Atharen, A Fantasy Roleplay Forum

Posted: **Tue Dec 14, 2021 6:13 pm**

13th of Frost, 4621

With so little noise to disturb her, she found the early mornings best suited for her prayers. There were no others at the cathedral before first light, and though the embers of broad white candles illuminated her small space of the room, she felt she could see more clearly than when she was among the masses. Serenity became of her while she quietly spoke her heart's voice to Ulen.
Again, she acknowledged that though the chances she'd be promoted that year were slim, she would train harder and work her way through the sweat and pain to better serve him. Though she swore that she would deliver a worthy child if she failed, she had no intention of returning to the slave pens. The Returning King knew that, though, and so she promptly apologized to her clasped hands. It wasn't right of her to promise things she knew wouldn't come to be, especially not to the one true God.
It was when she began to thank Ulen for the sheets that made her bed, after the craftsmanship of her sandals at home, and the weaving of her cloak, that the sun broke the horizon, and bright ambers began to fill the eastern horizon. Early morning lights shone through the tall, stained glass windows, and washed her skin in the day's first wisps of warmth, reddened her closed eyes to its pervasive light. Her prayer quickened in response, and her hushed mutterings became almost frantic below her tightly-shut eyes... Right up until the moment that the bell tolled above, summoning White Rock's Velsign for another day in service of their lord.

Sabriel pursed her lips tight at the sound, it was so much harder to focus when it became noisy. She lowered her hands and opened her eyes to look about the room. Tall pillars of grey brick marked the arches that ran the length of the wall, between each was windows of painted glass, which all depicted various symbolism, the Achra, and visages that were to represent the Returning King himself.
A sigh left her lips as she gazed at the window to her right, an image of Astargos glaring down at where she sat. She could not meet his red eyes, nor the wroth of his visage, but she did bask in his glow while she admired the window's dark iron frame. Even though she visited the Cathedral every day, she never grew bored or sat without wonder and awe of Ulen's works.
Her gaze returned to her hands, then lifted to the space ahead of the pew. A large stone basin stood, cleaned and ready for the next weeping. She recalled the day of the week, then smiled. They were due another; more sin would be cleansed from the world, that day, and more of the wicked would be brought into the Returning King's good graces. Her eyes then ran to the dormant furnace at the far wall, an iron set aside, ready to be heated when the ceremony commenced. Would they have a choir that morning? She could only wonder.

She looked down the scarlet red rug as the sound of clanking sabatons and the rattle of chain on plate began to fill the preceding halls, and more of her brethren began to take to the pews. She looked away, then, and began to remove her cloak, which she folded over the backrest ahead of her.
Quiet chatter began to fill the atmosphere of the Cathedral, some were in prayer, others were talking cordially with one another. Such was typical for those mornings. Sabriel stared downward longingly, then reached down to collect a copy of The Oaths, and began to flick through the yellowed pages while she waited. Time seemed to speed up whenever she put her nose in that book, and by the time she looked up from the pages before her, the Cathedral was all but completely full.
The fires of the furnace were alive, and the smell of burning coals mixed with the stale, cool air of the Cathedral's stone walls. Such did not change when a designated member of the choir set the iron to burn over the open flame in the furnace. The long handle laid suspended by an old, scorched iron bar, out of the way.

A glance over her shoulder set her eyes on the open wooden doors at the far end of the cathedral. She peered over the heads of her brothers and sisters with ease and watched the door with a sort of half squint. Silence fell upon the room as the rattle of chains sounded down the hall, accompanied by the step of shoes on the stone floor, the shuffle of fabric, and the occasional ragged whimper of despair.

Image source.

