The Church of Divine Suffering
Dead silence. The time of night when thoughts of the working men and women of the Black Gate are the only things keeping a person warm in the bitter cold of the Cryphan winter. The time when only guards are about in the streets, keeping order over nothing. Volatia Oleander, accustomed to the night, prowls through the back alleys in an attempt to avoid them. Tonight, she is not on patrol. She is on a different sort of hunt, one to soothe the ache she holds inside.
Her bare hand presses against the old wooden door, shoving it open. It’s likely been stolen from elsewhere, to make this shack of worship more inviting to visitors. By the look of the ornate iron hinges, likely from the church dedicated to her own father before it was torn down. Yet another matter that weighs heavy on her. Once inside, she closes the door and slides the latch, to keep the harsh wind outside from blowing it open.
It’s pathetic, this place. Sparse of the adornment and grandeur of her father’s churches. His are a grand affair, decadent and rich, decorated in pewter and stained glass. This place is small, with kneeling blocks instead of pews for worship and a bare stone floor for self flagellation. The smell of fresh blood causes her mouth to water, making her forget herself. She strides forward to it and sinks to her knees, swiping her finger through the small puddle. Bringing it closer, her nostrils flare at the smell of it and she jams the digit into her mouth. Her tongue swirls around the tip and works under her nail to swallow every last bit of the sanguine liquid. Eyelashes flutter closed as she breathes out a sigh, it’s human. It’s been too long.
Licking her lips, it takes all of her self restraint not to crawl about on her hands and knees, lapping up the offering to the god whose likeness looks down on her now. Instead, she lifts her head to look it in the eye, hers are cold and defiant in contrast. She is Volatia Oleander, Princess of Crypha, the Divine Vessel. This blood is what she is owed.
At least….
That’s what she tells herself.
“You don’t need this,” she tells the stone woman, “I do.” As if it’s an excuse for what she’s lowered herself to.
She slumps, feet flattening underneath her as her buttocks hit her heels. Her hands clasped together between her knees, head tilted up to stare at the effigy. Something bursts inside her chest and she can feel the pain rushing through her like fire through oil. The impending visit weighs heavy on her. She’s not ready. She doesn’t know what to do. It’s not a feeling she’s used to, this helplessness. She is different from the others. They have roles, they know their place. She is just lost.
“Help me…” she whispers to the silent woman. “...please?”
Her bare hand presses against the old wooden door, shoving it open. It’s likely been stolen from elsewhere, to make this shack of worship more inviting to visitors. By the look of the ornate iron hinges, likely from the church dedicated to her own father before it was torn down. Yet another matter that weighs heavy on her. Once inside, she closes the door and slides the latch, to keep the harsh wind outside from blowing it open.
It’s pathetic, this place. Sparse of the adornment and grandeur of her father’s churches. His are a grand affair, decadent and rich, decorated in pewter and stained glass. This place is small, with kneeling blocks instead of pews for worship and a bare stone floor for self flagellation. The smell of fresh blood causes her mouth to water, making her forget herself. She strides forward to it and sinks to her knees, swiping her finger through the small puddle. Bringing it closer, her nostrils flare at the smell of it and she jams the digit into her mouth. Her tongue swirls around the tip and works under her nail to swallow every last bit of the sanguine liquid. Eyelashes flutter closed as she breathes out a sigh, it’s human. It’s been too long.
Licking her lips, it takes all of her self restraint not to crawl about on her hands and knees, lapping up the offering to the god whose likeness looks down on her now. Instead, she lifts her head to look it in the eye, hers are cold and defiant in contrast. She is Volatia Oleander, Princess of Crypha, the Divine Vessel. This blood is what she is owed.
At least….
That’s what she tells herself.
“You don’t need this,” she tells the stone woman, “I do.” As if it’s an excuse for what she’s lowered herself to.
She slumps, feet flattening underneath her as her buttocks hit her heels. Her hands clasped together between her knees, head tilted up to stare at the effigy. Something bursts inside her chest and she can feel the pain rushing through her like fire through oil. The impending visit weighs heavy on her. She’s not ready. She doesn’t know what to do. It’s not a feeling she’s used to, this helplessness. She is different from the others. They have roles, they know their place. She is just lost.
“Help me…” she whispers to the silent woman. “...please?”
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