysterion speaks, louder and louder, Hadrian's eyes squint and his jaw sets itself closed as though trying to ward of the increasingly loud noise rebounding within Tehom's Shrine. Then he's not within the Shrine of the Thirteenth. His eyes remain closed tightly for a moment while Hadrian franitcally shakes his head, "Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope!" The words practically bubble from his mouth when his eyes reopen. When his eyes reopen and the Shrine is back in place and Mysterion's seated atop the altar once more, each of Hadrian's spindly fingered hands reaches out to grasp the Guardian which he'd been on the verge of instructing of their departure. Now though his hands grasp to the arm of the Guardian and Hadrian states in a much more firm and commanding tone, "We're leaving. Now. I need some air and brandy. More of the latter, some of the former...let's go. Yeah, we need to go," the Marquis explains with some degree of urgency. He turns and briskly begins to march away with the entourage of Guardian ducklings and assistants trailing after him as he hurriedly makes his way toward the exit from the shrine. As he goes he asks of one of the Guardians, "Did *you* see that? It was so... bleak. There wasn't an attractive person in sight."

"And thank you, Brother Driskell. I go now to fast and pray...I encourage everyone here to do the same." The words are, honestly, typical of any member of the Faith. Mysterion seems entirely oblivious to the disgruntlement of those blessed by - or perhaps, inflicted with - the vision. He strides off, likely to an antechamber.

Calaudrin casts one incredibly suspicious look towards Mysterion before moving abruptly out of the shrine at a swift, clipped pace.

Orathy puts his hands up to the Knight of Solace, to gesture he no longer needed an escort, ripping his elbow away and grousing in the Lower Boroughs brogue on his way out...

4 Culler Hoodlums, 2 Culler Brute leave, following Orathy.

3 Iron Guardsmen leaves, following Calaudrin.

Driskell gestures to one of the Silent Reflections after Mysterion heads on, "Tidy the altar chamber." As for the other Silent at his side, he says "At my side." in his flat voice. He looks to Joslyn, seeing if she's heading on.

Camilla, Luigi, 5 House Mazetti Guardians leave, following Hadrian.