The air inside the church stunk of sweat and sickness. Once a Sanguinist Church sacred to vampires, now it was home to a newer and evidently much more popular faith.
Valen sat in a middle pew sandwiched between Enid and Louise as the congregation waited for the priest to take the stage.
He thought of his old part-time job as a custodian in a hospital. Back then he still thought he had a chance at becoming a doctor and took the job hoping to learn by watching the staff at work.
Whenever he cleaned the cancer ward, he could always smell an odd sickly sweet scent from the exhaled breaths of patients that would become more potent as their condition deteriorated.
That exact same sickly sweet scent permeated the air inside the Primordial Church a hundred times more pungent than the cancer ward he used to clean.
As disheartening as it was, it wasn’t a big surprise. One of the main selling points the Primordial Church promoted in their pamphlet was the ability to perform miracles courtesy of the Unborn God.
Valen was pretty sure it was just placebo inducing horseshit, though he couldn’t blame them for wanting to believe.
While miracles did exist back in the Age of Gods, they stopped working when the Gods left the world to its own devices. The paladins who swore sacred oaths in order to wield miracles suddenly lost the power they’d dedicated their entire lives for without so much as a two weeks’ notice from their god.
“This place kind of stinks,” said Louise, blissfully unaware of what she was smelling. “Hasn’t anyone here heard of a breath mint?”
“That’s pretty rich coming from you,” said Enid. “You smell like booze and old pizza. When was the last time you showered?”
“I was just downing a pint a few moments ago!” Louise protested. “Besides, do you have any idea how much shampoo it takes to wash all this bloody fur?! That shit’s expensive!”
Enid deepened her frown at Louise, who crossed her arms in defiance.
They’d been throwing increasingly crass insults at each other for the entire walk there and only briefly stopped when they were looking for seats. Valen gave up trying to make peace between them about five minutes in.
On the bright side, they got to know each other pretty well. On the down side, they’ll probably use that information to murder each other one day.
“This is who you hung out with when I wasn’t around?” Enid asked Valen. “No wonder why you’re so bloody patient.”
“Wait, come to think of it.” Louise scrutinised Valen’s failed attempt at a poker face. “If you hung out with me when you were here and Thundertits at school, doesn’t that mean you knew both of us at the same time?”
“Genius deduction,” Enid said dryly. “It’s a wonder why you couldn’t finish school.”
For the first time since they met, Louise ignored her jab. “How come you never told either of us about the other?”
Both women shot him an expectant stare.
“It just never came up,” said Valen a little too quickly. “Also didn’t think you two would get along very well.”
“Hmph,” Enid grumbled.
“Fair enough,” said Louise. “How much longer until the sermon starts?”
Valen checked his wrist watch, a cheap vintage he'd gotten from the flea market as a teenager.
“Should be any moment now. They were supposed to start five minutes ago.”
In the meantime, members of the congregation chatted amongst themselves while they waited. Valen didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but his hypersensitive hearing still picked up bits of conversations around him.
Most of them were just people talking about their day or talking about their prior experiences at the church. If they were to be believed, the Unborn God was able to cure everything from cancer, to impotence, to some vaguely defined illness that sounds suspiciously similar to a hangover.
But a not insignificant amount of the crowd, newcomers from the sound of it, were starting to doubt if the priest would come-or if the miracle his church promised was real to begin with.
There was an elvish woman with a burnt face hoping to regain her beauty, an arthritis-ridden dwarf who wanted to smith again, and many a human with cancer for whom medical science had failed.
Valen made a mental note to watch how they react to the church’s so-called miracle. It’d be good for his dissertation if he could observe how a false healer can use simple psychology to convince even sceptics to believe in their placebo. Whether or not the healer believed in their own rubbish he’d have to figure out for himself.
A polished wooden pulpit stood on the church’s empty stage waiting to be manned by its new priest who would hopefully arrive sometime that century.
