At the heart of the clearing, the new Statues of Triumph stood tall and formidable, their stone faces capturing the dying light in a way that made their expressions appear almost lifelike. Around them, a select few villagers gathered in pairs, their faces a mix of reverence and apprehension. The statues, crafted with exquisite detail, seemed to watch over the proceedings with a silent, eternal gaze.
The priest, draped in robes adorned with intricate patterns, held the sacred knife aloft. Its golden blade, tinged with patches of green from the antiseptic herbs, gleamed ominously in the twilight. With a solemn expression, he handed the knife to the first pair of villagers.
The villager who received the knife, a young woman with a determined set to her jaw, turned to her partner. His eyes, soft and trusting, met hers for a brief moment before he closed them, a silent acceptance of what was to come. He stood firm, his hands clasped behind his back, chest pushed forward in a gesture of complete surrender. Not a leaf rustled, not a bird sang. The forest was a silent, breathless witness.
With trembling hands, the woman brought the knife to her partner’s forearm. The blade glided smoothly, almost reverently, through his skin, leaving a small but precise wound. Her partner’s face twisted in pain, his breath hitching as he whispered, “I trust you.” His voice, though strained, carried a quiet strength, a testament to the bond they shared.
The severed piece of skin, pale and delicate, was carefully placed into a bowl filled with a mixture of herbs and leaves. The priest nodded approvingly and passed the knife to the next pair. One by one, the villagers repeated the ritual, their offerings of skin accumulating in the bowl. The atmosphere was charged with an almost palpable tension, each act of cutting and offering a profound testament to their shared faith.
The forest seemed to echo with unspoken prayers and murmured chants as the priest began to weave the pieces of skin with strips of leather, forming the base of a tapestry. His fingers, weathered and skilled, moved with practiced grace, intertwining the flesh and leather into a pattern that seemed to pulse with life. The villagers watched in hushed awe, their eyes wide with a mixture of fascination and fear.
“Trust is something to be built upon past triumphs,” the priest intoned, his voice resonating with a deep, otherworldly power. The knife was passed again, and this time, the cuts were deeper, the pain more intense. Blood flowed freely, staining the forest floor and mingling with the scent of earth and pine. The villagers’ eyes squeezed shut, jaws clenched, their faces twisted as if in a silent scream. Yet they bore it with a stoic grace, their whispers of trust echoing through the clearing.
The tapestry grew more intricate with each addition, a complex web of flesh, blood, and leather that seemed to hold a story of its own. The priest’s hands moved with a hypnotic rhythm, weaving the crimson strands into a pattern that spoke of sacrifice and faith.
As the final threads of the tapestry were woven, the villagers began to disperse, their whispers fading into the encroaching night.
Lorian stood there, a silent observer, as the villagers deftly wove the final threads of the tapestry. His mind was still a whirlpool of the warnings he had heard, keeping him anchored near the villagers and away from Aspiron’s imposing statue. The air felt thick with secrets. ‘This place,…just what in the world is it?’
A firm hand on his shoulder snapped him back to the present. It was the priest. "The tapestry of trust is complete. The funeral is over," the priest announced, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips.
Lorian’s eyes narrowed as he studied the priest’s serene expression. The cautionary words echoed in his mind, ‘Beware of the priest.’
"You seem troubled," the priest observed, his voice smooth like silk. "The making of the tapestry can be... unsettling."
Lorian nodded, his mouth dry. "It's... more intense than I expected." He looked around only to see the crowd thinning. Some stayed weeping around the statues while some left with their companions returning.
The priest’s eyes twinkled with a hint of something unreadable. "Come, let us return to the village. I imagine your mind is buzzing with questions."
Lorian hesitated, but the curiosity gnawing at him was stronger than his fear. "Yes, I have many questions."
The priest gestured for him to walk ahead. "All in due time, my son. Some answers are best shared away from prying ears."
As they began to walk, the priest’s voice took on a more conversational tone. "Did you know the tapestry has been part of our rituals for centuries? Each thread, each knot, is a symbol of our communal bond, our trust…"
As they continued walking, the villagers seemed to bow towards the priest. Distant chatters and murmurs melded within the air. Voices of men and women talking reached Lorian’s ears, some filled with grief, some with excitement, yet most were those of excitement and reverence. As the two men conversed, the villagers passing by would smile or nod as their eyes met the priest’s.
“You seem to have their trust,” Lorian remarked, his tone measured, his steps unwavering.
“Trust is built on triumphs,” the priest murmured, his eyes glinting with an unreadable light. He fidgeted with the ritual knife in his pocket “It can also be as sharp as the knife that binds us.” He added as they approached the village walls.
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There, in the wall was a gaping hole.
“Let us proceed through there, shall we?” The priest quickened his pace as he pointed towards the hole.
“Why this unusual path?” Lorian questioned, curiosity lacing his words.
“Sometimes, the less trodden path reveals the most,” the priest said, a mysterious smile touching his lips as he stepped into the village.
The church was about five minutes away from the broken wall. The village seemed rather hollow, with most houses empty and in disrepair. Despite the serene ambiance, Lorian sensed that this tranquility was just a facade, masking the underlying chaos. Lately, his mind had mirrored this deceptive calm. He noticed his thoughts becoming slower and cloudier, as if he was gradually turning into a puppet. His once active mind now felt as empty as the village houses.
‘This feeling is difficult to describe,’ he thought. ‘It’s as if I’ve been pushed aside on my own stage, replaced by someone else, reduced to a mere background character.’ He mused while looking at the imposing figure of the priest ahead, his frail back cloaked in black robes. For a moment, Lorian thought he saw a purple aura surrounding the priest, but when he looked again, it was gone.
