Scene #8294:

Owner	Pose
Father Berislav	Sunday service, as Berislav had said, was the best way to get the full picture. He seemed profoundly amused that, for Metaphor, all of this was essentially fandom. There is, as it happens, a cathedral on the way to the spot where he'd told her to meet him--but that cathedral is not the spot. No, the 'spot' is an old disused gas station turned gold exchange store turned derelict, tucked away behind an overpass that time and city development have forgotten. It isn't a Watchtower, but if Metaphor has heard anything about the Watch, it sure seems like the type of place they'd congregate. And, as it happens, there is a congregation here. Young and old, stout and frail, people who pass easily through the membrane of Culture and people who really don't, all represented in a teeny-tiny sample size of ten. One of them, a mechanic, has brought a portable generator, set up in a back room with the door cracked to outside. Because of her, there's light and power. There's no furniture in here but what Berislav and his congregation have brought--rows of folding metal chairs, with cushions put down before them. A folding table with a liturgical runner atop it, as well as candles upon brass sticks and an electric keyboard. Berislav is still quietly setting everything up, so there's a sense that there's just enough time to grab a seat before everything begins.
Metaphor	Metaphor is present. A long black dress with a red sash around the waist; a cloak draped over the shoulders; perhaps not Sunday best, but she is not exactly experienced in these matters. As has been the case in many places she has been frequenting, there's an air of 'not-belonging' that she's gotten tangled in her mannerisms, subtly flowing behind her like a scarf in the wind. It's dragged with her into the room, as she ducks under then proceeds to hover near the door for a few moments. She did not bring a chair. That's rude of me. As someone quietly gestures to a chair, though, she hesitantly shifts over and takes a seat (chair creaks, adjust weight), hands folded but nervously drumming a complex rhythm-non-rhythm upon the palms. Though she seems to be very intentionally keeping her face away from actively staring at anything, Berislav can still feel that pinprick of perception. An anchor.
Father Berislav	Berislav's outfit is, perhaps to be expected, completely different from what he'd had in the Closet of Babylon. A black cassock with a roman collar; overtop the cassock a billowy white garment, and over that, a purple stole with a gold cross embroidered on both ends. There are well-worn little booklets on the pillows--enough so that everyone, even Metaphor, can peruse through them. One is a book of hymns, the other one of 'common prayer.' An old lady with blue-grey hair and a warm smile is handing out programs, which provide a schedule of everything that happens in the service, plus a list of call-and-responses--which becomes relevant, once Berislav takes a place before the keyboard. In imitation of a pipe organ, he plays a processional. Two members of the congregation take up candle lighters--long, brass rods with smoldering wicks at one end--and light the candles on the altar and afterwards, around it, bowing to each as it's done. Father Berislav sings--a call and response, noted on the paper as 'the Great Litany.' "O God the Father, Creator of heaven and earth," the priest's melodious tenor invites. "Have mercy upon us," sings the small congregation in response. "O God the Holy Ghost, Sanctifier of the faithful," "Have mercy upon us." "O holy, blessed, and glorious Trinity, one God," "Have mercy upon us." "Remember not, Lord Christ, our offenses, nor the offenses of our forefathers; neither reward us according to our sins. Spare us, good Lord, spare thy people, whom thou hast redeemed with thy most precious blood, and by thy mercy preserve us, for ever." "Spare us, good Lord." "From all evil and wickedness; from sin; from the crafts and assaults of the devil; and from everlasting damnation," "Good Lord, deliver us." Berislav smiles, stepping away from the keyboard and standing before the altar, but not so that it's obscured by his presence. "Please rise," he asks. Then, "Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit." There is an answer, from the congregation, in scattered unison, "And blessed be his kingdom, now and for ever. Amen."
