You scowl, having wound yourself up in a forest up the ass end of nowhere. Your final, last, painstaking lead vanishing like so much sunlight over the horizon. A heavy, weary sigh escapes your lips. It is beneath a priest to sin, but by the Light, the next tavern has a drink with your name on it. Besides, you can’t even be so sure what sinning even is any more. You’ll have to wet your own whistle and quite substantially at that before you can even begin to entertain the thought of trying to drag more mumbled arcane knowledge from the elderly kicking and screaming. Or, belching and slurring. At the very least, the view of the setting sun smearing its dusky reds over the sea of orange, red and the odd splash of green is a striking one. Golden, even.
Letting out a withering, unbecoming sigh you begin to turn back, when a supernatural twinge warns you of danger. Hand flying to the handle of your mace with all the speed of a trained duellist, the cone shaped head ignites with your holy power, projecting a barrier about the head and gleaming with enough light to illuminate the gloom of the falling dusk.
Twisting, you bring it up with enough force to send the blur flying. There’s the vague sound of a crystal being shattered accompanied by a flash of light, the very visceral sound of bone splintering and an ear splitting, heart wrenching whine as something thuds to the ground behind you. Turning, you see a large yet gaunt wolf alternating between growling at you and whimpering, its jaw bloodied and shattered, a couple of smaller fangs lying in the dirt. It tries to scrabble to its paws, but the effort dies on so many discordant limbs, sending it thudding back down, at least until the blunt trauma stun wears off.
You immediately go on the alert, but except for the pitiful sounds the beast makes there’s no other noise in the forest. It seems to be alone. Your attention is drawn back to it, as you give it a deeper scrutiny. Malnourished, its eyes seem to flicker between pain and an unnatural insanity. Sighing, you stow your mace upon hook by your belt, through eyehole upon the pommel. The woods dim again as the power fades from the head, only to light up once more as you stretch a hand out and begin to chant, a stream of gentle light flowing from your hand to the wolf’s head.
The holy prayers flow out of your lips, directing and honing your thoughts and intentions into calming the otherwise rabid beast. It flinches when you hold your second hand out and kneel before it, but stops whimpering for the most part. Due to the immediate, less insidious nature of its jaw injuries, when the warm glow of your other hand hovers just over it, it’s the flesh that begins to heal first. You stop a moment to collect some of the fangs. It seems to have been shocked into lucidity enough to allow you to poke around in its mending mouth, but by the time its jaw is more or less healed, insanity begins to creep back into its eyes, turning them smouldering red. You place that calming hand directly to its skull and change incantations, realigning your thoughts closer to that of purification this time.
There’s an instinctive response from the maddened wolf, but you press its head down easily – mostly because the body can’t perform a coordinated response. An odd, unholy power you can sense but not see begins to radiate from the wolf. Though you can’t see it, it pushes a kind of impression into your mind, of black smoke and leering skulls, not cackling, just waiting for their inevitable and terminal due.
It evaporates into the air as you dredge the influence out from its bones. The wolf’s struggle ceases, as the last of the magic induced insanity leaves it. Magic corruption – so called for its properties – isn’t necessarily bad for a creature in and of itself. In fact, it’s vital for the formation of many a monster. First comes a period of aggression as the body struggles to adapt. This could manifest in something as benign as a bird building an excessively large nest. Or a rabid bear, breaking into and slaughtering a hamlet. Then, the long period of growth as magic stockpiles within it, changing the creature on a fundamental basis, a seed of sapience germinates. Finally, ascension. Whether that’s a good or a bad thing depends entirely on your perspective, but that kind of moral judgement can’t be applied to the process of magic corruption, it’s more a force of nature. It could be any element. Light or shadow.
You frown as an unease swims around your gut. Life or death. Death magic too, doesn’t have to be evil. Those who would use it however… what business does a wolf have with death magic, in a forest no less? Perhaps if this evidently lone wolf had scavenged a graveyard it would make sense. Out here in the domain of nature though, death is fleeting. A minuscule scrap of its essence is produced within a carcass and it’s quickly broken down to fuel the propagation of life. Death magic doesn’t saturate the soil, flow with the streams and rivers. Not normally and often not naturally either.
“I thank the Light’s providence.” You mutter as you rise, looking deep into the woods. Just as you were lost, the Light provided you a way, though you don’t know if it’s related to your search. The wolf is already out of your mind. Predictably, it rises shakily, runs off, turns to look again and runs further. Beasts do recognise their benefactor, but no matter how crazed, it isn’t going to thank you for shattering its jaw. The Prayer of Calming can do much, but it can’t make one forget the pain they’d already suffered. Just dull what was present.
The trees are gloomy and dark, so you take your mace in hand and advance forth at the ready. A dim glow accompanies you and another barrier forms the head of your mace, this time not so bright as before, about the output of a small lantern.
The influence acting on the wolf may have nothing to do with the lost monastery you’d spent so long searching for, but regardless, the source of it must be investigated. In the best case scenario, at least the good deed is going to make the booze go down smoother later on. In the worst case scenario it may actually stem from your lost monastery. Your expression hardens. If such holy ground is indeed the source of this black rot… it must be purged.
You hope not, it would be a depressing ending to your first pilgrimage. Though, still glorious enough to permit you your promotion from deacon to priest, allowing you to transfer over to, and run one of the innumerable lesser churches of the Holy Imperial City. Besides, a lot more rides on this pilgrimage than your promotion. A good part of it… Deep worry etches your brow. A good part of it has to do with your very faith.
Questions that started innocently, but were never actually resolved. Questions that began to gnaw as time went on and you grew and witnessed more of the Holy City. Some of the brightest holy men and women had some of the darkest shadows yet their powers of the Light outstripped even some of the most ardently and piously faithful. Meanwhile the church disseminates stories of unilateral justice and retribution… You hesitate to call it propaganda but as the party on the other end of the countless church stories, you know some details that go unsaid in favour of the “‘conciseness’ and ‘intelligibility’ of the truth for the masses” as they put it.
How is it the light dispenses a divine categorical restitution against all monsterkind – more so those foul enough to divert faithful souls from their eternal rest – yet… doesn’t seem to forsake those false preachers? Worse, you’d heard stories of those sects theologically, morally and legally grey who still strive for goodness despite having turned their back on the light. How could it be the light forsakes even them, bolsters corruption within the church, but smites a priestess willing to eternally damn her soul in obsession with safeguarding an orphanage from said corruption? That’s one of the little told stories floating around in locked archives. You’d be surprised it weren’t scoured from the archives if not for stories of their nature unfortunately being legion.