Behind it was a white shrine wreathed in red velvet with a crystal chalice placed upon it in offering. A gold effigy of a crying eye meant to symbolise the Unborn God’s watchful gaze sat atop the shrine staring down at the awaiting congregation.
Valen scoured his own eyes through the crowd. They were lost and desperate people, all either trying to extend their lives or find a purpose in it.
A pang of guilt shot through Valen. He’d been just a tad dishonest with Enid and Louise. While he did intend on writing about them for his paper, there was another reason why he wanted to come to the Nocturnal District. Aside from Louise, there was one other person he’d left behind in this dark little dome. Another lost soul who was the exact kind of person the Primordial Church would eagerly take under its wing for better or worse. He’d kindled a faint hope to find them there but couldn’t hear their heartbeat in the crowd no matter how much he listened.
That was probably for the best though.
The heavy backroom doors flew open with a loud crash, snapping Valen away from his thoughts. Moments later the most blinged out preacher he’d ever seen in his life emerged holding a round potion flask filled with something red in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
The man was a werewolf, but his white fur was so over-groomed that he looked more like a show dog. He had only four fingers on each hand like most werebeasts, all of which he used to wear heavy golden rings that could double as knuckle dusters in a pinch.
His short white suit trousers were folded up to the knees to accommodate his digitigrade legs and he wore a matching white waistcoat over a red dress shirt with rolled up sleeves to show off the finely brushed fur on his forearms.
The pale blonde hair on his head was slicked back with a copious amount of hair gel that made it almost look plastic and his face a light orange tan that must’ve come from either a tanning bed or a spraycan considering the Nocturnal District’s lack of sunlight.
While it was often difficult to tell the age of many demi-human races since they died of old age looking like middle-aged humans, the way the preacher swaggered towards the stage with overexaggerated confidence suggested that he was on the younger side. Mid twenties at most.
The only reason Valen knew he was the preacher and not just some chav who snuck in to drink the communion wine was the golden pendent around his neck that depicted the same crying eye that adorned the shrine behind the pulpit.
Louise sunk into her seat.
“Ah, shit,” she whispered under her breath.
“What’s wrong?” Valen asked.
“Nothing,” she lied before pulling down her yellow hood and wrapping her furry arm around his.
“That guy looks like an absolute knobhead,” said Enid with deadpan eyes that already looked half asleep. “Everything about him offends my eyes.”
“Well, we can’t judge a book by its cover,” said Valen. “You know that better than anyone, Enid.”
The preacher placed the mystery potion and wine bottle he held on either side of the shrine’s chalice before finally taking his place at the pulpit. The mounted microphone let out a shrill shriek as he tapped it with one heavily ringed finger.
“Evenin’, mates!” he said once he was sure the microphone worked. “How’re you all today?”
The preacher didn’t wait for an answer to his question.
“Sorry for being a tad late. Had a little too much fun with the communion wine if you know what I mean.”
The returning members of the congregation chuckled at the poor attempt at a joke while the rest only exhaled through their nose.
“I see a few new faces here today.” His eyes scanned the crowd from left to right. “And quite a lot of familiar faces too.”
The preacher clasped his hands together.
“Well! For those who’re new, I’m Brother Byron and I’ll be your miracle worker for today.” He gripped the sides of his pulpit and leaned forward towards the crowd. “Now, I know what you newcomers are thinking and I’ll just say it right now: Yes. Yes we are for real. We really do worship the Unborn God and we do dabble in miracles from time to time.”
No one laughed this time around. Instead, a pregnant silence fell upon the congregation as the congregation waited for Brother Byron to explain himself.
“Since the beginning of time, we’ve been told that the Divine Parents gave birth to fourteen gods,” he continued. “Leva, Dianne, Thressa, Bilba, Mareesa, Wuzhen, Maroe, Veche, Wrightan, Masume, Xandros, Uther, Gryllens, Eyne.”
He paused to take in a deep breath.
“Gods, that’s a lot of bloody gods.”
A few people did chuckle this time, if only to be polite.