Metaphor	A grateful nod to the woman passing things out - as much for providing something necesary for the rest of the service as for providing something for her to idly hold. As Metaphor receives the pamphlet, she fully invests her attention in it - reading, re-reading, mentally iterating, don't mess up. A thumb folds a tiny bit of the corner. Unfold, smooth the crease. Fold. Repeat. Call and response. The song is as beautiful as humble; gaze shifts upwards, but the first response is missed. They heard that. The second is quiet. They can tell. The third, quieter. I should have studied. But as Berislav launches into a slightly longer portion, vision locking on hands on keyboard, fourth: louder. Fifth response, louder still. Almost to a volume matching the rest. Almost. When standing, though, she hesitates - knees locking somewhat bent, height awkwardly kept in line with the members next to her. Quieter response. Amen. She stays like this until something else moves to happen. A glance across the pamphlet, again.
Father Berislav	If anyone heard her miss the cues earlier, no one seems to care. A little girl in a deep blue blazer and slacks, probably the old lady's granddaughter given that she's seated next to her--smiles a gap-toothed smile at Metaphor. The pamphlet seems to imply it's time to hang tight for a bit--not directly through instructions, but through the fact that what Berislav is saying isn't listed on it. "Seeing that we have a great high priest, that is passed into the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need." She might remember that from her fandom days! What follows is a moment (the pamphlet states 'silence may be kept') where Berislav urges confession of sins to God--it's during this silence that everyone kneels upon the little pillows in front of the folding chairs. This is meant to be a moment of reflection, which Berislav keeps, for a minute or two. It is broken when he begins a kind of group prayer essentially meant to solidify that moment of reflection. It focuses on transgressions made against God, the self and others; things better left undone, things left undone which shouldn't be, a deficit of love for God, one's neighbors, or even oneself, and a formal request for forgiveness of these things, followed by the ubiquitous 'amen.' The pamphlet here instructs the congregation to rise. "Bless the Lord who forgiveth all our sins," says the priest. "His mercy endureth forever," responds the congregation. After a few more call-and-response segments, there comes a hymn, with Berislav taking up a position at the keyboard again. The number of the hymn is listed on the little pamphlet, easily found in the hymnal which had laid on the pillow before her. The notes she's meant to sing aren't listed, but missteps are more than tolerated--and perhaps thankfully for her anxieties, the melody of the hymn is always clearly heard, through Berislav's workings at the keyboard and his sonorous tenor. It's also the same for each verse, and so fairly easy to pick up.
Metaphor	Metaphor gives the girl a small wave - just a raised hand, really. In the speech interim, though, she fishes for something in an internal pocket of her cloak - a marker? A smiley face is quickly doodled on the back of her hand and then flashed at the kid. Metaphor straightens up a bit as she does; the extra few feet of height luckily not blocking anyone behind her. Tension drops. Metaphor perks up at Berislav's words, then, indeed recognizing it! ...mostly. This moment of excitement means that when they're asked to kneel, she does so a bit too fast - a dull thud reverbates. Blatant. Perhaps that misstep is her focus during the silence. She murmurs along with the group prayer, some phrases perhaps accented slightly more. His mercy. Segments start to be spoken more smoothly, idle deconstruction of the pamphlet's periphery slowed. As the hymn begins (bend down to grab booklet in time with someone else), she's legitimately singing - quietly, of course, and her tone is questionable, but singing nonetheless. Idle glance at the kid again. At the booklet. At Berislav. At the rest of this nice community. Air. Breathe.
