The mindscape is a strange and tricky thing. Sothis sits upon a fake throne built from her memories, elbow pressed against the stone arm, chin resting in her palm. She kicks a leg that is too short to reach the ground and she sighs, pitying herself in her boredom.
Time crawls slowly here. Time crawled slowly in space as well, but at least there she could sprawl across the sky as the Blue Sea Star, laying herself across the horizon as humans watched back in awe. She plucks a thread from her cape, accidentally unraveling a section of the weave.
"Boring," she says. "Some Beginning this has proven to be."
Fate is truly a fickle thing, as is being a Goddess—but even divine beings seem to have little choice in the end.
Sothis is about to sigh for the thousandth time when she hears laughter. The church, she thinks. It is a soft echo that sounds ages away, born from the lips of her devout followers.
Mostly devout, at least. The more Sothis watches them, the more she likens them to a game of chess—each with their own motives and moves to play. The game is carefully set and her followers are pieces that seem to dance around each other, whether they are aware of it or not.
Sothis taps her mouth as she thinks. "Well, there are worse things to watch." Even if it's the same old boring show, time and time again. It's a church. Nothing changes much around the Monastery. Still. Sothis waves a hand, conjuring a swirling pool of power.
And then, a chessboard, the set for two—though she'll be playing herself.
It isn't much, but it's enough to provide her with a little entertainment.
#
Sothis likes Alois, and he makes her laugh as she watches through the thin veil that separates realities.
"Do you know what I asked the Innkeeper the last time I was out on assignment?" he asks, scratching at his beard.
Jeritza stares at him with a dead-eyed gaze that speaks volumes. "No," he drawls, "but I suppose you're going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not."
Alois grins, ignoring the jab. "I asked if I could have a room for the knight." A pause. "Get it?"
Judging by the way that Jeritza's lip curls, yes, he gets it. Alois doesn't pay his annoyance any mind, though, roaring with laughter as he slaps his knee.
He is stubbornly loyal and protective, encompassing everything that a knight should be. But he is also friendly and a family man, madly in love with his wife. He carries about a witty tongue that doesn't know when to stay even the worst of jokes. Like a trusty steed, he's steadfast and reliable.
Sothis might poke and prod at others, but she'd never bother Alois, even if he'd find it funny. She moves a knight as she thinks of him, three spots down, then one over.
In contrast, there is Catherine. She is a knight as well, in the truest of sense—but, unlike Alois, there are the markings of something else that lurk about underneath her skin.
Catherine is more serious, quick to anger, and lets herself be ruled by her emotions. She wears annoyance proudly on her sleeve and finds herself blinded by the sort of devout loyalty that better suits a nun.
It is interesting. Catherine is a particular sort of creature, one that she likes to keep a close eye on. Sothis can't help but wonder if Catherine's loyalty is true to the people she serves, or to Rhea alone. That causes the ease to slip from Sothis.
An unnerving thought, really, one that Sothis has pondered quite often. It is then that she uses her second knight to take a white pawn.
#
Shamir is an outsider, and as such, a tough nut to crack.
She has no belief in the church, nor Rhea, but she holds her debts close to her heart, tucked tightly into her chest guard. Shamir serves with a knee bent, unquestioningly and without end. She is cold and blunt, and on the battlefield, she is like a demon; unfeeling and detached.
Sothis also wonders just how far Shamir would go if asked.
A rook. That is what Shamir would be on a chessboard, Sothis thinks, dragging a piece from one end to the other. A tower of solid stone built to be sturdy and to protect—but when it comes crashing down, so does everything else around it.
#
Hanneman and Manuela should not be professors in Sothis's divine opinion.
They care about the students… if the moment is right.
Hanneman's attention rests solely on his research, which the church happily provides the funds for. He is like an excitable puppy when he sees a crest, eyes wide with wonder and leg twitching with excitement. He isn't irredeemable, of course. He pushes and prods, but if he senses unease, he steps back. Not an entire nightmare to work with.
Manuela on the other hand—
Sothis sighs, eyebrows drawn as her little viewscreen tips and turns to find her. "It is barely noon," she murmurs, watching as Manuela wanders about on mildly wobbly legs.