Is there something more fundamental missing? Is this apparent nature of the light not an inconsistency within its inherent being, but a fault in the scriptures and teachings passed down? Or are you wrong for believing there to be elements of selfless sacrifice… even righteousness in some of these unsaid stories? Even, Light forbid, those dealing in the dead and demonic? Can you never find answers to these questions because they’re a self evident truth and in your curious ideations, you’ve lost grip of some core essence and fallen into heresy?
You hoped to, if not find answers to these questions, at least take a little time away from the Holy City, to reflect and realign your faith. Maybe your lost monastery, by some miracle, houses ancient scriptures uncatalogued in the Holy City that deals in these very questions? Maybe you just receive the Light’s truth along the way, enlightened by something as mundane as a child’s squabble by the roadside.
It would appear that instead of answers, you’d been given something dark instead. As you venture deeper into the woods, that dark premonition takes root in you and grows. It blooms to its dread fruition as you come to a forest path, well grown over, but for the patches of Imperial stone. Looking down it, as it bends and twists into darkness, the sense of dark magic grows stronger and the woods grow quieter.
A grimace takes your features. You’d found your lost monastery. One of the many early ones to crop up, before the extent of the holy ground had been fully ordained. All these exterior churches fell into disuse over time as the Holy City grew and the benefits of being upon holy ground versus not became manifest. Disuse then eventually abandonment. But by that time the Hierocracy was already a vast and sprawling – to some critics – unwieldy body of governance. The odds of these lost churches, chapels, abbeys and monasteries bearing original documents not copied or carried over to central cathedrals or other religious relics were fairly decent.
It had taken months of long long hours of research in the countless disparate church archives to try and locate this particular monastery and even longer hours trying to coax lore out of individuals in the outlying hamlets and villages of the Imperial Capital, a uniquely hostile lot living in the shadow of the grand city-mountain. Their beliefs and existence did little to assuage your personal woes. Seeing for the first time the way people lived outside the city went a long way to kill the naivete within you. The only solace here was that in their stories of the fallen clergy, few featured mastery over the powers of the Light. Though in some way that just tied the knot of questions in your heart even tighter as the rule also proves the exception. Yet how can the beneficent wholeness of the Light have exceptions? Rather, it evidently did, so emblemized by the titanic walls about the city, blocking the sun and looming over the scattered hamlets around the city like a mountain almost leeching vitality from the surroundings. So how is it the scripture doesn’t reflect that discrimination?
…At any rate, merely locating the monastery at all is a triumph of character and virtue for all the… associating with thrice forsaken blasphemers it took. Of course, their tongues were wiser than their hearts. You heave a sigh, craving yet again to return to the holy ground. You’d trade all the mortal luxuries for another bite of the plainest holy bread, another mouthful of pure holy water. Such an eternal shame only the most sanctified of items retain any measure of their holiness upon leaving the city. Sadly, the bread in your pack isn’t such an item.
You head down the overgrown path for what feels like an hour. The trees bordering the path are exceptionally old and large, so except for the roots and weeds splitting the pavement, the wide path is actually open, clear and during the day probably fairly picturesque. It isn’t too long before you come to a crumbling half nature-reclaimed wall. The walls, by their structure seem to serve a defensive purpose as equally as they act as a delineation. The odds of raiding this deep into the woods were low but despite this, from the still standing sections of wall you can make out the thick and sturdy construction. Perhaps at the time of its construction the woodland wasn’t as dense, the monastery as secluded?
There’s a stretch of the crumbled wall where a tree grows directly out of it like some proud statement. Perhaps the sight alone is worthy of some meditating upon. A corroded but otherwise perfectly fine pair of gates sit ajar, not twisted or forced open. Upon these gates, cast in iron sits the monastery’s title, ‘Glenbrook Priory’. The letters wrought in metal sit such that in two lines each gate reads ‘Glen Pri’ and ‘brook ory’ respectively, meanwhile a lit lantern to the side casts an eerie glow over the entrance. Instantly, a number of things click in your mind, like pieces to a puzzle now that you know of the place’s name. The town of Glenbrook still exists to this day, though under a different name by now and a good way to the south east.
If records that directly name this lost monastery exist, you hadn’t managed to find them in the archives. The records are spotty and incomplete with time, disaster and foul agency. The very archives themselves aren’t free of their dangers either. Finding its name alone is of some considerable merit. Perhaps even more lost locations can now be found by cross referencing the name. You cast a glance to the lit lantern before passing through the gates, academic and religious heart pounding in tandem while a more rational mind reaches for your mace.
The caution quickly tampers excitement. The grounds have been perfectly, neatly maintained, to an extent where they’d be fit for the upper spires, or maybe even the lower cathedrals. But beyond that, lights flicker within the monastery and despite showing signs of age, there are no holes in the ceiling, loose tiles or anything that would indicate neglect. The priory is on the smaller side of things, combining a number of buildings into the one, the chapel as you can see by the large grandiose doors, a dormitory built onto the wing and a second story library over the chapel going by the design. The building is situated facing south towards the holy city, though the gates enter from the south south west so from your angle you’re just barely able to spy what looks to be a cloister on the other side of the building though there’s no doubt in your mind a refectory and balneary lie some wehere out of sight given what you know of the architecture during the distant period.
Other smaller buildings occupy the grounds, dwellings, little shacks by a number of gardens lying about, off to the far side seems to be a greenhouse and based on what kind of complex this is you’d wager that sitting just behind the main building would be a smithy of sorts, perhaps even a small brewery for brewing potions among other beverages.
All of these bar a smaller dwelling or two are plainly inhabited and not even those aren’t are in a state of disrepair, despite this entire monastery being over tens of thousands of years old. Yes, these were constructed with sanctified materials and blessed extensively but so far away from the blessed holy ground and its providence these blessings would fade in time. Yes it’s possible – routine, even – that ascetics were sent out to repair and refurbish every few decades but there ought to have been records if that were the case. You were half expecting to find little more than stone foundations in the dirt and have to dig for the rest.
Alas, this is not the case of some random rogue inhabitants restoring the monastery as it collapses around them, nor is it clerical error on your behalf and not truly a ‘lost monastery’. You don’t even get the solace of some random tragedy happening in the long lost past for you to exorcise.