Father Berislav	The little girl loves the smiley face--enough that she laughs, and this makes her grandmother smile, too. It is a little community--one that lives and breathes, and will do so with or without Metaphor or Berislav, but seems nevertheless pleased to have the both of them here, in this moment. After another call-and-response, it appears to be time from scripture. The pamphlet simply says 'A Lesson from Jeremiah,' and provides the response to give after Berislav makes his call, following the 'Lesson.' Taking his place before the altar, Berislav opens his bible and announces: "A Lesson from Jeremiah 22:1-5." "This is what the Lord says: 'Go down to the palace of the king of Judah and proclaim this message there.'" "'Hear the word of the Lord to you, king of Judah, you who sit on Davids throne--you, your officials and your people who come through these gates. This is what the Lord says: Do what is just and right. Rescue from the hand of the oppressor the one who has been robbed. Do no wrong or violence to the foreigner, the fatherless or the widow, and do not shed innocent blood in this place. For if you are careful to carry out these commands, then kings who sit on Davids throne will come through the gates of this palace, riding in chariots and on horses, accompanied by their officials and their people. But if you do not obey these commands, declares the Lord, I swear by myself that this palace will become a ruin.'" Berislav holds the book high, before the congregation, above himself. "The Word of the Lord," he says. "Thanks be to God," answers the congregation. This, too, is written on the pamphlet. Another 'Lesson:' "A Lesson from Exodus 23:1-9," says Berislav, lowering the Bible and opening it again. "Do not spread false reports. Do not help a guilty person by being a malicious witness. Do not follow the crowd in doing wrong. When you give testimony in a lawsuit, do not pervert justice by siding with the crowd, and do not show favoritism to a poor person in a lawsuit. If you come across your enemys ox or donkey wandering off, be sure to return it. If you see the donkey of someone who hates you fallen down under its load, do not leave it there; be sure you help them with it. Do not deny justice to your poor people in their lawsuits. Have nothing to do with a false charge and do not put an innocent or honest person to death, for I will not acquit the guilty. Do not accept a bribe, for a bribe blinds those who see and twists the words of the innocent. Do not oppress a foreigner; you yourselves know how it feels to be foreigners, because you were foreigners in Egypt." "The Word of the Lord," says Berislav once more, holding the closed book high. "Thanks be to God," answers the congregation. According to the pamphlet, there's a reading from the 'Gospel' and then the sermon itself. They're about halfway through the service, it seems.
Metaphor	A laugh, a reinforcement of the mind, a reinforcement of the soul. Words wash over Metaphor, words read once (twice for some) and committed to that ever-ephemeral sea of long term memory. Uplift the downtrodden; render judgement equally. Not familiar textually, perhaps, but familiar in context. An oath, made before a board. Endless documentation. An angry request, turned down. Concepts kept close to heart. She stands strong, now. Against her (JUDGEMENT / WILL?), belonging creeps in, uninterruptable but by- False charge. Slight twitch of the hand (ECG hitches), fidget starts back up. Subtleties. The Word of the Lord. An internal voice, wondering about the arrangement of sections. Gospel upcoming.
Father Berislav	"The Holy Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ, according to Luke," says Berislav, holding the opened book high. The response: "Glory be to thee, O Lord." "While all the people were listening, Jesus said to his disciples, 'Beware of the teachers of the law. They like to walk around in flowing robes and love to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces and have the most important seats in the synagogues and the places of honor at banquets. They devour widows houses and for a show make lengthy prayers. These men will be punished most severely.'" Again, Berislav holds the book high. "The Gospel of the Lord." "Praise be to thee, O Christ," says the congregation back. The sermon begins--and it is the first time in which Berislav addresses the congregation informally. "Good morning!" he says. "As some of you know, my name is Father Waters Berislav. I'm from an Earth that's pretty futuristic compared to this one. Still no flying cars, though," he says, to a light scattering of laughter. "I'm considered clerici vagante by the Episcopal there, hence our rather humble choice of location for today's services." He spreads his arms wide. "I began seminary school at nineteen, and I've been committed to Christ's love ever since. At 25 I requested sabbatical from my diocese, to