“Now, you’d think that of all the religions those gods created, there’d be at least one that gave credit to the most important god of all. The one we all spawned from. The Unborn God, they who are nameless and formless and perfect.” He raised both hands in such a way that they seemed to hold up the giant golden eye behind him. “The other gods and their priests believe that they perished before they could be born into godhood. But we at the Primordial Church know better. A child of the Divine Parents won’t let something as trivial as their own stillbirth kill them so easily. After all, a god is still a god. Even if they were never fully formed, they remain immortal still.”
The returning members of the congregation listened with rapt attention while the newcomers started to grow uneasy.
Valen felt Enid rest her head on his shoulder. “If I fall asleep, tell the knobhead I died and his god needs to resurrect me.”
“Just try not to drool on me this time, yeah?” said Valen, earning him a soft elbow jab from Enid before she closed her eyes. Three seconds later and she was snoring softly with a tiny drop of saliva forming on the corner of her lips.
Valen tried his best to stay still and not disturb her. “You know, it never fails to impress me how quickly she can fall asleep.”
Louise nestled closer to him, her hooded eyes fixed on the preacher.
“Oh, Timmy,” she said to no one in particular. “What the fuck happened to you?”
“Who’s Timmy?” Valen asked.
“The gold-encrusted wanker making his nuthouse audition on stage right now.”
Valen looked at Brother Byron on stage going on a mildly humorous rant about how underrated his god was.
“Wait, the preacher?” Valen looked between her and the pulpit. “You know him?”
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“Is there another gold-encrusted wanker on stage?” asked Louise, taking a page out of Enid’s book of sarcasm. “He used to be a member of my old biker gang. No idea why he’s calling himself Byron now though.”
“Some people take on new names after they convert to another religion,” said Valen. “It’s not too uncommon.”
“Yeah, that sounds like some cult type shit.”
“But if he’s here then that must mean he’s turned a new leaf from gang life, right?”
“I’m not convinced this is any better. I heard he left the gang for the Primordial Church a little after I quit but didn’t want to believe it. He used to be a pretty nice guy.”
Valen felt something click in his mind. “Hold on, did you two date?”
Louise scoffed.
“No, despite his best efforts. He apparently had a crush on me for a while. When I left he confessed and, well, let’s just say we didn’t part on the best of terms.”
“Bloody hell…” Valen looked at the preacher and tried to imagine him in a biker’s uniform. “Are you sure you’re comfortable being here with him?”
“Yeah. Part of me wanted to come to see if he’d be here or not. I hoped he wouldn’t but, well, at least now I have my answer.” She let out a long sigh. “The guy I rejected ran off to join a cult.”
Valen couldn’t help but relate. He came here expecting to find someone from his past too, though unlike her he was lucky enough to not find them there.
“It’s not your fault,” Valen assured her. “And for what it’s worth, I’m glad that you’re not up there preaching with him right now.”
Louise chuckled.
“I just wished I’d quit the gang while you were still around.” Her grip around his arm tightened. “Maybe then we would’ve stayed friends.”
“You’re still my friend, Lou.” Valen placed his hand over hers. “You just forget that sometimes.”
Louise looked at him. Her golden eyes stared into his blood reds. He’d almost forgotten how striking they were.
“Valen, I…” She tore her gaze away for a moment. “Hey, is it alright if I…you know?”
Valen didn’t need her to say it to know what she meant.
“For old times’ sake? I don’t see why not.”
Louise smiled. She raised her face up to his, having to prop herself up on her arms to reach it.
She planted a small kiss on the tiny black mole on his cheek, right under his left eye, and settled back down on her seat with a smile once she was finished.
Valen could’ve sworn she shot a smug smile at Enid sleeping on his shoulder.
“You know, we really should hang out more now that you’re not a gangster,” said Valen.
“Hells yeah!” She said with a grin. “That should get Thundertits all kinds of pissed off.”
Valen had no doubt Enid would’ve wanted to retort with a snarky comment, but she was far too asleep to care at the moment.
Back on the stage, Byron went from promoting his own god to talking shit about all the others.