This place is inhabited by those who would be the very source of this death malady. You grip the handle of your mace tight, brow furrowing deeply as light ignites from the head and fury at the heathenous usurpers grows. You all but march across the grounds and up to the doors, not spying a soul as you do so. Though, at a time like this, prayer before supper is customary.
The decorative motifs on the ancient doors give you no solace. Indeed the veritable wave of blasphemy emanating from the building seems to twist your familiar and beloved – if dated – symbols in to the marks of heresy. Your fingertips grace them for a moment, before your hand balls into a fist and you put your shoulder into it, heaving the doors open. There’s a soft whooshing noise and a loud crash, causing you to wince slightly despite yourself. The doors were well balanced and apparently well oiled despite their age.
At least your entrance had the desired effect. A number of habited figures turn their heads, some veiled, some not, all women, all beautiful. All disgusting, heretical, blasphemous rot walking cloth defiling fetid undead whores!
Perhaps some part your subconscious desire to reject the wavering of your faith, a zealous adrenalin courses through your system. Your eyes and nostrils widen, hair fairly bristling as apoplectic righteous fury burns within you. You swing your mace out to your side and thrust your other hand out. Light blazes from the mace head and burns with the fury of the Light, obliterating every shadow in the room as your outstretched hand points at the central praying figure, holy power already surging and collecting from within. You roar the incantation entirely by rote, every fibre of your mind and soul in the searing blade of holy light about to slash through the witch-defiler and smite her into so much ash.
“Sancta Lux spernit vos!”
You will that unilateral divine castigation to rend the woman before you, those gnawing questions so far from your mind. With a burst of light, the figure is struck across her bountiful chest but to your shocked horror all that lay across her is a blackish scorch mark on jarringly pale skin, now that holy light had slashed through her clothes and revealed her sinful body beneath. Your eyes widen for a different reason than carnal attraction. Shocked and stunned you glance to your outheld hand, unaware of the head of your mace flickering as you falter and reel. How could this be? Do the scriptures not say that the Light suffers not the demon, the beast and the dead?
She smiles, pale blonde hair settling back down to frame her perfect face as she recovers from the impact and begins to walk towards you, otherwise unharmed.
“Sancta Lux spernit vos!!”
You shout again, more urgently this time, another broad slash of burning light striking at her, making her halt in her footsteps once more, the strike burning through the now scandalously shortened clothes, striking across her bust and leaving a flap of cloth to hang down and expose a large, perfect breast, while said orb jiggles with the blow, scorched again but only that. This time it cuts a little deeper, skin peeling and cracking while the essence of death within her meets the holy light and wisps away, evaporating as black smoke. You take a shaky step back while she winces, but she should have been torn in two like raw flesh on red-hot chain, scorched and burning, forbidden to exist as it does upon the holy land. Not… wincing!
At this point the other members of this twisted dread convent stop staring at you. Bowing their head in prayer, they utter the incantations so horrifically, terribly familiar to you and a stream of gentle light flows from the clasped hands of each praying individual to the… thing before you. She quivers, lets out a little gasp and you can hear the sizzle of light purging undead flesh as you should, but before your agape horror she merely arches her back, rolls her eyes up, bites into her lower lip and offers a whimper somewhere between pleasure and pain. The burns. The holy burns exacted upon this blasphemous creature as just retribution for existing… vanish.
Is this some illusion? Do your heretical eyes deceive you? Are you hallucinating, and if so when did you start? Or worse… Is this real? Were you right all along? Did you find no answer in the hallowed halls of the ecclesiastical archives because there is no answer? Was this search of answers futile? No. Worse…
Would, by the Light would that you had never stepped beyond the walls of the capital, would that you’d never sought to answer the niggling questions in the back of your mind, would that you’d never stepped foot upon these forsaken grounds… You’d found your answer. The answer you’d least wished to see, flowing from these praying corpses. Incandescent, grossly incandescent ribbons of pure holy Light… healing the dead! The scriptures, wrong. For how else could this be? Or… do you even truly understand the nature of the Light? Do you not know your own God?
Quivering, you lunge forwards with a disbelieving, denying roar and swing your mace, not noticing the darkness of the room, how that comforting barrier of light around the head had long since shattered. Not that it matters, you swing and she catches your wrist, stopping you dead with unholy strength. She takes the defunct thing with her other hand and tosses it aside.
Your heart freezes with fear as the death chill of her touch seeps into you, robbing you of will and might, but it pales in comparison to the existential terror as she takes that hand and pokes a graceful, delicate finger down onto your chest. Her pale pink tongue slips out to wet her lips as she smirks down at you.
“Sancta…” her finger glows, burns as it cuts through your cloth. “Lux…” your skin sizzles and your mind breaks as the holy Light you’d devoted your life to scorches your skin in divine forsaking. “Spernit…” she smiles again as she looks to the cute love heart she’d etched into your chest. “vos~” The last syllable slams down on your mind with foundation shattering finality. “Run along now, cutie.”
Her voice is so soft… so feminine and tempting. Like a mother, she cradles the shards of your lost psyche, the sum of your life flashing before your eyes. Your first memory in the arms of a gruff, overly clerical Father, reading the scriptures to you. The hot tears on your boyish cheeks as your knees weakened and you fell before the grand majesty of the Great Cathedral, pure Light radiating up from the earth and suffusing you under the bemused gaze of your Father. The countless hours of pious reflection, seated on old wood, surrounded by older candles and handling ancient parchment. The pride and delight as you were ordained deacon… Yet ultimately, as her eyes reflect yours, reflect the room around you.
You scream.
* * * *
You come to as a shudder rips through you. Your clothes are soaking wet, unknown if sweat or rain, as the icy droplets hammer over you. The sky had clouded over in the night at some point, dark enough that if not for the lantern hanging by the entrance to the monastery you’d not be able to see further than your nose. Your skin is scratched everywhere, cloth torn while your calves and thighs burn. A few cuts run deeper and bleed readily, while your throat feels as though you’d spend the last year gargling glass shards. Your eyes ache, as does your jaw, some of the wetness on your face undoubtedly tears. It seems you’d spent an indeterminate amount of time insane, sprinting and screaming and crying through the woods at night.
Now you find yourself on your knees, before the gates of the monastery, a dark chasm in your heart where Light once filled it. A calm placidity overtakes you, soothing the aches in your body. Priests are special. Perhaps, not even strictly human, mutated, if such a heretical word might grace your thoughts. Generations being born, dying on holy ground, a rare few are born with a gift, to commune with the holy Light itself, wield and harness it. Be shaped by it. Their minds are formed of a sterner stuff. You’re not surprised you came out of your insanity so quick, steadiness of mind being a trait selected for in priests it’s more a shock you descended into it in the first place. Well, ex-priest now, you suppose.