Posted: **Wed Dec 15, 2021 1:41 pm**

The season was still young, though every day of Frost before Camille left for her first inquisition of the Frost was reason enough for her to beg forgiveness from Ulen. Though she just required more preparation, it riddled her with guilt that she could have already brought penitents for the weeping today. She had been awake since early in the morning, though she tended to spend her early morning prayer — before she went to the cathedral — in her room, in front of the shrine she had constructed herself. Every morning she pricked a finger and bled for her one true God, and then she prepared herself for chapel. Cedric always came with her as well; even with his trepidation at the sight of the weeping, the sight of the slavery he himself had escaped. Camille felt differently on the matter, that it should be less of a reminder of a painful past but instead a sign that no matter your background, no matter your sins, you could be worthy of Ulen's light. it was a conversation that they had had before, on more than one occasion, and this morning Camille did not waste time by having it again.

Either way, he came, sitting in the pews made for people much larger than him. While Camille was short for her kind, just under seven feet, Cedric was even shorter, and he was yet tall for a human. She usually sat near the front for this reason, as even her fellow Velsign towered over her, and she preferred if Cedric could see the procedures as well, whether it were singing, prayer, preaching — or the branding and bleeding of slaves. Camille's own mutations made walking difficult, and she walked to the near-front of the rows with the assistance of a cane. Her chosen spot for them placed them in the pew just in front of Sabriel, though she did not know her or her name, even as she could recognize the massive Velsign as both an adult and as still an Acolyte. But she did not pay much attention to her, or to anyone past what was required to gain her bearings in the room.

This particular Priest's method of penance was too-familiar to Cedric, but if he were particularly uncomfortable, Camille did not notice. These slaves, the poor souls who had strayed from Ulen, were lined up, three at a time before the basin, and as each had their left palm cut, Camille whispered a prayer for them individually. Twenty drops of blood fell into the basin — one for each prophecy, one for each chapter of The Oaths, and before any further could spill, the same hand was branded, the wound cauterized. It was not a silent practice, however. As the weeping occured, so did the priest lead the sermon, and on these days it was even longer than the usual.

As much as she was enraptured by the sermon, she still could not help but look forward to when she could sing her praises past just the whispering of prayer.

Posted: **Thu Dec 16, 2021 5:24 am**

Three captives, fresh from their sundered temples. One for every day since the last weeping. All things considered, those were some pretty good numbers. It wasn't all that often that believers of false gods allowed themselves to be taken by the Inquisition, perhaps they realized their erroneous, blasphemous ways? Perhaps they feared death by the blade of their enemy?
It didn't matter to Sabriel how the slaves had wound up in their talons, just that they had a toll of blood to pay before they could be purified and allowed in the Returning King's graces. The Surveying eye would not be so easily satisfied with their penance alone, they had to be bled of their sin... All of it.
Sabriel furrowed her brow as they lined up before the choir, then carefully closed The Oaths in her hands. She held on tightly to the book while she listened to the Tribune's sermon. He was a human, dressed in embroidered black, adorned in cloaks and veils that broke up his shape, save for a plain white mask of blackened eyes. In one hand, he held a ceremonial dagger of darkened iron, and in the other, the rusted chains of their captives.
"Rejoice, children of faith...!" he called through the tall hall, voice echoing off the stone pillars. "Our brothers and sisters abroad have seized upon and destroyed another Cathedral in the west, devoted to heretical and false beliefs that inhibited the return of the one true God. I'm told the temple was raised! Ashes fill the skies that once hovered above that sinful place, and in its destruction, we bring us closer to the completion of the second prophecy...!"