Hanneman makes the same observation, giving Manuela a sneer. "The indecency," he says with disgust.
Manuela shoots him a rather rude gesture in return. "Oh shut it, you old fogie. Go pester some students about their…" She waves her hand, not bothering to finish the thought.
"Truly a disaster, as you are every day I see you."
Sothis thrives on the drama of these two, particularly the wily antics of Manuela who's rarely sober enough to function at a base level. It is impressive, in a way. Their dedication to their crafts is certainly noted.
These two, most would think of as bishops, leaning diagonally as they flit about their days at the church. Never quite involved, but never uninvolved—they just are. And of course, pious and devout; Hanneman with his research, and Manuela with the coattails of her once-proud past.
The dramatic irony isn't lost on Sothis—it's the best part. The truth of the matter is that they toil away their days in service, true pawns of the church's own making. It is no surprise when Sothis lines up her pawns to guard her other pieces.
Her screen then swirls, changing focus, and she tips her face to look. The stern face of Seteth fills the space.
"Ah," murmurs Sothis, her gaze pinched. The Archbishop's right-hand and his definitely not daughter. Sothis laughs at that. Of course, she sees a side of them that most do not, so Flayn's brother-not-brother isn't a secret to her. But the idea of it is funny—and endearing.
Seteth is a man who is tired, shoulders weighed down by the exhaustion of his pious expectations. And still, he protects: the students, his daughter, especially the Archbishop. He throws himself in the trenches and picks up the slack where he sees fit.
And Flayn, sweet Flayn, with her clasped hands and quiet voice, and the even temperament that she offers the Goddess—she is a much-needed balm that sweeps over the Monastery, soothing angered hearts with her gentle song. Flayn, who isn't afraid to roll up her sleeves and get a little dirty, even if most won't let her.
These are bishops; those who work side-by-side with the common folk in the name of their goddess, who seek to ease the pain of the destitute and strive to make way for a better, brighter future. And, perhaps, Seteth is testy. Flayn tends to hover back in the shadows like a stubborn guardian angel.
Sothis ponders them as she takes a white bishop with her own black.
There is something about these two. Sothis taps at her chin as she watches. Seteth in particular—there is a familiarity there, as though she's looking into a mirror and not a window. Kin calls to kin, like calls to like, an old and ancient thing that she feels in her bones. Sothis hums as she turns this thought over and over.
Flayn turns to her then, staring towards the window, gaze pinning Sothis right through the slip between time and space. Then she smiles, a teasing tilt of her mouth.
#
Rhea wears the skin of a woman whose devotion is defiled by her twisted ideals.
The more that Sothis watches her through the years, the more she realizes. Rhea regards those around her not with a serene and kind gaze, but with a cold and calculating one. She is divine—but divinely traitorous, bold in her desire to the point of fault.
They do not see the darkness—but Sothis does.
Rhea is the Queen, pulling and plucking at the tangled web she weaves. She spins tales and lies that are easily swallowed. The others revere her, bowing to the ground, forehead pressed to the cold monastery stone. She is the voice of the Goddess. She knows all.
The Archbishop strives to revive The Goddess, even if it takes her last, dying breath, devout in her drive to make way for the King. There is an inkling. There is familiarity in Sothis's bones, here too, but it is dreaded this time as her blood pulses in time: kin, kin, kin.
She wonders to what lengths Rhea will go.
But then, the more that she thinks of it, the less Sothis wants to know. Years, she's watched; years of Rhea proselytizing, preaching, reaching out with falsely warm fingers. Sweet and honeyed words that drag unwilling victims into her nest.
Her motive is unclear. Murky at best. Sothis knows the what but not the why, and so she watches with a keen eye.
"Pawns on a board," she murmurs. She pushes around the pieces as she plays the game with herself. Bishop to the corner, taking the rook. A few pawns are lost, not unlike Rhea's followers whom she often uses as fodder.
Sothis sighs softly, her chin upon a hand. "Queen to A-4." A play for her invisible opponent. She stares at the board, her King locked into place, and then back through the window where Rhea stands on her porch, watching the world below.
"Hail her Grace, I guess. It's only a matter of time."
Then she tips her King over and it clatters to the ground.