An ice cold hand touches your shoulder, giving you warmth. You just now register the presence standing beside you. You feel strange now that she’s arguably the most familiar thing to you now, if you were to consider everything before this waking moment as lost like ash on the wind. “Existential despair is a necessary emotion for any believer to feel at some point along their journey. It is a kind of little death – one you’re lucky to experience before coming face to face with the real thing. It is… a formative experience. Only once your soul has died, tainted by your perceptions of the world around you, is it ready to be reborn pure once more. A pure soul will be your sword and shield, it will guide you forwards. The fact that you ended up back here tells me you have potential.” She smiles at you, looking over your soaked and tattered form. “Not that the Light looks fondly on turning away the destitute anyway.”
Perhaps it’s your subconscious mind’s attempt to grasp for anything familiar in the wake of so traumatic a sundering, but you take a strange comfort in the familiarity of her garb, changed now from the one you had scorched earlier. Her fairness was apparent before, but then you’d seen it as little more than a tool for the corruption of the weak of heart and mind. Now… you’re not sure what to think. Too drained to muster the usual response of brimstone and helfire at any rate.
Long pale blonde hair falls over her shoulders and down her breasts and back like a golden white fall, almost the same colour of holy water. Her face is motherly, embracing fully all the aspects that entails. The kindness, care and compassion on one hand. The pent up lust and desire of a breeder hidden on the other. There’s an unnerving familiarity in the comparison, where on a monster it’s supposedly sowish, yet on a priestess it’s somehow holy and right. She is – was – evidently a woman of the cloth. You’ve no clue how even the newer priestesses manage the look, when so many of them haven’t even fulfilled the base prerequisites. You suppose that’s an aspect of the training you never got, the maternal, nurturing public face of the Church.
Her eyelashes are long, eyes large and round though they appear gently sloped with a lifetime’s benign smile. The whites are pure, almost unnervingly so, but the soft, pale, golden glow of her pupil and iris both offset any discomfort. They sit just above a delicate nose with a graceful bridge faintly sloped upwards at the tip and a full pair of pale pinkish lips with a pronounced bow and corners that tug up ever so slightly though you can’t tell if they do that naturally or as a product of that ever-present smile. Despite all the softness, she’s got a slim, heart shaped face and a decently defined jaw. In the odd way that only the most long lived of races can – including undead, apparently – she straddles both extremes of supple youth and elegant maturity.
Her dress is… not standard. Then, what the priestesses wear never is. Perhaps this was the style some uncounted aeons ago. She wears a sleeved black scapular, a short white guimpe and… little else. The sleeves are long and loose at the bottom, hanging just halfway down her palms, though she’s folded it back to her wrist to form a white cuff. Front and back, the scapular’s length goes down past her knees and would hang loose and open if not for a network of delicate golden threads tying the two strips of gold embroidered cloth together. They hug most prominently under her large but firm bosom then again around her slim vaguely toned belly, pulling the cloth inwards to be almost skin-tight.
The lacing around her hips is more for show. Innumerable little golden icons and symbols hang from the sloping thread. Surprisingly – as it’s rarely the case, unless you were to count the side view of her breasts – no cleavage is shown. The neck of the scapular sits high enough to meet the guimpe. A pair of black stockings hug from the top of her thigh down to a black shoe. The width of the scapular is such that it covers the majority of her front and back and is only barely shy of covering her hips, the pale outer curve of her full thighs and round rear in full view and from the right angle you can see a good portion of her pelvic region. Or course, nothing more alluring than the curving slopes where her thighs meet her groin, but enough to know she isn’t wearing underwear.
Would that you could fault her for being a harlot, but strictly speaking she’s better clothed than some other priestesses. At least her scapular is one long section of cloth, as it should be and not split down the front middle, rejoining barely in time for the coyest mock observation of modesty. Still, it’s apparent why, when she wears so little, your errant light slashes disrobed her then and there. Not that you’ve the faith to reenact such a thing anymore even if the desire begins to bubble around the back of your mind.
Her smile deepens as she watches you ogle her. “Didn’t get a good view earlier?”
You blush a little and tear your gaze from her crotch. Part embarrassment, part shame. If you hadn’t barged in so cocksure and ready you might have at least had an extra moment to ogle before she broke your faith. “Not exactly.”
She looks over herself, twisting and flashing a dangerous amount of inner thigh. “I do hope the style of dress hasn’t changed that much since I’ve been gone.”
“Uh… not exactly.”
She giggles, “Then I suppose I’m a sight for sore eyes? I’m happy to know I’m still easy on them at least. You look like you must have been gone from the Holy City for quite a time. But come, you’re drenched through. Come in, have a bath and some warm food. Sister Ann is a bit of a glutton, but at least you can rest assured in her skills. I am Prioress Mara, although just Mara is fine. The Prioress bit was appointed, most the girls are quite independent and happy with their own devices. There isn’t much to run” She gives a playful wink and holds her hand out to you.
“Brother Auren. Ah… just Auren now, I suppose.”
You take her hand and she helps pull you up, as your deadened muscles aren’t quite up to task. Standing at your full height, you find yourself a head shorter than her and you’re already on the upper end of average height. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Brother Auren. Please, this way.” You almost trip over yourself as she tugs you along. The two of you pass under that glowing lantern, its illumination casing an eerie light over her strangely alluring too-pale skin. She crunches down on the pebbled paths with a half strut, soft curves jiggling with the motion in the most attractive way. Your eyes flick to the swaying ass and jiggling side boob before that long-honed instinct to ignore the dressage or lack-thereof of holy women kicks in. Thankfully, she begins to speak, allowing your mind something else to focus on as you once would the holy scriptures.
“I’ll take you on a more dedicated tour later, as we’ve got to get you warmed up, but that,” She points a finger to the prime building in the centre of the premise, “as I’m sure is obvious, is the church, with the library, dormitories, kitchen and baths affixed, this” She swings her finger over towards a building to your left as you pass it, “Is one of the store rooms – dry storage in there, stacks of firewood and a few shelves of barrels from the brewery.” The arching motion causes your eyes to stray again, only now you suppress that instinct to divert your attentions. Growing up in the church you’d seen more than your fair share of the type, but this priestess has something of a different… ‘feel’. Something that sets her above all the rest, if only because it also sets her apart. Rather than saying that you can’t deny your interest in her, it’s more accurate to say you can’t help but betray your interest in the undead woman with your lingering glances, where as with any other you can manage to hide or ignore your interest quite well. Perhaps it’s just because she’s the first monster girl you’d seen, having been grown and raised within the protective Holy Walls of the city.
