return
They approach the decrepit church to the Godshell, the largest of them dragging a lump bound in hessian. A monk squats on the doorstep, his filthy robes flapping in tatters as the freezing wind howls through the holes in the church walls, sending wafts of stale incense and spoiled wine to the party.
"Cleric", states the metal-bound leader of the pack, "we require your services". The monk sucks a small breath in from his limp cigarette, dirtweed wrapped in inked parchment paper. "Death is four silver", comes the reply.
The leader nods to the child clinging to their side, who promptly begins to scavenge through a purse made more from holes than the dog-leather it was crafted with. "We've only three, sire", whispers the boy, glancing up to the rusted helm of his knight.
The monk rises, scrawny, pale legs and unshod feet exposed to the harsh wind. "What matter." He turns and disappears into the murky interior of the church. "Bring the body."
Inside the church walls the wind is oppressed into a simple biting chill. Despite this reprieve, the interior has a coldness that chills the heart without ever touching the skin. Once over the threshold, the barks and cries of the city disappear and a deafening silence falls.
"On the altar."
A single, central brazier burns a hazy green glow over the broken interior of the church. Ancient, rotting pews lead to a bloodstained altar of stone, splintered wood encircling it as though it came crashing down from the very heavens it exists in refusal of. The largest man groans as he deposits the hessian-wrapped mass upon the altar, retreating before the cold stone could sap the last of his warmth.
The monk busies himself collecting dried herbs, sweeping the ash of burnt incense into small bowls, and replacing them with newly lit sticks. The pungent smell fills the church, the ritual turning the air thick and embracing.
The fabric enclosing the corpse is unceremoniously pulled back to reveal a young, pure, corrupted face. In death as though merely asleep, her delicate symmetry is ripped apart by a gangrenous wound from left cheek to right temple. The monk pauses for a moment. He knows Who has done this. "What matter.", he murmurs to himself, and continues with the preparation.
The slow-burning incense releases wisps of smoke as mumbled chanting fills the cold space with a suffocating drone. "I don't like this", states the largest man, perched on the sturdiest of the remaining pews. "There is no choice", rebuts the leader, looking forward. "This man does not sing with us", hisses the largest man, "not any more. He has breached the Shell, he is not to be trusted." The knight stares toward the altar.
"There is no choice."
The chanting stops. The wind is still. Every hair on the largest man's forested body stands on end. A low, searching moan seeps through the broken windows, under the door and through the holes in the roof. The green flame of the brazier glows brighter, casting the shadow of the monk wildly against the church walls, dancing and flashing.
Thick, dark miasma begins to drip from the pews, slapping against the floor in wet plops. Long strings droop from the ceiling, snapping at their lowest point, flicking black droplets over the altar. "This is heresy!" shouts the largest man, leaping to his feet, away from the ooze creeping towards his worn boots. "Silence!", yells the knight in return, "There is no choice!".
The young boy hears nothing of this. The moaning is loudest to him alone, echoing through the corridors of his mind, searching for the light that shines from his eyes. He stiffens and jolts, falling from the pew where he was sat beside the largest man. "Boy!", shouts the largest man, stooping to protect his head from hitting the cracked stone floor. "I will not stand for this blasphemy!", he roars, lurching toward the altar. "In the name of the Shell this must be—"
The blade stops his rant, replacing it with a wet gurgle, with desperate gasping. The acrid air provides no relief as he falls to his knees before the altar. The chanting returns, drowning out the last pathetic breaths of the largest man. The rust-bound knight pulls the twisted dagger out, standing over the body. "There is no other choice", they mumble.
The boy begins to writhe, the miasma seeping into his skin and enveloping his body, draining into his wide eyes and gaping mouth. The chanting grows louder than before and with renewed fervour. The monk raises his arms and stares to the sky, the clouds visible through the missing roof tiles dissolving away to reveal a pure black sky.
A demonic scream slashes through the darkness, an inhuman howl, and the cries of a lost child pierce the knight's rusted exterior, causing them to fall to their knees, clutching their steel-imprisoned head in agony. The flame grows until it spills over the brazier, engulfing the altar in emerald light. The miasma alights, its pearlescent surface bubbling as it is engulfed by flame. The stained glass windows flash, their radiance cutting through the air and beaming into the unlit sky.
Silence once more. A whisper of a breeze, whistling gently through the battered walls. Sunlight filtering weakly through the stained glass, illuminating motes of dust where the monk once stood. He is gone, leaving only the sharp scent of dirtweed smoke behind. The knight looks around. The boy is pale, cold, and still, splayed upon the floor. An empty purse hangs limply from his corded belt.
The knight rises shakily to their feet. They approach the body, pale and beautiful, naked upon the stone.
The beautiful face stares up at them, fear and sadness, a single tear escaping their eyes.
"What have you done?"
"There was no choice."
2026-04-14