bring the values of solidarity and mutual aid to the worlds most direly in need of it--that was about eight years ago, now, and I simply haven't decided to go back, as I feel my calling is much better served this way than tied to one church." Berislav removes his reading glasses, hanging them upon the white flowing garment over his cassock. "For today's sermon, we'll be visiting the book of Matthew--specifically, the debate between Jesus and the Pharisees--one of many, that is. They really didn't like him!" He grins. "In Matthew 15, we see the legalist culture that was prevalent in the day reflected in the line of questioning that the Pharisees bring against Jesus. They say that Jesus' disciples don't wash their hands before they eat, which breaks the tradition of the elders. To them," explains Berislav, "Rote obeisance of laws and traditions were the utmost way to be. But Jesus pointed out that to do this is actually breaking the command of God." "In particular," Berislav continues, "He pointed out the tradition of giving up offerings to God. How those offerings, which could have been used to 'honor their father or mother' with, in fact *couldn't.' And because of that, tradition nullified the word of God. The historical context for this is food--there were much less things in the world at that level of industrial development, and so food and animals were often used as sacrifices." "If we limit the scripture to a body of law, then we treat it exactly like the law is treated--something that some people can afford to break, and others can't. Something that only exists as a body of rules, and not a living reflection of our world and our covenant with God. But that isn't the only lesson he taught that day. In front of that same crowd, Jesus said, 'What goes into someone's mouth does not defile them, but what comes out of their mouth will.'" "It doesn't matter the specifics of how we stay alive, as long as we do it in a way that shows love for God, ourselves and the people around us. Your words have more power than you think they do--for better or for worse. So choose them carefully, and with love." The sermon concludes with a creed, printed on the pamphlet, detailing what the congregation believes. Words about God, his three aspects, his purpose in the world and the purpose of the congregation towards one another. Following that, a group prayer for 'the whole state of Christ's Church and the world,' then an offering of peace to and from the congregation.
Father Berislav	As Berislav plays a processional on the keyboard, the congregation rises, shaking hands, embracing, and exchanging 'Peace be upon you' with one another. When the procession is over, everyone returns to their seats, and the pamphlet lists 'Holy Communion--' the little girl next to Metaphor gets up with a communion plate, taking gifts and money from those in the congregation able to give, including the priest. Rather than single anyone out, she just stands between the rows of little folding chairs. When her plate is full, she brings it to the altar, beaming at Berislav. After a prayer describing the Last Supper, and Christ's will for the world, the gifts and money are given out from the altar as anyone has need of them.
Metaphor	Tap. Tap. Gospel, the words of a ( BELOVED / FICTIONAL? ) character, topic maintained. Selfish law. Reflection, analysis, a connection subconsciously dismissed. Tap. Praise be. Another slowing as Berislav introduces himself. The laughter is met with a slight amount of confusion from her (cultural context lacking?) but the energy suffuses her regardless. She shifts her cloak slightly as she listens to his background, nodding slightly, then almost fervently at his comment about his calling. An eagerness to hear more is blatantly spelled across her body language. A gentle snort at the comment about the Pharisees. Someone nearby could hear her mutter something very, very quietly under her breath - understatement. Once again, though, there's a subtly visible discomfort that grows in her demeanor as the sermon continues. Afford to break. Questions raised, answers refused. Choose them carefully. ... Metaphor is certainly opting for the handshake. Exchanges met with tics - she rubs the back of her neck, attempts to assuage the insistence that people might be looking at her. When seated again, and after a second of seeing others giving communion, she quickly scrambles to pull things out from her cloak. Holochip marked 200 (tiny flash of light from an ID card); tiny pill bottle with an unknown name but obvious pharmaceutical use and instruction (take 1, cuts reform and pain dulls). These are hurriedly placed on the platter; only a beat afterwards does it dawn how drugs from strangers may be construed. It does not, however, factor into her thought that the cloak she wears has a bright medical cross emblazoned on the back. Fold corner. Unfold. Hope it is not rejected.