Of course, staring is rude. And blatant. You finally avert your eyes, to study a neat hedge running along the path. Worryingly, knowing where your gaze is – and maybe was – she speaks up. “Sister Ethilieyr tends to the plants, although Sister Brylie trims these.” She stops for a moment and squats down with her knees wide to reach out for one of the soft looking, greenish grey leaves. “I love the colour.” Cloth gathers between her thighs, hugging her womanhood while the rear stretch makes the most half-hearted attempt to cover her ass you’d ever seen clothing make.
You clear your throat, feeling a certain heat rise. Is this what’s to come of you? Are you to throw all your faith, devotion and experience up until this point away? Devolve into one of the degenerate preachers of endless bacchanalia obsessed with the spear between his legs? “Yes.” You look around “There’s a lot of… greyness.”
She smiles longingly, the corners of her eyes crinkling up in imagined satisfaction. “Wait until it’s a rainy day and sister Ann cooks up a big bowl of soup with warm, steaming bread and hot cups of tea.” She lets out a long, light sigh and rises. “I’d never known such comforting… warmth in life. Come.”
She finally leads you around the back of the priory, to the balneary. She must sense the eroding remnants of your will to deny the bubbling lust, or perhaps it’s all in your head as you ruminate over the loss of everything your life has been since orphanage to now, even if the presence of scantily clad nuns looks to be an oddly comforting constant. Her allure seems to grow progressively harder to resist, a sense of dark nobility takes you under its sway, giving you the strange notion that she were your undead queen and you had no better place to be than between her thighs.
At the very least, she doesn’t seem surprised as you round on her after entering the balneary, pinning her to the closed door, the bulge in your cloth pressing up against the cleft in hers. On instinct, you slip your fingers through the threads binding her scapular together and sink your fingers into the large, pliant orb of cold flesh, thumb brushing against a stiff nipple. It’s as you begin to throw yourself to your passions with complet abandon her utter non-reaction hits you. Just that same placid smile as she looks down at you.
Back twinging with the long forgotten childhood shame of being chided by the abbess, you look up into her soft golden eyes. “Don’t be so quick to damn your soul.” She chuckles, “Some girls like to watch you damn it slow. Go and meditate, all is not lost. I promise to help you understand, so for now, just relax. Are you so eager to forsake your teachings?”
You frown, again feeling that dark void within you, where Light once shone.“What good are they now?”
“You know this isn’t right.”
Scowling in lost frustration, you press a hand against the darkening cloth between her legs. Your fingers press in to the wet fabric, coming away damp. “You want it too.” It’s bad enough you’ve lost your faith, but now a monstergirl won’t even take a man throwing himself at her? What actually is real anymore? Was any of what they wrote in the books true? You thought for sure that even if nothing else, their indefatigable lust would be.
Her expression doesn’t flinch, same ghost of a motherly smile gracing her lips. “Yes, but not like this. You’re a smart boy, you know the merit of your teachings, even if your faith has been broken. Damnation exists beyond just the Light’s teachings.”
You deflate and hang your head, pull your hand back from her crotch. “I… don’t understand.”
“I know, child.” She slips away from you and opens the door, looking at you over her shoulder, figure still cutting that intoxicating shape of vales and hills. “If you truly want to enter damnation, I will enter it with you, leave this place and we can dance and riot together with the demons in the endless black procession if that is your desire.” With that, she leaves you to your thoughts.
***
The old gilded wooden door closes softly. With a long, shaky sigh Mara leans her weight against it, butt flattening up against the wood. She lifts a hand up between her breasts and touches the thin cloth over her cool skin, flinching back as she feels the powerful, wilful, long forgotten beat as her thighs press together around the strip of cloth hanging between her legs. “…How long?”
***
The only solace to you in this moment, is the rather familiar and uniform make of the bathing area, down even to where the towels and soaps are placed. Stripping off your tattered robe, you grab a bar of soap and step into a large central tub of marble, making your way to the taps. You’re not surprised at all, given a monster’s tendency towards the hedonistic that the hot water systems are well preserved and judging by the temperature of the water that gushes through, well stocked with crystals. A bit of an anomaly given the monastery’s isolated location, though you suppose it’s not unusual for the monsters here to have their own networks. Light knows they’ve apparently had enough time to.
If you were to guess, the bath would be connected to the nearby stream via ancient plumbing. No doubt the water drained would return to the stream. Though flowing water doesn’t corrupt as stagnant water does, tainting the stream like that can’t have only effected the one lone wolf you’d come across. Their presence here must have had residual effect on a great swathe of the forest. Interesting, then, that the woods don’t look so corrupted from the outside. Perhaps a good portion of this is the mutated gardens soaking up the ambient corruption. You’ll have to tell Prioress Mara about the wolf.
The water covers your feet as you take a seat carved out into the bath and you close your eyes as the water rises, calming yourself. Her words already offer you guidance going forwards, even if the crux of your inner turmoil remains unresolved. There is indeed merit in much of your teachings, merit that doesn’t lie exclusively within your faith or lack thereof.
You heave a heavy sigh, relaxing in the steaming waters, ruminating, until the water rises up your leg and spills over your thighs, catching the first lot of scratches and cuts. You tense and hiss through your teeth through the sharp stinging sensation, so dulled with other things preoccupying your mind. You set about cleaning any dirt out of your innumerable little scratches with gentle rubs of the bar of soap. A good time later – just as you’re entertaining the idea of getting out, having chased away the cold and washed yourself down thoroughly – the door opens and Mara enters, holding a folded up robe. You rise, thankfully still covered up to the stomach in water. “I’m sorry, Prioress.”
“Please, Mara. And don’t be. I know it must be a hard thing to bear.” She emphasises ‘hard’ and casts a glance down at the water. “Come, get dressed.”
“What is… ‘it’? I appreciate your guidance, but I’m still lost as to what purpose there is in… maintaining ones…” You pause again, struggling to find even the words to describe your predicament. “Fortitude without faith. Uh… could you turn around?”
She smiles and turns “Must I? I’ll tell you all about it over dinner, after I’ve introduced you to the other Sisters. You may find faith yet, just not in the Light. Or… maybe, you will. You wouldn’t be the first.”