Villagers paused their tasks as they looked at the two men, eyes widening in recognition. Some whispered fervently to one another, their voices a mixture of awe and hushed reverence. Lorian noticed how their heads dipped in a subtle bow as the priest passed, a gesture that seemed almost instinctual.
Lorian caught snippets of a conversation. “The priest is our true savior,” a man muttered, his tone reverent. “The chief did nothing during the last attack,” his companion agreed, a note of scorn in his voice. “Yah, he’s been a celebrity since the last attack” His friend responded, “Might as well start going to the church”
A couple approached the priest and Lorian.
“Thank you for saving us esteemed priest” The man said.
“All thanks to the god’s divine blessing my child. You should thank all those visit the church” The priest’s hands moved in an exaggerated manner as he spoke. “After all they garner the lord’s attention”
“I have been trying to make him enter the church but he just won’t listen!” The woman said, pouting.
“Ok…I did promise you I’ll go from now on!!” The man said waving his hands.
“See you in church then” The priest smiled closing his eyes. Gesturing Lorian to follow he kept moving.
A group of children playing nearby stopped their game, their laughter fading into whispers as they pointed towards the priest. "It's him!" one of the boys exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with admiration. "Father Kaiser!"
An elderly woman, bent with age, shuffled closer, her eyes brimming with tears. She reached out a trembling hand to touch the priest's robes, her voice a quiver of gratitude. "Bless you, Father, for saving us."
The priest nodded, his expression serene. "Blessings come to those who believe, dear one," he replied, his voice soft yet resonant.
Villagers brimmed with respect whenever they saw the priest. People approached them constantly, offering thanks or promising to attend church. Lorian felt a surge of confidence as he noticed the priest's warm smile. 'Maybe he can help me get home,' he thought, a small smile tugging at his lips, bringing a sense of serenity. But just as quickly, the warning he had received echoed in his ears, his smile fading.
As they approached the grand cathedral, its towering spires silhouetted against the darkening sky, the heavy wooden doors began to creak open, revealing the dimly lit interior. Two solemn-faced men, dressed in simple robes, pulled the doors wide, their eyes never leaving the priest.
"After you," the priest said with a warm smile, his voice echoing softly in the stillness.
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Chief Holmes stood beside the window, watching the priest escort Lorian into the Cathedral. Though his face now wore a stoic mask, it bore the marks of tears shed earlier. With a soft sigh, he walked toward the washroom at the far end of the infirmary. The wooden floors creaked in rhythm with the flickering candles on the walls.
He felt the cold knob of the door in his hands, slowly twisting it. His mind, however, was elsewhere. “What is his goal…” Holmes whispered, remembering the priest leading Lorian into the palace. He opened the door and stepped inside, his actions almost robotic.
“Boo!”
“Fuck!” Holmes jumped slightly, his heart racing. He placed a hand on his chest and looked at the woman standing in the bathroom doorway, smiling.
“Ruselle! What the hell!” Holmes' face flushed as he swore. “I could’ve attacked you!”
“Relax, Hun,” Ruselle said with a playful grin. “In an infirmary housing the village chief, they forgot to guard the washroom windows. Shame.”
“First off, I told you not to call me that. Second, stop using your powers to scare me!” Holmes said, rubbing his temples.
Ruselle giggled, twirling a lock of her curly blonde hair. Her stunning jade dress perfectly complemented her fair complexion. “So, has your boyfriend left?” She raised an eyebrow, peeking behind Holmes.
“Yes… and he’s not my boyfriend,” Holmes replied, exasperated.
Ruselle's demeanor shifted to seriousness. “I caught traces of his father near the ritual site,” she said, her blue eyes locking onto Holmes’.
“Aspiron?” Holmes mumbled, eyes widening slightly. “Are you sure?”
“You know how sensitive I am to Archetypes,” Ruselle replied with a knowing smile. “But Aspiron is the least of our worries right now. There are 122 villagers missing. Noncombatant villagers.”
“Looks like our doubts were accurate,” Holmes said, rubbing his temples.
“Seems so,” Ruselle agreed, leaning against the bathroom door. “An Archetype has infiltrated the village… one so strong that even I can’t detect it.”
“Do you have any leads?” Holmes asked
“…Most of the villagers that have disappeared were believers of the church” Ruselle paused for a moment, her fingers sliding down the door, “Also…” her hand hovered over the doorknob, fingers twitching but never quite making contact.
“Continue…” Holmes said with a stern voice.
“…the priest,…Kaiser,…there are no records of him ever existing in this village” Ruselle spoke in a measured pace.
“Have you been able to infiltrate the church?” Holmes asked.
“No. There’s something within the church walls that stops me from using my powers,” she replied, clutching her dress. “The last time I tried, I saw a vision.”
Holmes took a few steps closer. “What did you see?”
“…It…it was a snake that tried to eat me…” She continued trembling, “a large green snake with venomous fangs…” Ruselle muttered, trembling.
“It’s okay, Ruse,” Holmes said, hugging her comfortingly. Ruselle embraced Holmes tightly, her face slowly calming down as streaks of tears flowed down her face.
“You don’t need to try again. Someone from our order is already inside the church as we speak,” Holmes said, slowly releasing his grip.
“Who?” Ruselle asked, her face reddening as she turned away.
“Old man Magnus,” Holmes replied with a smile, “I’ve tasked him with bringing the newcomer into our order”