The interior of the church appears larger than the exterior would indicate, a grand nave lined with rows of wooden pews. Above, a ceiling extends, thirty feet high in the air, supported by thick stone pillars joined by arches. Scattered about are statues, carved in wood, save one large one which stands front and center, on the altar. It alone is made of gold. Regal, majestic, it casts the entire area in a reverential atmosphere. It draws my gaze, and before I realize, I’m standing before it, mouth slightly ajar. It’s…
… beautiful. The woman carved in gold. Downcast eyes shy away from high cheekbones and a sharp nose, as flowing golden hair curls at the shoulders. Naked, save for a thin nightgown that accentuates her voluptuous form. One arm across her chest, gripping the other, supporting her bosom, a mole on the right, leaving her nether region completely exposed. Her expression, a bashful sensuality, caught between hesitance and desire.
I feel myself draw close, gazing into the statue’s eyes. Though they are made of gold, they appear brown to me, as does her curls, and a sudden sense of nostalgia washes over my body, a longing for something I can’t quite name. Mesmerized, my small hand extends, slowly approaching the softness of the woman’s fingers...
“Please refrain from touching the statue!” a sharp female voice calls out.
I jump in surprise, swerving, my head already bowing in apology. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to-” My words trail, for I can feel a dampness on my face, tears having escaped by eyes. I quickly wipe it with my inner arm, sniffle, then recompose myself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
When I lift my head, I see a woman dressed in white observing me. She approaches, standing to my left, contemplating the statue. “Graceful, isn’t she? I’ve been brought to tears many a times myself,” the woman says with what sounds like a heavy German accent. Then turning to me, she continues, “Child, do you have some connection to Lady Stier?”
“Lady Stier?” I shake my head. “I don’t, but… it feels like I do. Who is she?”
The woman offers me a gentle smile. “Lady Stier is the patron goddess of Ridge Port. This is her sanctuary, and I am its head priestess. You may call me Abigail. And what may I call you, child?”
“Jaxon,” I reply. Then turning to the statue, I ask, “Miss Abigail, what do you mean by patron?”
“It is a story that dates back to the Era of Chaos, when Ridge Port was first founded and Calamity-class monsters still roamed free throughout the kingdom. To protect us, her children, Lady Stier constructed four sacred pillars, as a ward against those who’d wish us harm. These are located in the catacombs to the south, the castle to the west, the harbor-port to the north, and here, at this sanctuary, in the east. To this day, though the magic is long worn away, these pillars stand, symbols of her patronage and blessing upon us. And as head priestess, it is my duty to ensure her name is never forgotten, that her compassion is etched into the people’s souls everlasting.” Abigail turns to me, a contemplative expression upon her face. “I wonder, child, if Lady Stier has blessed you in kind. Even if your mind knows not, perhaps your soul remembers, and that is why it cries.”
I mull upon the woman’s words for a long moment. Soul. Reincarnation. Remembrance. A sudden thought enters my mind, my eyes opening wide at the possibility. I swerve my head, tripping over my words, “M-Miss Abigail, you said Lady Stier was a goddess, right?”
If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
“Indeed. She is one of many.”
“By chance, by chance does she also go by the name, ‘Aries’?” The priestess shakes her head. “What about, what about the other gods or goddesses? Are any of them called, ‘Aries’?”
To my great disappointment, the priestess again replies in the negative. “I know not of such a name amongst the eleven Old Ones,” she says. Her words strike me as odd for a moment, for though I can’t quite place why, twelve sounds much nicer to me than eleven. “Is something the matter?”
“N-no, these eleven Old Ones, can you tell me about them?”
The priestess looks hesitant for a moment, before replying, “Truth be told, I am only a scholar of my own devotion, Lady Stier. Earlier, when you had asked about this, ‘Aries’, I should have professed to not knowing one way or the other as to whether such a name exists. You would have to ask a scholar of the ancient texts, for, save those regarding Lady Stier directly, I am only aware of the most rudimentary of legends concerning the Old Ones.”
My ears perk up. “Legends? Like what? Anything will help!”
“Well,” the priestess begins slowly, taken in by my earnest curiosity, “What has been told to me is that in the beginning, there were eleven Old Ones, residing in the celestial plane. And for millions of years, the realm was at peace. But then a few tens of thousands of years ago, an unknown event triggered a civil war amongst the gods. The battle was so cataclysmic that it nearly destroyed the entire dimension and threatened the existence of other nearby realms as well. Fearing the collapse of the entire multiverse, the gods all agreed to a ceasefire, and as a sign of their willingness towards peace, they collectively created this planet on which we live-”
“Arcadia.”
“Yes. All the Old Ones sent their followers to this planet, and bound their magic to this plane, to ensure that another war would not arise. And that is how Arcadia came to be, or so the legend goes. How much of it is true, well, that all depends on who you’re willing to believe, I suppose. Tell me, Jaxon, was that helpful?”
I nod. “It was a very interesting story! Thank you, Miss Abigail!” I chirp.
The priestess smiles at me, placing a hand gently on my shoulder. “In a way, you remind me of Lady Stier. I wonder, perhaps you’re…” Her words trail off, and before she can continue, the chiming of the church bell interrupts us. The priestess looks up in surprise. “My, it’s this late already. Looks like I got a little carried away. You’ll have to excuse me, but I have matters to which I must attend.”
“I should get going too,” I say.
The priestess nods. “By the way, if knowledge of the Old Ones is what you seek, there is no place better to look than the National Archives at the Royal Academy, should you ever find yourself eastbound. Of course, you are also more than welcome to return here anytime. My door is always open for you. Until then, take care, Jaxon. I bid you farewell.”
****
Night has just fallen as I walk through the doors of the inn, and unlike the prior day, the tavern is a bustle with activity- drinking, singing, gossip. A good portion of the patrons appear to be normal townsfolk, a not so small number of sailors and a few on the more sketchy side of things. As I begin to head towards the stairs, the innkeep calls out to me, and as I approach, I can see small beads of sweat on his forehead, a half dozen or so mugs in his hands.
A bit breathless, he says, “Boy, your father dropped by earlier, says to tell you he’d be out again and not to wait up.”
“He’s not my-” I start to say, but it’s apparent the innkeep has no interest, so I pivot, “Did he say where he’s gone?”
“What do I look like? I’m an innkeep, not a messenger,” the man huffs before rushing away towards some customers.
As I head up the stairs to the second floor, I begin to wonder just what Gin has been up to all this time, reaching into my pocket for the steel key. In my approach, however, a sudden noise coming from my room causes me to freeze, the sound of objects being shuffled about.
The innkeep had said Gin was away. A thief?
I drop into a crouch, sneaking against the wall towards the door, finding that it is already slightly ajar. I lean forward, peering into the room. This only reveals an empty space, however.
Had I just imagined it?
Slowly, I push my way in, inspecting the area from just past the doorway. Nothing seems out of place, the room largely as I left it. My body begins to relax, and just as I’m about to let out a sigh of relief, that’s when I’m attacked.
A hand grabs me from behind, snaking around my neck as something sharp presses firmly against my throat. The warm breath of a cold whisper seeps into my ear.
“Where’s Gin Renolds?”