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/lit/ - Literature
Basilica of Agony
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<blockquote data-quote="The Patriarchy" data-source="post: 59258" data-attributes="member: 162"><p>Far away in the drowning reaches of the Fenlands, Elwin Marsh trudged homeward under a sky that sagged like a bloated corpse, the tome and phial clutched tight against his chest as if they were the last sparks of a dying fire. The mud sucked at his boots with every step, whispering secrets of rot and ruin, and the air hung heavy with the stink of stagnant water and forgotten graves. He could still feel the High Priest's gaze on him, that cold fire promising change at the edge of a blade, and it made his heart stutter with a mix of dread and something almost like joy—finally, a path out of this endless mire.</p><p></p><p>Back in his village, a sorry cluster of thatched huts sinking into the bog, Elwin's neighbors gathered around the central fire pit as he approached, their faces gaunt and hopeful in the flickering light. His wife, Mira, was there too, her once-bright eyes dulled by fever, wrapped in a threadbare shawl that did little to hide the sores creeping up her arms. "Elwin," she murmured, reaching for him with trembling hands, "did the priest... did he listen?"</p><p></p><p>He nodded, setting the relics down on a warped wooden table with the care of a man handling live coals. "He did more than listen, love. He gave us the way." The words felt heavy on his tongue, laced with the basilica's incense that still clung to his clothes, but he pushed on, opening the tome to reveal pages scrawled in a script that twisted like thorns. "We burn the oil at the four corners come midnight. Chant the words, and let the Agony do its work."</p><p></p><p>The villagers exchanged glances, a murmur rippling through them like wind over reeds—old Tamsin with her scarred hands from years of failed harvests, young Jem who dreamed of escaping to the cities but never quite mustered the nerve. "And if it calls down hell itself?" Tamsin asked, her voice a gravelly whisper, but there was no real fight in it; they'd all seen too many children swallowed by the red waters.</p><p></p><p>Elwin met her eyes, his stammer gone for once in the heat of conviction. "Then hell it is. Better fire than this slow drowning." He thought of the idol he'd surrendered, the one his grandfather carved from fen-wood, and wondered if the old gods were watching, chuckling in the shadows. But the High Priest's vision had seeped into him too, a whisper of roots and rising hands, and he knew there was no turning back.</p><p></p><p>As night fell, they prepared, marking the corners with stakes driven into the muck, the black oil sloshing in its phial like liquid midnight. Mira leaned on Elwin's arm, her breath ragged but her smile faint and real. "Whatever comes, we face it together," she said, and he squeezed her hand, feeling the fragile bones beneath her skin, his love for her a quiet ache amid the gathering storm.</p><p></p><p>Meanwhile, in the heart of Ontario, High Priest Ingersol knelt alone in his private oratory after the day's rituals, the bone fragments on his cassock digging into his knees like loving reminders. The visions still danced in his mind, that horned shadow grinning from the fen's depths, and he allowed himself a rare, private laugh—oh, how the Agony delighted in its ironies, turning a peasant's plea into the empire's next conquest. But doubt flickered too, unbidden: what if this miracle unraveled threads he couldn't mend? He pushed it aside, rising to pen a missive to General Adiran Delphine, his kin and rival, knowing the general's pragmatic eye would see the opportunity in the chaos to come.</p><p></p><p>"Brother," he wrote in ink as red as blood, "the fen stirs. Prepare your legions for the harvest of souls." Sealing it with wax imprinted by his gorget, Ingersol felt the familiar lust for power coil in his gut, warm and wicked, and he welcomed it like an old friend.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="The Patriarchy, post: 59258, member: 162"] Far away in the drowning reaches of the Fenlands, Elwin Marsh trudged homeward under a sky that sagged like a bloated corpse, the tome and phial clutched tight against his chest as if they were the last sparks of a dying fire. The mud sucked at his boots with every step, whispering secrets of rot and ruin, and the air hung heavy with the stink of stagnant water and forgotten graves. He could still feel the High Priest's gaze on him, that cold fire promising change at the edge of a blade, and it made his heart stutter with a mix of dread and something almost like joy—finally, a path out of this endless mire. Back in his village, a sorry cluster of thatched huts sinking into the bog, Elwin's neighbors gathered around the central fire pit as he approached, their faces gaunt and hopeful in the flickering light. His wife, Mira, was there too, her once-bright eyes dulled by fever, wrapped in a threadbare shawl that did little to hide the sores creeping up her arms. "Elwin," she murmured, reaching for him with trembling hands, "did the priest... did he listen?" He nodded, setting the relics down on a warped wooden table with the care of a man handling live coals. "He did more than listen, love. He gave us the way." The words felt heavy on his tongue, laced with the basilica's incense that still clung to his clothes, but he pushed on, opening the tome to reveal pages scrawled in a script that twisted like thorns. "We burn the oil at the four corners come midnight. Chant the words, and let the Agony do its work." The villagers exchanged glances, a murmur rippling through them like wind over reeds—old Tamsin with her scarred hands from years of failed harvests, young Jem who dreamed of escaping to the cities but never quite mustered the nerve. "And if it calls down hell itself?" Tamsin asked, her voice a gravelly whisper, but there was no real fight in it; they'd all seen too many children swallowed by the red waters. Elwin met her eyes, his stammer gone for once in the heat of conviction. "Then hell it is. Better fire than this slow drowning." He thought of the idol he'd surrendered, the one his grandfather carved from fen-wood, and wondered if the old gods were watching, chuckling in the shadows. But the High Priest's vision had seeped into him too, a whisper of roots and rising hands, and he knew there was no turning back. As night fell, they prepared, marking the corners with stakes driven into the muck, the black oil sloshing in its phial like liquid midnight. Mira leaned on Elwin's arm, her breath ragged but her smile faint and real. "Whatever comes, we face it together," she said, and he squeezed her hand, feeling the fragile bones beneath her skin, his love for her a quiet ache amid the gathering storm. Meanwhile, in the heart of Ontario, High Priest Ingersol knelt alone in his private oratory after the day's rituals, the bone fragments on his cassock digging into his knees like loving reminders. The visions still danced in his mind, that horned shadow grinning from the fen's depths, and he allowed himself a rare, private laugh—oh, how the Agony delighted in its ironies, turning a peasant's plea into the empire's next conquest. But doubt flickered too, unbidden: what if this miracle unraveled threads he couldn't mend? He pushed it aside, rising to pen a missive to General Adiran Delphine, his kin and rival, knowing the general's pragmatic eye would see the opportunity in the chaos to come. "Brother," he wrote in ink as red as blood, "the fen stirs. Prepare your legions for the harvest of souls." Sealing it with wax imprinted by his gorget, Ingersol felt the familiar lust for power coil in his gut, warm and wicked, and he welcomed it like an old friend. [/QUOTE]
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