Arial engages in an atypically mystical activity, sitting cross-legged in a remote, tranquil meditation chamber, secreted within the gardens of the demesne. She closes her eyes, first turning inward, then sending her mind outward while extending her aura to deific proportions.

What she seeks are individuals who respond to her aspect, her presence, the very concept of her, to some degree beyond the norm... individuals who, having met Arial, will find it difficult to put her out of their thoughts, who find the experience of her like a key which unlocks something in their mind. She thinks this is how cults are made. It should be fun, whatever the result.

It's not what one would expect of a place of worship.

A vast chamber like the lobby of a fine hotel or an exclusive club, a place of unexpected intersection, the space comfortable, quiet and calming yet stimulatingly garish. There is a certain cathedral-like atmosphere to the place; the room is profoundly vertical, columns and glass walls thrusting skyward to a vaulted ceiling. The lighting is soft and golden, while covert neon glow casts lurid tertiary tones across gold leaf and black marble, veining and craquelure suggesting a cryptic geometry just short of chaos.

At its periphery the carpet is dark and low-pile, patterned in beguiling geometric swoops in burgundy and violet like strange blood; in its midst the floor is dark and reflective like the surface of still waters.

There are no pews nor altar; there is comfortable cocktail seating, low glass tables and rectilinear couches and divans, the sight and scent of exotic potted plants and flowers, a meandering suggestion of nave in their midst leading to a casually elevated dais, upon which the furniture is placed in slightly more exclusive arrangement. Unseen fountains gossip; faint synth music sidles catlike beneath the level of conversation.

There are, of course, three open bars, one to each side and one unobtrusively placed beyond the chancel.

Despite convincingly rendering itself as a retreat of comfortable, affluent nightlife, there is something distinctly sacred about the place; it hums and vibrates with the wild energy of she to whom it is dedicated. Or maybe it's just the coke.

Arial lounges on a chaise at the head of her temple, sipping a drink, something dark and oily. Her dark suit is immaculate, and makes her appear luminous in contrast. The place is very austere, in its informal way, and very empty. She imagines it will be full before long, but if not, that's fine. It wouldn't be the first club she failed to get off the ground.

For now, she contemplates. She wonders where Mnemora is, where her sister's explorations have taken her. Their connection is very faint, like a distant transmission pinging off the atmosphere. Arial wonders if she's taken a lover, or if she's ascended as much as Arial has. She wonders if Mnemora thinks of her often.

Arial hmmmns as she considers what worshipping her would entail. Superficially it seems to her that it would be pretty relaxed; she doesn't have services so much as endless impromptu cocktail parties; the hierarchy isn't rigidly enforced, though it's encouraged, since Arial is amazing. <3 But as she thinks about it, she is informed by and somewhat of an embodiment of this ideal of 1980s excess: the cocaine, big hair and big shoulders, everything gleaming and razor-sharp. But what about Arial's other aspect, her other life? The one where she and her sister regarded Armageddon as excellent entertainment? Even now that resides within her, hotter and more powerful than before. Excoriating golden light; terminal incineration. The nuclear specter jacketed in gold. And what was hanging over everyone's head, menace behind the glitz, ever threatening to obliterate that shining city on a hill? Surely that is worth appeasing, bowing to deliriously, at once craving and fearing, even as she coolly assures you that it could never happen, relax, have another drink, another bump, forever's gonna start tonight.