As his sermon continued, Sabriel looked upon the slaves, who moved in her peripheral. An elven woman, younger than she. She covered her face with hands that stood above her shackled wrists, pressed the tips of her dirtied fingers against the inner corners of her eyes while she quietly wept. The men in her company stared in silence, bitter hatred twisting their features while they stared on the Tribune. Sabriel curled her nose in a snarl, but held firm.
"Ulen," The tribune continued, "has seen fit to spare some of those heretics, those unfaithful worms that writhed in the mud of their own sin!" He pulled harshly on the chains that bound their wrists and feet for emphasis. "We hold ourselves, and those around us, accountable for misdeeds. These sinners, we know, must be cleansed of their transgressions against The Returning King!" Sabriel smiled, indeed, she fully agreed. "And how do we do that, if not by weeping them of their sinful tears?"
"I invite Astargos himself to look upon us this day, to watch the cleansing of these troubled souls through their tears of sin, a bounty of blood." A point of the ceremonial dagger directed the eyes of the flock to the window Sabriel sat beside, she looked in unison and peered up at his visage from where she sat. Her gaze lingered only for a moment before she returned to look at the Tribune, who pulled on the chains that bound the first captive in the line.
"I invite you all now, to pray for Astargos's witness so that the Returning King might know we strive toward his return. Please, bow your heads and join hands. Call to Ulen so that he may hear our prayers."

Sabriel did as the Tribune said, and joined hands with her brothers and sisters without a word. Quietly, she dipped her head and began to pray for Astargos's eye to land upon them. While the rest of the Velsign in the pews, and even those who stood at the front for the choir all began to pray, the Tribune took the dagger to the hands of the captive sinners, splitting their palms and emptying their tears of sin into the basin. The weeping had begun. Grunts of pain called above the mutterings and whisperings of those that prayed aloud. The drip of blood in the stone basin was entirely buried in the chorus of whispers, but those at the front might have been able to hear it once the droplets of blood began to fall together in a small puddle at the bottom of the basin.
Sabriel smiled in her prayer, tears welling in the corner of her eyes. It was a beautiful thing was it not? Their duty in restoring the wicked to their purest forms, to bleed the sin from those that had strayed from the righteous path. She hoped the returning King's surveying eye bore witness to their sacrifice, that he would one day welcome them back into his graces.

When the weeping was complete, and the smell of burning skin laid ambient to the pained cries of those that had been bled, the prayers of those in the pews steadily ceased, and heads began to lift and hands came unjoined. Sabriel was among those to finish her prayer when the Tribune called and lifted her head to heed his words. "It is done," called the Tribune. "We have bled these heretics of a portion of their sin, a drop for the Achra, a drop for the oaths, and a drop for Ulen himself. Come, while his eye is upon us, let us sing his praise!"
With that, the choir began, a symphony of voices where the men sang low, ambient, old Gentaverse in contrast to the women, who sung higher and aimed to permeate the low rumble of the masculine voices before them.
The Velsign in the pews also sang along to the guide of the choir, but from the front, one at a time, they walked in order to the basin, where one of the slaves was pulled over with their back to the choir, facing the flock. Their wrists were shackled at the far and in a way that made it so that the slave had to bend forward over the puddle of blood they'd just bled into the stone crucible. From his hip, the Tribune offered a cat of nine tails to the first Velsign, who proudly took the tool in his metal-wrapped fist, and struck the save suddenly at full force, trying his best to break skin with those barbed tips.
Cries of pain echoed above the choir, the chorus of religious chanting that only grew louder in response. After that one strike, the Velsign returned to his seat in the pews, and on his way, passed the tool to the next to pass judgment on the heretic. Another strike landed close to the first, then another as the next Velsign rose, then another, then another. Down the row, they went, and every Velsign would have the opportunity to strike the worm where he was bound. Even when the skin of his back was tattered, they continued. When the slave could no longer scream, throat hoarse and dry, they replaced him with the female, the one that had wept for her fellow heretics.

Image source.

Posted: **Wed Jan 12, 2022 10:13 pm**

With each hit of the whip, Cedric flinched beside her. Camille had seen the scars he endured, the marks from his years of servitude and slavery to the Inquisition. It was part of what made her so fond of him, that he would endure such pain for his God. But she also knew he had nightmares of it, and she prayed even as she sang that morning that they would leave him so that he could fully devote himself to the cause.