Perplexed by what she means, you step out and dry yourself with a towel before throwing on the robe. It’s a large, loose thing and very familiar. Interesting how the priest’s garb hasn’t changed nearly as much over time. She leads you out into a corridor of the priory and from there you can follow your nose to the refectory.
You can’t help but feel somewhat intimidated as she opens the door and leads you in. It’s the same old familiar hall lined with tables and a kitchen up the other end, but the scattering of undead women all turning to stare at you is definitely unnerving and absolutely not familiar. There’s ten of them, all dressed relatively modestly by church standards. The holy seamstresses don’t seem to know the word ‘modest’. Strange that it took an entirely antithetical sect of apostates to highlight that. Those with the vacant zombie stares – two – are actually the most clothed in humble full yet curve hugging habits. The others are dressed in a spectrum somewhere between the zombie girls and Mara. One’s a dullahan, resting her head on the table – she had to physically turn it head to look at you. There’s a woman standing over a cauldron at the kitchen filling the last of the bowls, though the long tongue as she licks the ladle clean betrays her as a ghoul and one with a particularly plump figure at that. One decidedly… arcane looking woman sits with her head buried in a book, every slight movement jangling with the innumerable fetishes hanging from her tattered rags.
One of the sisters sitting at a far corner flickers between solid and translucent and another beside her nurses a cup of some evidently unpleasant concoction by her expression. Said expression changes drastically for the worst as you enter, crimson eyes boring into your throat in the predatory way that makes your spine tingle. A sister sitting beside her with markedly long ears quietly sobs to herself though no one seems to consider it strange.
Sitting near the innermost wall on another table is – or was – a large dragon and opposite her, flanked by the two zombies is the last of the host, who asides from Mara cuts the most authoritative figure and is also the only one among them to wear a veil, as you can’t quite call what the zombie girls have done to theirs as ‘wearing’. A pair of spectacles rest on her nose, though they glow blue and flicker with ghost fire. A Wight, much like prioress Mara then.
“Sisters, this is Brother Auren. He’ll be staying with us for the foreseeable future. I trust you’ll treat him well.” There’s a faint undertone of threat in her voice.
You bow to the group, who don’t really respond overmuch. “I deeply and humbly apologise for my earlier transgressions.” You don’t quite get a good look, but you feel like you’ve at least won a modicum of appreciation from the bespectacled one with your actions. Outside of that, there’s still little reaction.
The ghoul calls out, while Mara leads you to take a seat across from her. “Sister Sophia!” There’s a faint thrum of magic that pulls your attention to the girl with the book, but she makes no outward movement. Yet in the next moment every one has one of the bowls of soup appear before them. You jolt and can’t help but give her a second glance, not expecting to meet a mage among these ex-sisters of the cloth. The authoritative looking one turns to the two zombies by her side and she coaches the spoon into their hands, while the ghoul takes her seat and happily digs in and the dullahan feeds herself. The dragon lifts the bowl and comes just shy of swallowing it along with the soup. Dragging your attentions away from the array of baffling sights, you focus on Mara, who lifts a spoon to her lips and gestures for you to do the same.
You reiterate your question. “So… what is all this? Mm! This is good!”
“I told you Sister Ann was quite skilled. By ‘all this’, I suppose you mean the monastic undead not currently ravishing you or burning to ash and instead eating normal meals… Before I begin, Brother Auren, if I may. What led you here? Your reaction to witnessing us was…” She hesitates, looking a little unsure and almost guilty. “More drastic than I’d anticipated. And then you can imagine my shock when I found you weeping at the gates in such a state. Most priests don’t have such an unstable faith. Forgive me, I don’t mean anything bad by that.” She peers at you searchingly, “I just mean that most would sooner assume us, the world or themselves a lie, before questioning their faith. You must have a story.”
“Ah… Yes I suppose I should explain myself first… I must have looked quite unsightly.”
Mara shakes her head and reaches out across the table to put a hand on yours, her voice heavy and low as it drips with emphasis. “We have all been there before, Auren.”
You gulp, then clear your throat and nod. “Yes, I… I’d chosen finding this monastery for my mission for advancing from deacon to priest, partly out of legitimate interest, and partly out of a more personal interest. The latter is… well, something I’d tried to resolve on my own by scouring through treatises and roundabout interrogation of my fellow brothers to no avail. Ironically, I appear to be in rather good company for this, now. I’d started having questions regarding the nature of the light’s Justice…” A few of the nuns share looks. “You Sisters ought to know what I’m talking about. The corruption of some of the church’s most powerful, in many senses of the word. Questions regarding the Light’s unilateral condemnation of demons, the undead and the like. I’d taken this pilgrimage upon myself, if not to find answers, then to just distance myself from the Church, and gain some room to breathe and think while soaking in the outside world. I came here and I found…” You shudder, throat growing tight, and Mara’s hand squeezes yours harder. “Affirmation rather than refutation. Instead of guidance, I’ve… Fallen.” You squeeze your eyes shut, but all it does is make the yawning void where the Light once shone that much more painful. A soft voice pulls you out of it.
“I suppose I’ll begin with the obvious. A number of us were once devout followers of the Light. As you might have guessed, we found this place, rather than originated here. Our little convent began with myself, Sister Reylana,” the bespectacled wight pulls herself away from the zombies for long enough to nod towards you. “And Sister Millie.” Mara indicates towards one of the zombies. A blonde with deep blue, happy eyes, currently holding her spoon backwards and upside down – inside out, you’re sure, if she put her mind to it. “Asides from picking up… a few quirks, would you believe she didn’t actually change overmuch? It’s a little hard to believe, but Sister Millie is… sort of the founder of our little sect.”
You blink. “Her? I mean no disrespect but…”
Mara chuckles. “I’ll gloss over the unpleasantries, but as supporting priestesses the three of us were caught in a blast of necromantic energy during one of the church’s many many holy wars. I forget how long ago. We were far away enough to have not been outright torn apart but near enough to have been utterly inundated with the dark power. We were dumped in a mass grave with all the others, but by whatever providence our other sisters had failed to notice the necromantic energies germinating within us, changing us from the inside out. Later that night we arose and dug our way out of the mass grave, stole some weapons and made for the forests. Sister Reylana and I were already quite talented priestesses, you see. We also shielded Sister Millie from the brunt of the blast, soaked up most of the magic.” She stops, seeming to think on it for a moment. It isn’t until her pale golden orbs meet yours you realize with a flushed face you’d begun to stare at her beautiful visage.