Father Berislav	When the gifts are redistributed, a man with a broad build and skin beaten by the elements seems to have taken Metaphor's medicine. His hands are thickly callused, and there are spots along his palms and forearms where it looks as though he was cut or burnt, some more recent than others. It wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that he works in a place with poor safety enforcement, probably an industrial or construction setting--the calluses and the grey streak in his hair suggest that he's been at it for a while, and the look of genuine relief on his face as he heads back to his seat may lead her to conclude that his options for treatment are limited at best. The man sits beside another his age, a more thin and rakish build, whose hands look softer. An office worker, maybe--neither of them are dressed lavishly. Their hands interlink as the weather-beaten man shows what Metaphor gave. The old lady pats her granddaughter on the head, gnarled fingers running through dark, springy hair, then looks over at Metaphor approvingly. The priest, having faced the altar since the collection and distribution of gifts and aid, still faces it. He reaches into a brass bowl on the altar and procures a thin wafer--the same as those he'd consecrated earlier during the previous rites. He breaks it, and a reverential silence falls over the tiny congregation. "Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us; therefore let us keep the feast. O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us." The prayer which he engages in is also written on the pamphlet. It might be a little alarming, depending on her interpretation of the work, in her fandom days. "We do not presume to come to this thy Table, O merciful Lord, trusting in our own righteousness, but in thy manifold and great mercies. We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy Table. But thou art the same Lord whose property is always to have mercy. Grant us, therefore, gracious Lord," intones Berislav with the congregation. "...so to eat the flesh of thy dear Son Jesus Christ, and to drink his blood, that we may evermore dwell in him, and he in us. Amen." He turns and faces the congregation, bowl in one hand, a chalice in the other. He offers a wafer and a sip of wine to each member, including Metaphor, if she wants it. It may balm her often frazzled nerves to see that there is a tradition in place for those who don't--simply standing at the back and waiting for the rite to conclude. "The Body of Christ," he says of the bread, each time it's offered, "The bread of heaven." And of the wine--"The Blood of Christ, the cup of salvation."
Metaphor	As the man takes the bottle, Metaphor is certainly a few steps from subtle in gauging his reaction; though as he sits, and with a positive reaction from those around her, she relaxes. Held breath released. A nod in recognition of the approving look, to nobody in particular; a mental note to offer her services more broadly afterwards; something important fulfilled. Metaphor is conflicted. Her interpretation of sacrament was benign, once, but as it is she's currently holding a lot of perceived misconceptions. A moment of deep hesitation as Berislav turns, deliberation over ( POLITENESS / PREJUDICE? ), broken as she sees another stand and move. With a creak (far too loud) she follows, stepping back but watching the rest intently. An itch to pull out a set of purple-tinged goggles. Questions about metaphor (in at least one sense). She quells it. These are good people. She'll trust in them, though the feeling has gained a foreign tinge.
Father Berislav	Berislav's keyboard plays a pre-recorded procession, and when the communion is done, the wafers and wine are returned to their place on the altar. According to the little pamphlet, service is almost over. "Let us pray," says Berislav, bowing his head. This prayer is written on the little pamphlet, with the addendum 'the People may join in saying this.' It speaks of what was affirmed by the communion--that the act is an assurance of God's goodwill, that 'the Son' is present in the congregation and the congregation present in the Son, and a fervent wish for assistance with worldly grace for good works among its people. Following 'Amen,' Berislav gives a blessing. "The blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be upon you and remain with you for ever. Amen. Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord." "Thanks be to God," answers the congregation, before Berislav bows to them and takes a seat as his keyboard, playing a lively and joyful processional. The congregation stands, talking among themselves, to Berislav as he plays. The little girl runs excitedly around the abandoned station with another kid her age, under her grandmother's watchful eye. "Thank you for coming, Metaphor," calls the priest to the not-doctor. "A bit different than a fandom forum, no?" He laughs musically, his fingers gliding across the keys.