No matter his memories or his trauma, he was not permitted to avoid the bleeding of the three new captures. When it came their row, Camille stood and walked towards the center aisle with Cedric in tow, though she carefully angled her folded wings so that he did not see the full brunt of the force she hit the slave with. Her whipping, it seemed, was the last hit for this woman, and the last captured man was then presented, and tears came to her eyes in her hopes for the salvation of this woman and her assistance with it.

She did not yet return to her seat even as she passed the cat o' nine tails to Cedric. He was armored, as was she and most everyone there, and his gauntlet hid his scar. Camille had seen it before, and she could almost envision it emblazoned on his palm, just as she could remember the lines that marked his back and the numerous other scars he held, those that she could see and those that she could not. She was worried he would hesitate.

He did not. The first strike on the third new slave was his, and he took the opportunity with a relish that only made Camille proud. He handed the whip to the Velsign behind him, and they returned to their seats at the pews together. She had not stopped singing throughout, not even to offer a word of comfort to Cedric. The chorus was comfort enough. The Tribune took his participation into his own sermon, for he remembered the faces of the slaves whose bleedings he orchestrated.

"Faith! Through blood and faith they will be saved yet. For Ulen will uplift even those who have sinned before." He pointed to Cedric, even as they walked away. "Even a slave may be saved by Him!"

Blood soaked the already red rug at the foot of the crucible, blood that dripped from the backs of the slaves. The elven woman lay curled on the ground, though even pain did not stop her from sending a pointed stare towards the backs of Cedric and Camille at such a proclamation.

Once they had sat, Camille placed a metal-wrapped hand on Cedric's shoulder. It was a brief reassurance, but she knew it would be appreciated. The Bleedings were always difficult for him.

Posted: **Tue Jan 18, 2022 4:10 am**

From the pews, Sabriel watched on while she quietly sang to the lead that those of the choir gave. Her eyes were set firmly on the flogging for most of the service, but she occasionally cast a glance to the painted glass that represented Astargos. She wondered if he truly did behold the sermon, the flogging, the tears of sin spilled in their lord's name. She could only hope.
It wasn't until Camille waited at the altar with the small wingless one that Sabriel took note of her; the velsign with the large wings. Though envy crept up in her heart, she quickly caught herself and drew a small needle from her effects to poke a hole in her fingertip. A quick, yet sincere apology was offered in prayer, and she continued to sing along with the choir.
Once the wingless one had struck the slave, Sabriel couldn't help but smile. It was like watching a child mimic a grown-up's behavior, such as helping with the logging or the hammering of nails. In a way, she found it adorable, even if she was technically the same rank as the wingless one. The broad-winged Velsign made her way to the pews with the wingless one, and for a moment, they were forgotten in Sabriel's mind's eye. After that moment, the tribune declared the wingless one a slave. Sabriel furrowed her brow while she looked at him; it was hard to tell, but she might have flogged him in one of those sermons herself.
All the faces and the cries blended together, tears, blood, piss, vomit. Some sermons were so powerful that she saw all of those in one sitting, she didn't have the focus to recall every face she'd struck or the various implements she'd used on the sinners. What she did find fascinating, however, was that all the beatings and bleeding had actually turned one of the Sinners around. There was hope for them. When she next looked upon the captive man, and the streaks of red that began to run along his ribs, she found herself growing warm at the thought that she might be the one to deal that sobering blow, that she might convert a sinner to Ulen's grace.