She looks away with a knowing smile on her lips. “We awoke with our minds in tact, fully aware of the horror of our new existence. Millie – blessedly, perhaps – was spared realization. Despite being more devout and earnest than either of us, she was nowhere near as talented. She rose as you see her now.” Mara smiles, “But don’t let her fool you, she’s got her wiles. Under the cover of dark, Reylana and I led Millie away. In our tireless flight, we didn’t have much chance to dwell on our new forsaken existences, or the absence of our gifts in the light.” She looks back at you. “Reylana and I felt much the same as you did, Brother Aruen. I had, however, recalled in my memory this old abandoned monastery and our days were spent scouring the woods for it. For a place, at least, where we could settle Millie down, far from the prying eyes of the world. We all know here, how the church feels about the undead.”
You nod, listening patiently to her tale, taken in by it and her soothing voice. “It wasn’t until we’d found the monastery that we were afforded the time to dwell on our circumstances. Of course, it was in complete disrepair and took a lot of work to get back to something vaguely resembling order. But when you don’t have to sleep, you’ve got a lot of time to think. Once we’d built it up to a certain standard, the worst of it began. It is… hard, for the newly dead to rationalise their existence without the guidance of another, I’ve found.
Reylana is far stronger than I, she took to looking after Millie like it was her sacred duty. I was left to think and mourn for the three of us.” Your brow furrows in sympathy and before you even realize it, you’d reached a hand out to hold hers as it rests on the table, balled into a fist. She jolts, relaxes and gives a sad smile.
“I feel no shame, anymore, in admitting I was the weakest among us.” Mara chuckles to herself, softly. “I was also ignorant and didn’t know how to do it, though the will was there. Cutting didn’t work, hanging didn’t, some poisoned herbs I’d stashed away obviously did nothing, but that was all I could think of. Reylana must have some how found out, she stormed in and kicked the sword out of my hand as I was about to try and have at my own neck. I’d never seen her so angry. And then, as I lay there, every major vessel cut and neck broken, Millie shambles in, kneels down beside me and begins to pray.”
Mara pauses, looking down at her bowl, golden eyes swimming and a single shining tear falls. “She begins to pray. I’d never screamed so hard in my life. Or, unlife. The pain was unlike anything I’d ever felt and yet, it was also the first and only thing I’d ever felt since passing. I could hear Sister Millie’s flesh burn as she channelled the Light through her, could feel my own flesh burning, but before our eyes, my wounds began to close, my spine mended. I was healed by the Light. And yet, it had forsaken me. I couldn’t use it. Reylana couldn’t use it. It… burned with rejection, but… it still worked…”
You don’t react much, there’s not much to say. You’d carried that loss and confusion ever since you saw them channel the Light into Mara. You wait, straining for the veil to finally lift to have the answers. “It was enough of a shock that Reylana and I couldn’t just dwell in our loss anymore. We had to figure it out. Trying to reconnect with the Light was excruciating and ultimately failed no matter the angle we tried it from. So we sat down and studied the only thing we could. Sister Millie.” Mara’s lips curl into a deeper smile. “We watched as she chased butterflies and gnawed on trees and fell over and dug her way under the stone walls with nothing but her own persistence….” She gives a single chuckle. “It was clear to us that she held no communion with the Light. And yet she could still cast these miracles. This power had to have come from within her. One day, out of frustration, I grew tired of it all and stubbornly, blithely decided that I would be the same. I would master the Light on my own terms or burn trying. And I nearly did. Burn myself into a second death trying to channel the powers. But finally, as I’d wavered back and forth between giving up and persisting, as I forgot my teachings, even Millie and just focused on myself, believed and trusted in myself. Prayed to myself… it worked.”
She lifts a finger and it glows with familiar light. “But I hadn’t really been given my powers back.” She waggles that finger around. “I could still feel that estrangement from the Light, like the yawning void I’m sure you feel. No, within that void, a tiny little spark had ignited. It was a power I’d… asserted for myself. It came from within. Ecstatic, I brought my discovery and newfound power to Reylana and together with Millie we worked on igniting that spark within her, too. It was a hard and long process, because as we later came to realize, my experiences in igniting my own spark actually strangled hers before she could even begin because it was too much of what I felt, what I thought.”
Her lips curl in a smile. “It took a very un-Reylana outburst to light that fire, she had to do it on her own. Studying this phenomenon and trying to understand it, grasping in the dark as our powers grew and our Sisters did… these were the fledgling days of our new sect, as we began to tentatively craft the new teachings. To answer your question in a very round about way, this is how the undead can utilise the power of the Light, when it should and does reject us intrinsically by its very nature. I think it’s fair to say that you were right to question the scriptures you’d believed in all your life. Our existence has shown us that one can’t just follow them blindly and our experience has shown that one has to dare to question for themselves. But that doesn’t necessarily mean the Light itself has the same failings as the scriptures about it. Only through seeking enlightenment can you align yourself to the Truth, the Light’s or yours, and through this alignment can you exert your will on the world around you. Instead of letting the Light’s will act through us, we bend and shape it’s power to our own. And it’s not just the Light. Once you’ve lit that spark of divinity within you… Sister Sophia, if you would be so kind.”
She girl lifts her head from the book and looks at you, lifting a hand. A ball of light begins to form in her palm, you nod your head subconsciously, feeling the holy energy. Then, before your stunned eyes that ball of light turns into a ball of water and then fire, then wind earth and ice, then shadow and finally death. Each change has you flinch in your seat, clutch the spoon in your hand so hard your knuckles turn white and the muscles lock while pupils constrict and shake. It takes Mara’s soothingly cool hand over yours to pull you back to awareness. “You will come to master any power you wish, bend it to your will, because deep within, the font of your enlightenment, is you. Granted, Sister Sophia is the only one with a mind open and astute enough to be able to do this, I struggle to get a fizzle of a flame at best. You see, power is ultimately an illusion. It is only what you think it is. You only think to delineate power between the magical and the divine because you were told that’s how it works. Radiant magic is one thing, but a God is a God. Fire is fire. Water is water. They cannot be the same, or interchangeable. You think you know this truth and so you treat it as the truth. You subconsciously reject everything but this truth. It is the same for Sister Reylana and I, all of our sisters here, our old teachings run so deep that even if we rationally know it to be an illusion, on a subconscious level, this turns into a barricade, so much more formidable than the formation of the spark to begin with. So this is what we spend our times on, meditating and seeking understanding and truth, enlightenment and inspiration that will help us break the boundaries we erected without our own minds. And always looking to grow our family, mop up what poor forsaken souls we can while maintaining secrecy. They don’t even have to follow our path.”