“Tell me, really, what have the other gods done for us lately?” He asked, opening his arms wide as if to welcome the answers he didn’t expect. “Hells, even back when they were around, what did they do? They divided themselves and had us all kill each other in their little proxy war.”
Although aeons had passed since it ended and the reasons for its start has long been forgotten, the legacy of the First and Last Divine War that saw the gods divide themselves into opposing forces of Order and Chaos was still felt around the world. Valen’s entire race wouldn’t exist if not for it.
Dianne, the ever-merciful Goddess of Death and Night, was so distraught by the early demise of so many young souls during the war that she broke her own sacred oath to resurrect the forces of Order’s greatest warriors-the soldiers of the Black Fang Battalion who fought under the banner of a great bat.
Noble Dianne had hoped that the new but powerful race she created would help tip the war in Order’s favour for a decisive victory. In the end, the presence of the vampires caused more conflicts than it solved.
“Well, my brothers and sisters,” Byron continued. “I’m happy to say that the Unborn God is not like their foolish younger siblings.”
His eyes scanned the crowd until they settled on a wood elf in the front row with a burned face she tried to conceal behind her long brown hair and a green hoodie.
“You there, miss. The one in the green hood.” Brother Byron pointed at her with an open hand. “Would you mind coming up here for a moment?”
The woman seemed hesitant, but now she had the eyes of the entire crowd looking at her expecting her to comply. She pulled at her hood to hide her face as she looked left and right at the staring crowd.
As sorry as Valen felt for her being put on the spot like that, he felt the researcher in him perk up. Phoney faith healers usually only called people with mostly invisible conditions up on stage to ‘heal’. The contagious fervour of the believing crowd would trick them into thinking they got better when in reality it was just their subconscious mind playing along with surrounding expectations coupled with no small amount of adrenaline.
In this case, not only was a good portion of the crowd already sceptical of his powers, but the person who Byron for some reason picked had a very visible injury on her face that would make it stupidly obvious whether or not she got healed. Either he was supremely confident in his own miraculous abilities or he was the absolute worst conman Valen had ever met.
The burnt wood elf approached Byron and ascended the stairs.
Byron picked up the microphone from the pulpit and walked up to put a hand on her shoulder.
“And your name is?”
He pointed the microphone at her mouth.
“Emily,” she said just loud enough for the microphone to pick up.
Though she faced the crowd, she kept her gaze down as everyone in the church looked at her with pitiful eyes.
The left half of her face was covered in dark pink burn scars that swelled most of her left eye closed and caused the corner of her lips to curl up in an unwilling scowl. The other half served as a tragic reminder of her former self, a beautiful woman with creamy beige skin and eyes of bright emerald green that would’ve fluttered the heart of any man it laid upon.
“Welcome to the Primordial Church, Emily!” The shit-eating on Brother Byron’s face never wavered. “Now, can you please tell us what gave you those scars?”
A tense quiet fell onto the cathedral. Some people gasped at the sheer audacity of him asking something so casually. But regardless of their approval, all eyes were drawn to the poorly hidden burnt face of the nervous wood elf on stage.
Emily rubbed her arms, obviously uncomfortable with the question. She only caved in when the awkward silence became too much to bear.
“The Ashen Nights,” she said without further elaboration. None was needed.
A silent solidarity spread fell on every member of the crowd save for Enid, who just continued snoring on Valen’s shoulder.
The Ashen Nights was breaking news when it happened over a decade ago. It even trended on Chirper for a whole week as opposed to a few days.
But for those in the Nocturnal District who had the misfortune to experience it firsthand, the scars it left will never truly fade.
Adrien Vickers, a Nocturnal District vampire, was arrested for the murder of Colin Hayes, a human who came to party in Reveller’s Row. Hayes had been high off his mind on designer drugs when he jumped Vickers at the back of a nightclub for a cheap thrill. The vampire accidentally cracked the human’s skull in the ensuing struggle and put him into a coma he would never wake up from.