Metaphor	The prayer is spoken along to, the final few phrases earnestly. Amen. As the service draws to a close, Metaphor mingles for a few moments, quietly informing anyone who expresses the interest that she's more than willing to help with other medications. It's more of a drift over to Berislav, though; that quiet tension perpetually following her is all but gone. "It... certainly is." A quiet chuckle. "This is... wonderful, I think. I didn't realize how much could be... extended. How close things were." She pauses for a minute, watching the kids run around. "...I didn't quite know what to expect. My experiences with religion have been... minimal, and..." A hand run down the hem of her cloak. "Especially as of late. Maybe not religions, but... as of late." It's hard to tell whether Metaphor is zoning out or not, but this is pretty obviously one of those moments. A hand rests against the side of her neck, apparently lost in thought. After a bit, she shakes her head slightly, then turns towards Berislav more directly. "You mentioned you've been doing this for... quite some time. Have you ever felt..." A short struggle for words. "...I suppose this is, truly, who you want to Be, right? I guess this doesn't... strike me as something born from... doubt." Oversharing. You've spoken with him three times. Fingers along hem.
Father Berislav	Metaphor finds the man who took her medication and his partner to be very grateful--their jobs don't have good health plans and the doctors in town use words like 'medication-seeking' to describe him, or else imply that he harms himself on purpose. It's a tremendous relief to be able to get help without interrogation or ruinous cost. >I suppose this is truly what you want to Be, right? Berislav nods, his eyes briefly shut in enjoyment of the music his fingers make. When they open, his grey pool meet her visual receptors with warmth and calm. "It is, yes," he says. "Mm... becoming a priest is much more involved than becoming a believer, in my denomination." That's all he can really speak to--there must be many. "The first part of the process is consultation with church ministers, to make sure that it comes from a genuine desire, to answer Christ's calling, and not... an escape, or a balm, or a whim." As he finishes the processional, and the congregation diminishes one by one, Berislav rises from the keyboard. With the candle lighter from before, he now extinguishes the candles, using a bell-shaped snuff on the opposite side from the wick. "But," he says, as he works, "That doesn't mean that I've never felt doubt about God's will, or how best to serve it in the world. I'll ask you a very broad question, and feel free to answer it in as great or little detail as you want--what are things Like, where you're from?" She can hear the weight on the word. He wants the general state of her neck of the woods, as could only be given by someone from there.
Metaphor	Metaphor thinks for a moment, before leaning up against a wall as he continues packing. "I... can't quite speak in a more general... societal sense, but I don't think it's too... far from... here." A small and vague hand gesture around. "...all of the coreworlds get along, but the corps are... well, corporate." She leans her head back, crossing her arms. "I don't think that's what you... mean, though. I've spent most of my life in... underdeveloped, or... ruined space. There isn't... a control structure, no support structure. Live carefully or bleed alone." A sigh. "I... intended to be a surgeon at one of the hospitals near my... home, all my life, but just sort of... left, one day. A whim. I could fix more things, in the places people don't think about, I guess." "I don't... know if I've been successful. People can't... stop being hurt. Can't leave. Won't stop hurting themselves." She pauses for an uncomfortable amount of time, before quietly, "Can't stop."