And finally, the turn was hers. She rose from the pew and followed after the Velsign ahead of her. On her way there, she passed by the one with the large wings, and the world seemed to stop for just a couple beats of her heart. her voice, so profound and rich in devotion to The Returning King. She recalled that the Rector had yet to stop her projection of praise, even while striking the slave with as much force as she did. Her focus had been on the wingless one in her company before, but Sabriel quickly realized she was wrong to have overlooked the Rector.
Her focus was stolen, her lips hung ajar in the mere moment it took her to pass the large-winged one, but her own song had waned almost to silence. It was only when she completed her pace that she picked up her slack and peeled her eyes from the Rector. What had just happened? Frustration overcame her while she sorted through her muddled thoughts, and eventually, the instrument was placed in her hand.
Her eyes looked up from the slave, and she was in the cathedral once more. Sabriel focused intently on her target then and routed her frustration to her sword arm, which she hoped to summon the strength she needed to rend flesh from bone. Even stronger became her desire when she realized that the Rector with the voice would be watching. But the weight of her bones made it so that just lifting her arms was a feat of its own. Nonetheless, she had to try.

Both hands wrapped the instrument's handle, and she bent at the elbow to lift and roll the weapon over her shoulders. She felt the strain in her arms but did her best not to shake... At least until she brought the implement down on the man's upper back with all the weight and force she could muster. It wasn't particularly harder than any of the other strikes, and most of the force was carried from the weight of her limbs and her stature both.
Her strike did leave three deep gashes in the reddened skin of the slave, she thought, but the man didn't so much as jolt at the strike. She convinced herself it was because he was already tired from the other floggings, but as she passed the cat to the next Velsign and stepped away, she heard the crack of the whip and the pained grunt that was stolen from the slave's lips. Shame overcame her, and she did her best not to look in any direction as she returned to her seat in the pews.
It was only once she was seated once more that she returned her gaze to the Rector and the wingless one from before. Again, her focus strayed from Ulen's worship, and instead settled on that Velsign and what she imagined to be her Acolyte.
Sabriel had been seated closer to the back than the front; she often tried to ensure that she would at least strike the slaves when they were already weakened so that she'd get more of a reaction out of them. Sometimes it worked, and others, it didn't. That always meant she was one of the last to perform the bleeding, though, and the ceremony was brought to a close not long after she returned to her seat.

The Tribune pulled the three slaves to their feet, broken and bloody in their chains, and brought them to face the entirety of the church. In one hand, he held their chain, in the other, the bloodied whip that had been used to strike the three of them. "Oh Ulen, your Supremacy, your Grace, your Divine Wrath! Let your gaze be upon us this day in which we carry out your will! Let your surveying eye behold all we have done in your service, so that these sinners might recognize your light!"
Silence followed for some seconds after. It was in those moments that the rising sun hit the painted window of Ulen's Surveying eye, and its light was cast on the same spot that the slaves stood. The Tribune had timed and practiced the shine of the morning light beforehand, and lined up the events of the sermon so that the events would coincide, but none in the pews recognized so.
Awe claimed the lips of the faithful at the sight, and devoted, frantic prayer came once the display was widely recognized as a miracle. Sabriel too saw the work of the light and stared nigh in disbelief before prayer poured from her lips in tandem. It was a miracle, a sign that his Grace was upon them. There, in the morning light of the hall, she reiterated her vows. She would pass her entrance exam and become a rector before the first dawn of the new year, and with her new inspiration, she found herself hopeful of such an outcome.
The Tribune did not react to the display and smiled as he looked upon the Velsign, deep in prayer and worship. When the light receded, he spoke up. "Rise, children of the faith. Rise and know that the Returning King has witnessed your devotion this day, that his eye is always upon you and your service toward him. We carry his gaze with us always, we must walk always in the light!"

With the end of the Tribune's sermon, the service came to a close, and the Velsign began to fall out from the pews while Sabriel stared on in awe, utterly inspired. Her eyes shifted from the Tribune and fell again on Camille and Cedric, but she said nothing. If ever their eyes moved in her direction, she would avert her gaze to the copy of The Oaths in her hands.

Image source.

Atharen, A Fantasy Roleplay Forum

[Adienne] Morning Worship

[Adienne] Morning Worship

Re: [Adienne] Morning Worship

Re: [Adienne] Morning Worship

Re: [Adienne] Morning Worship

Re: [Adienne] Morning Worship