It should have been an open and shut case of self-defence, but the significant human population of Dragon’s Rest didn’t see it that way when Vickers was acquitted of all charges.
Memorials were held in the wealthy Financial District Hayes was from while outraged humans flocked to the Nocturnal District streets to protest his killer’s release. What started as a misguided but peaceful protest devolved into violent riots when the protestors started bringing cans of insecticide and lighters to use as makeshift flamethrowers for ‘self-defence’ against vampires, which soon extended to anyone who wanted them to fuck off.
The nights of the riots became known as the Ashen Nights, because only ashes were left in its wake. How much of that ash came from the slain vampires nobody can tell for sure. Valen just knew his mother became part of it when she burned alive in front of him.
“The Ashen Nights was a tragedy that the fourteen gods allowed to happen,” said Byron. “If they wanted to, they could’ve come back from wherever it is they’ve pissed off to save their children from themselves. But they didn’t. Because they don’t care. The Unborn God, however, does. And while they are not yet strong enough to save the world from itself, they can still offer to right the wrongs their siblings allowed to happen.”
He turned around to face the shrine from which the Unborn God’s golden eye stared down upon the congregation. After clasping his hands in reverence, he pulled the cork from the bottle of red wine with his teeth and poured it into the chalice until it neared the brim. Then, very gently uncorked the small red potion with his hands and allowed a single drop to fall into the wine-filled chalice.
He gingerly resealed the potion flask and placed it back on the shrine before bringing the chalice to Emily, who received it from him with two cupped hands, careful not to spill whatever was in it.
“What’s this?” she asked, but without the microphone near her lips only those with hypersensitive hearing like Valen could hear her.
“That, dear Emily, is wine mixed with the sacred blood of the Unborn God.” Byron raised his hands on either side of him for a dramatic pose that would’ve looked far more holy if he wasn’t dressed like a great value pimp. “Imbibe from it and all that ails you shall be cleansed away by the purifying essence of the only venerable god left for us.”
Emily blinked at him.
“...What?’
“Just take a bloody sip.” Byron sounded annoyed. “Go on, we have lots of people to heal today.”
“Um, okay?” Emily sniffed at the chalice. “Wait, this smells like actual blood!”
A wave of hush whispers spread throughout the sceptics in the crowd. Valen guessed the wine must’ve been bloodwine, which was commonly used in Sanguinist communion but rarely ever forced upon non-vampires. Back in the olden day before refrigerators were a thing, it was common for vampires to ferment blood with red wine to keep it drinkable during long journeys. These days it was a niche beverage made from animal blood enjoyed by only vampires and hardcore wine connoisseurs.
Still, he had no idea what that red potion he mixed it with was, and judging by the care he took with it in comparison to the wine, it must’ve been the more crucial element of the ceremony.
“Nothing worth anything ever comes easy,” said Byron, quoting some motivational phrase he must’ve gotten from a HeadScroll meme.
Emily glanced at the crowd. She had the look of someone who didn’t want to do what she was told but was too concerned with making a scene to refuse. Being put on the stage must’ve already been bad enough for someone so conscious about her scars.
She brought the chalice up to her lips, causing the unburnt half of her face to scrunch up at the metallic smell.
With the eyes of the congregation boring into her, Emily tipped the chalice and allowed its contents to slide through her lips. Valen noticed a miniscule bulge in her throat as she swallowed whatever it was inside the chalice.
“Uuuugh.” she handed the still full chalice back to Byron. “It tastes like-ah!”
A sudden dry heave cut her off before she could finish. She put a hand over her mouth as she started coughing to keep from retching only to remove it a second later, allowing spittle to fly from her mouth with each increasingly hoarse cough.
“Don’t vomit!” Byron commanded, his voice devoid of all sympathy. “If you want to be healed, then you must not reject this gift!”
She let out a long, shrill scream before toppling onto the ground. Her body started convulsing as she laid on her back, her face staring blankly up at the lights on the ceiling with saliva foaming around the corners of her lips.