Father Berislav	When the last candle is snuffed, Berislav places the candle lighter gently upon the altar, nodding, listening to Metaphor with his full attention, hands folded before him. "I think we're very alike, in that regard. A sabbatical for a priest means broadening one's self, bringing the Word to the wider existence beyond one's home. I thought that what I'd wanted was to have a parish of my own, a congregation of the same familiar faces--but when our world unified, I was as amazed as anyone else was." He frowns, softly, and sighs, his shoulders tensing and releasing. "But I saw the same thing you did, the longer I traveled. Places people don't think about. You see, compared to many worlds, much less many Earths, mine is almost idyllic. Its largest ills were..." He pauses thoughtfully, searching for a word, a hand trailing up to touch on his chin. "Inherited. Ecological, mainly. No giant monsters or dark wizards," he adds with a wan smile, waving his hand over the communion wafers and wine. The skin beneath his palm glows as if a flashlight were shining through. An orange, burning wound in space passes as his palm does, swallowing the consecrated bowl and cup. "Not only that, but the ills there much less... entrenched than on some other worlds. So, venturing out into the Multiverse, I would see all kinds of stories like Ron and Tiago's--the gentleman you helped with his pain, and his husband." "People," he continues, hands again folded before him, "Living under something large and invisible but undeniable in its ability to cause harm. What can be done, against something like that, when attempts to wriggle free invite reprisals? What is to be done," he asks, "When a system of stick and carrot asserts itself as the only sane way to live? I felt the same way," says Berislav, sympathetic. "I asked myself how an infinitely kind, loving God could allow such suffering to persist--how he could allow the perpetuation of all that hurting. Yes," he says. "It seemed very much like people wouldn't, and couldn't, stop hurting each other."
Metaphor	Metaphor's gaze follow's Berislav's hands as he cleans, reclaims, acts. A shifting of weight on her heels (industrial), repetitive motions, a slightly heavier lean against the wall. Quietly, "I don't think people are... bad, or... intentionally hurt others, but... it's so far over my head. I don't know how any of this... works. Just... injuries. Solving injuries." She extends her arms downwards, palms down, staring at the backs of her hands. Rotate, palms up, repeat. Clench, unclench. "I... can't even tell if I... want to know. Just... keep fixing things. Do what I'm good at." Clench, unclench. Hands with which to execute. "...monsters are easy. I can kill... monsters. I can heal people who are hurt by monsters. But there's... I don't know. That's the extent. I don't think I'm supposed to be... strong enough for all the rest of it. That's where... everyone else works." Clench, but no unclench. Hands drop, a sigh. "But I've never done anything else."
Father Berislav	"They aren't," affirms Berislav. "Many of them are just scared. Or angry. And those emotions don't come from nowhere, as much as some people like to proclaim otherwise." The stole is put away, and the chasuble--that loose, flowy white garment--in much the same way as the consecrated wafers and wine had been. "My sermon talked about legalist cultures and why they're doomed to fail. Words on paper don't care why someone stole, or hurt. A court looks at someone having the worst day of their life, and someone who really does have evil in their heart, and says, 'these are the same.'" Berislav, now wearing only his cassock, pulls up a folding chair and takes a seat, hands resting in his lap. "And while many modes of government exist out in the Multiverse, I have found that tendency to be distressingly prevalent within them. What does this mean," he asks, "When so many of those worlds are also pressure cookers, inflicting long, slow, mental, emotional injuries over time? It means that, rather than fighting back against who is responsible--something most people simply will never be able to do--they do what they can to survive despite it, which, unfortunately, often adversely affects their neighbors." He steeples his fingers, giving Metaphor a studying glance, frowning slightly. "'Supposed to' is an interesting way to put it," he says. "So I'll tell you this: you're doing what you can. There's nothing wrong with that. If you want to do more, know more, broaden what's meant by 'what you can,' then come and visit me again, and we can discuss it at length." "How does that sound?"
Metaphor	Metaphor listens along, quietly, nodding in agreement with the assessment. At the proposition, she pushes off the wall a little, rolling her shoulders (is there anything to loosen?) and replying, "I... likely will. I don't know, it feels... irresponsible, not... having this sort of thing internalized. My station... requires that, I think." She turns to Berislav, making eye contact (?) for the first time. "Thank you for... this. Everything. For... I don't know. A stranger, an-" She looks down, some energy fading from her voice, "...enemy, sometimes, allegedly. Of- factional conflict." She rapidly turns back towards the door, taking a few steps, before looking back. A rushed statement, "If you... need anything, or anyone you know needs anything... please let me know. I'll be there." Another few steps, but then on the doorframe she suddenly blurts: "I think I'm joining the tournament." And with that, she's gone, cloak flowing behind her as she departs.