B3 Interlude 14.2: Flagelation

Old hinges creaked as Arc pushed open the heavy doors to the Temple of Grandbrook.

Even with his natural might and a generous serving of Strength, the doors had a weight to them. It went beyond the simple inertia that he could feel tugging at his grip as he forced the door to slow without slamming — it was a holiness, an intensity he could feel in his soul.

Inside, the Hall of Gods opened up before him. Thirty longstrides wide by a hundred long, it was an immense space with an arched ceiling that rose far above his own head. Large as he was compared to a human, it made him feel small.

It was almost enough for him to wish to eschew his traditional garb — a heavy kilt and pouch-laden belt — in favour of a more complete human coverage. Alas, his natural bone armour and layered spine-scales snagged shirts terribly.

The feeling of exposure was intentional. There were no prayer booths here — no pews, or dais for a priest to speak to their clergy, and no columns to hold up the weight of the intricately carved stone above. It didn’t even have windows, lit only from strips of wardlights that had been deftly hidden where the walls met the roof.

All of that would have stood in the way of its true purpose.

Excluding only the floor, every surface within the hall had been carved with the likeness of the gods.

Feeling the judgement of a thousand pairs of eyes as they weighed the blackness of his oath-breaking soul, Arc pushed the door closed behind him. There were no other petitioners, just as he’d hoped. Little reason for most to visit the temple at so late an hour, even if it was open and staffed at all times. He stood there for a moment, frozen in his perdition as his eyes traced the likenesses of the gods.

Even after all this time he recognised few of them, and those he did were hard to find.

Ellyntir, with her matronly smile and an arm swept wide in welcome, ushering all those lost or scorned by fate into the revealing light of her lantern. Her gaze burned: he was unworthy of her grace.

Mut’ra the Stormlord, bearing the chitinous visage of the people of the It’thrak Isles, ever protected by his dark clouds and quick fist. The Lord’s arm was raised, a crackling javelin poised to skewer him where he stood. He would bear the penance willingly, may it leave his bone-carapace forever cracked.

Jorosh the Bound, chained to his totem with his head bowed beneath the weight of his oaths. The texture of the god’s natural bone armour had been rendered lovingly, as had the thin spine-scales on his throat — raised and bristling to show the sincerity of his conviction.

A god of his own people, the hirgost. It was under the judgement of the Bound that he withered most of all.

Arc averted his eyes, scanning the hall to commit more sacred forms to his memory. It was only right to treat the gods with such honour.

No matter the popularity of their worship, none was given preeminence over the others — all but one were carved the size of a man. A crowd of holiness that skewered him.

He settled on the lone standout — a featureless enrobed figure, wearing a blank mask that stood sentinel over the doorway at the far end of the hall. The Unfound and Forgotten, a representative for all divine beings that civilisation lacked the means to offer their piety to directly.

Arc took a breath, letting the weight of attention settle on him.

It was a terrible thing to be an oathbreaker. A sin that had weighed on him for many decades. He had thought he had grown used to the stain on his soul, had grown to persevere in the face of his wanting honour.

Already he had left the comforting warmth of his desert home, had endured his armour lacking the polish of sun-bleach. It was only fair that his body take on the sickly pallor of his own moral soiling.

Yet despite his fortitude and conviction to continue on — to prove his contrition and grow strong in the defence of others — he was forced to endure the mocking whims of fate.

To break his word once more. To relieve himself of the final crumbling remnants of his honour.

All because of a poorly given oath he had made in his youth, to a boy who had grown up to become hungry and cruel.

He’d thought the boy dead — had thought himself callous for being relieved at such a fate for one so honourable.

The fates had not been so kind. Now more than ever, Arc felt the weight of his years. Three-hundred-and-seventy-four levels he had gained since his exile — since his dishonour — and he was still helpless before their whims.

He sighed and raised his head. Crossing the hall, his bony plates of natural armour clacked against the stone.

Pausing in front of the door that would lead into the temple proper, Arc spent a final moment to feel the magnitude of his shame. He closed his eyes, pushing his wants to the sacred ones who stared down at him.

“Forgive this one for his weakness. For the naivety of his long-past youth.”

He pushed open the door, stepping into the next room.

Far smaller than the Hall of Gods, it was a space dominated by the warmth of yellow wardlights, and cushioned benches that waited for the early morning petitioners.

Upon the stage at the far back of the room, Arc spied an aged Holy One deeply entrenched in a large tome that took up almost the full size of the table he sat at.

Arc shut the door, the noise causing the holy man to jump.

“Oh! Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting a visitor at this hour. Monk Thrial, at your service.” The Holy One smiled, smoothing down his ruffled brown robes before he peered through the soft light of the worship hall to get a closer look at Arc.

Arc saw the Holy One’s eyes widen.

“Arc’theros! Please forgive me for not recognising you, my eyes aren’t quite the best in this light.”

Stolen novel; please report.

The holyman raced to their feet, stepping down from the raised stage to make his way down the gaps between the pews.

Arc tugged at one of his horns anxiously, watching the limp in the Holy One’s step. He’d lived in the human lands for long enough to know that one with silvery hair and leathery skin was a venerable elder

“Please, Holy One Thrial, do not strain yourself for one such as me.”

Holy One Thrial gave him a shocked look.

“What? Nonsense! How could a humble man of the cloth like myself expect the Defender of Grandbrook to give such deference?”

Arc frowned, hurrying forward to offer the man his arm. Holy One Thrial gave a sigh of discontent, but gripped his bone-plated forearm all the same.

“I suppose I should expect such respect from someone with your reputation, Arc’theros. You do yourself credit.”

“Please, Holy One, call this one Arc — this one is unworthy.” Inwardly, he wondered if plucking his spines would be less uncomfortable than hearing the regard in the Holy One’s voice.

“If you insist, Arc,” he holy said with a sigh. “Now, before you share what is troubling you, why don’t we take a seat? These bones aren’t quite what they used to be, and I lack both your hirgost and Golden vigour.”

Arc bowed his head, accepting the Holy One’s wisdom as he led the aged monk to a nearby padded pew. Once Thrial was safely seated, he took his place next to him — tugging as his kilt so it lay flat underneath him.