Several members of the crowd erupted into understandable panic. The rest just watched the poor girl writhe in pain with stupid smiles on their faces. Some idiots even shouted words of encouragement for her to keep whatever it was Byron fed her down while she suffered.
“The fuck?!” Louise jumped out of her seat in surprise.
Valen leapt out of his own seat to make a beeline towards Emily as her body jerked violently on the floor. Without him to lean on, Enid slumped onto the pew seat with a heavy thud followed by an annoyed groan.
Although he felt bad ditching her like that, Emily needed medical attention more than Enid needed a living pillow.
Valen bounded up the stage stairs and knelt next to Emily as she convulsed on the ground, her eyes glazed over as it stared into him while seeing nothing.
“Leave her,” Byron commanded him with a disapproving frown. “She’s communicating with the Unborn God.”
“And she’s going to meet Dianne if we don’t do something,” Valen replied.
He slid off his coat and folded it into a makeshift cushion that he placed under her head. The convulsions stopped seconds later and for a moment he suspected the worst.
The crowd overloaded his hypersensitive hearing with shouts to leave her alone during her religious experience. Valen tried to not pay them any mind. They were the exact type of people he expected to study once he became a psychologist.
He put his ear to Emily’s lips and was relieved when he heard her breathing, though it was far too faint for comfort. His mind flashed back to the first aid courses he took while getting his bachelor’s.
‘I have to put her in the recovery position,’ he thought to himself before reviewing each step in his head.
He extended the arm nearest to him at a right angle to the rest of her body and folded her other arm so that the back of her hand touched her cheek. Then he bent one of her knees so that her foot was flat on the floor and, using the knee as leverage, rolled her to her side with the aid of her own body weight.
Valen didn’t know if she suffered an anxiety-induced seizure, an allergic reaction, or was just straight up poisoned by the loon standing beside him. But by tilting her head and body to the side, he at least prevented her from choking on her own vomit in case any came out.
Just in case, he also tilted her head back slightly by the chin and kept it there with both hands to make sure her airways stayed open.
“Someone call an ambulance!” he shouted at the crowd to the sound of more demands for him to back off from her. He could only assume that the ones with their wits about them were too afraid of making themselves known and becoming another target.
“There will be no need for that,” Byron insisted. “Just let the Unborn God do their work.”
Valen turned to look at Byron, his furious frown hiding the clenched fangs behind it. His medical knowledge kicked in again, but this time it showed him a mental x-ray diagram of the most painful places he could punch Byron without killing him.
If it didn’t mean risking an innocent woman’s life, he might’ve stood up and kicked him in the nuts right then and there. He’d come to the Primordial Church to study a faith-flavoured placebo effect, not witness a bloody murder.
The sound of clicking boots drew near and he spun his head around to see Enid rushing towards him.
“How is she?” asked Enid. She crouched down beside him, apparently having caught up with the situation.
“I’m not sure what’s wrong with her, but she’s unconscious. I might need you to shock her to create a flatline if she stops breathing so I can resuscitate her.”
“Got it. I’ll-”
A sudden loud gasp from Emily cut her off. Valen let go of her chin and she bolted upright coughing into her hand.
“Are you quite alright?” Valen asked after her coughing ceased.
“I-I’m fine.” She pressed her hand on the burnt half of her face. “My face itches like all hells though.”
When she removed her hand from her face, the believers in the church erupted into cheers while the sceptics stared at her in silent awe. Valen was among the latter.
“What’s wrong?” Emily asked. “Is something wrong?”
Valen was too flabbergasted to answer her, so Enid beat him to the punch.
“Your face is healed,” she said in an almost comically blunt tone that somewhat ruined the magic of the moment.
“What?!”
Emily stroked her left cheek. What had been rough pink patches of scarred flesh just seconds earlier had returned to smooth beige skin that matched the other half of her face.
Byron spared Valen a smug look before turning to address the crowd.
“So?” he asked, the shit-eating grin still fresh on his face. “Who’s next?”