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I can feel my eyes shining (maybe even getting a little misty) as I glance around the circle of young, half-frightened (but determined) earnest faces. Rachel has settled back into her place. Archer leans with one elbow on the table, tracing her fingers absently in the lines of her name. Daeus is still standing in front of the fireplace with his hands clasped behind his back, his face mostly hidden in shadows.

I lean forward, elbows propped on the table. “I love you people.” Maybe not the most practical thing to blurt out in the middle of a solemn world-saving session. “I agree with Archer. Truth isn’t something to be shoved down someone’s throat. I… it’s like that one passage whose reference I never remember. ‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, but have not love, it profits me nothing.‘”

As I spoke, stumbling and tripping a little over the words, the surface of the table rippled strangely. Weaving like an invisible hand beneath the clustered candles, the grain rearranged itself in long lines of swirling letters. Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels… 

A lump swelled in my throat and goosebumps prickled up my neck. “W…oah…” I swallowed. “I guess we have a creed, guys.”

@r-m-archer @msqueen8 @daeus-lamb @j-parkhurst @gabbyj