One flesh, one bone, one true religion; one voice, one hope, one real decision...
[[This post will probably have epic slow-timing, but it's long overdue, so here you go. People who have soldier-types they've been looking for an excuse to bring in: this would be an excellent opportunity.]]
The Prophet of the Rift, having set up the Empress Theatre as a refuge for the Riftcomers to the very best of his ability, is engaged in what might be the last great act of his life -- the CLF has been terrorizing Chicago for far too long, people are afraid, and the soldiers they have, it seems, are not enough.
He intends to fix that.
He's in Calisto's old warehouse now, his wheelchair parked in front of the Rift there. He's not in the chair, though, instead standing before the Rift, one hand outstretched. Stephen, the healing angel (his friend, his follower, his savior in some ways) is nearby, and he's about as prepared as he can be for this.
In certain universes touched by the Rift, places where certain individuals might wander through, the Rift, usually invisible, flares into brilliant blue, purple, and green light. The Prophet can't communicate through the Rift, can't send any form of concrete warning, but he can do this... Make it so that those who come through will have at least some idea of what's about to happen to them. Give them a choice, whether to investigate or to run away.
And those who do come through... they'll come here, to him. And he'll explain to them the dire necessity, the pressing demand for those who can protect the ones unfortunate enough to have stumbled through by what would appear to be pure accident.
His hands are shaking, and simply remaining upright requires effort, but he will remain standing. He will greet the Riftcomers on his own two feet, not confined to a chair like the invalid he's become.
He knows this will bring him perilously close to death, will shorten his life expectancy drastically... but he has so little time left, already. Better to spend his final days knowing that he's done something important.
The Prophet of the Rift, having set up the Empress Theatre as a refuge for the Riftcomers to the very best of his ability, is engaged in what might be the last great act of his life -- the CLF has been terrorizing Chicago for far too long, people are afraid, and the soldiers they have, it seems, are not enough.
He intends to fix that.
He's in Calisto's old warehouse now, his wheelchair parked in front of the Rift there. He's not in the chair, though, instead standing before the Rift, one hand outstretched. Stephen, the healing angel (his friend, his follower, his savior in some ways) is nearby, and he's about as prepared as he can be for this.
In certain universes touched by the Rift, places where certain individuals might wander through, the Rift, usually invisible, flares into brilliant blue, purple, and green light. The Prophet can't communicate through the Rift, can't send any form of concrete warning, but he can do this... Make it so that those who come through will have at least some idea of what's about to happen to them. Give them a choice, whether to investigate or to run away.
And those who do come through... they'll come here, to him. And he'll explain to them the dire necessity, the pressing demand for those who can protect the ones unfortunate enough to have stumbled through by what would appear to be pure accident.
His hands are shaking, and simply remaining upright requires effort, but he will remain standing. He will greet the Riftcomers on his own two feet, not confined to a chair like the invalid he's become.
He knows this will bring him perilously close to death, will shorten his life expectancy drastically... but he has so little time left, already. Better to spend his final days knowing that he's done something important.