Mara lowers her voice. “Sister Ylka still struggles, but I’m just glad she at least has a place here to feel safe.” The hand on yours grips you tighter. “This is why I said your teachings were not worthless. You can regain your power through enlightenment. I would be honoured to guide you through this. You have great potential. Even in your darkest moment, something in the back of your mind brought you back here. To us. You could have lost yourself in this forest and never returned, but you didn’t. What say you? Will you stay with us? With me?”
You nod, before the thought even arises in your mind although you hesitate towards the end as that last bit of her sentence registers. You brush it aside. “I will.” Mara gives you a beautiful smile.
“I’m glad. Thank you, Auren. I think we’ll stop there for now. I know you have questions and there’s much I’ve yet to tell you, but too much at once will just overload you. Finish eating, then allow me to continue showing you our grounds in their entirety. It seems like you’ll be here for a while.” She tilts her head slightly as she smiles warmly at you, long rivulets of her pale golden hair running down her shoulders and breasts as he moves.
You nod, in both disappointment and understanding but ultimately she’s right, you need a little while to digest what you’ve just heard. You instead focus on the meal. You feel like your appetite ought to have died but the divine scent of the still-hot soup consumes you. Part of you questions the health benefits of undead cuisine but at least the flavour is good and the soup leaves your belly feeling warm and full. Mara stands as you pop the last spoonful into your mouth.
“Come, Sister Ann will take care of cleaning up. I’d advise you not to bother trying to help either, she treats that kitchen like it’s her own little kingdom. Join me for a walk, and I’ll tell you about the Sisters of our convent.” She makes a gesture for you to follow and walks out back into the corridor. “Remind me to select a dormitory for you afterwards, then you can introduce yourself as you like.”
Walking at a relaxed pace, she brings you back to the vaulted passages of the cloister and heads into the garden at the middle. A large, apparently dead tree dominates the centre, while a sea of neatly cut blueish grey grasses cover the ground. Mara looks up at the tree. “Sister Ethilieyr tends to this. I don’t quite know her past, only that she came from the far North. She’s been a boon, she tends to most of our plants. She’s the weeping banshee.”
You look up at the ghostly tree, spying the faint blueish leaves swaying in the night wind. “Why do you grow them?”
“These plants serve to soak up the death essence we all emit, we try to limit our impact on the land as much as possible, a great swathe of dead forest is a bit of a give away. But, we still change the land around us somewhat.”
“You might want to double check that then, I was attacked by a maddened lone wolf on my way here.”
“Oh my. I’ll have to have a talk with Sophia.” She heads back into the cloister and gestures to a wall where a near transparent tapestry hangs. “These walls have found themselves to be a bit of a display for one’s expression, it’s something Reylana and I encourage. This was woven by our dear Sister Ciel, the ghost. She has quite the knack for weaving. You’ll find love letters carved into some of these walls. Those are from poor Monk Dead Heart. Her name is an eastern tradition, so she tells us. She’s the dragon and she has much wisdom to share, just… watch your words around her. Not that she’d ever do anything to you, she’s a sweet heart, but her story is a tragic one of lost love. She travelled extensively before arriving here. She hopes to resurrect her lost love through the ways privy only to Gods. He was a monk, you see. I don’t have much knowledge of eastern theology but by what she says he’d sent his soul into a cycle of reincarnation of sorts,” She frowns in confusion, “Or… sent it into all things? I don’t really understand which. I’d offered my aid, being a wight, but according to Dead Heart, his soul was well beyond the reach of necromancy and it happened so long ago not even bones would be left.” Mara gives a sad sigh and silently leads you out of the cloister and back onto the grounds of the monastery. “Besides, I don’t know if I can really do it, I’ve never had reason to try although I’d read long ago it’s supposedly an innate ability.”
She points to a workshop up towards a far corner of the perimeter as the two of you walk. “That is the workshop of Sister Brylie. She’s the dullahan and another blessing. We were in dire need of her craftsmanship and she’s the sole reason for the current state of the Monastery. Lovely girl. A little gruff, but has a soft spot for Millia and Faerlina. Oh, Faerlina’s the other zombie. And back to the gardens.”
She squats down and pulls out a black weed. “These aren’t good. They suck up magic and mutate into Light knows what. If there’s anything I’ve learned, you have to be very… deliberate with planting when you have our circumstances. These gardens are maintained by Sister Ann and Sister Ylka. Sister Ann was a chef in life, and she came to us through a coincidence. We rescued her from a nearby village. The food obviously isn’t necessary but it sure is pleasant and it allows her to express herself best and it’s a nice communal gesture that even Sister Sophia joins in for. Sister Ylka – the vampire – grows the rest for her own needs. She’s always concocting, brilliant alchemist.” Mara sighs, “Never happy with her work. Out of all of us she’s perhaps the least receptive to our teachings, though she tries. She keeps her heart closed and her troubles close to her chest. I wish she’d let me try to help her.” Mara stops walking, and turns to you.
“Don’t be like her, Brother Auren. Certainly, you have to face your own demons, but please,” Mara grasps your hand and entreats you with her eyes, “Come to me if there’s anything, I’ll always be here for you.” You gulp, heat rising around your neck as you simultaneously want to pull away and remain touching her.
“I-I will.”
She heaves a sigh of relief. “Thank you. It would mean the world to me.” She turns back to the priory and looks at the second floor. “Sister Sohpia practically lives in the library. She’s a lich. Hers is also a long story. One of heresy, even in life, though she started as a priestess too. She spends most of her time up there,” Mara smiles, “Begrudgingly joins us for other activities after much begging. Sister Ciel tends to drift around the priory at random, lost in her own world. Sister Reylana spends most of her time tending to the chapel. We’ve been fast friends since little girls, sisters in blood, practically. She leads us in sermons and prayer, she always had a knack for it, though some times I’ll step in. And that brings it to me. I mostly drift from chore to chore, helping the girls out where I can, offering what counsel I can, making sure they’re all doing well. My biggest concern is that I’ve provided a safe and wholesome environment for my Sisters – and Brother – to find themselves within.” She beams. “I don’t live in the dormitory, perks of being the prioress. I’ve my own humble abode.” She leads you around the grounds to show off her house, a humble building of dark stone. She turns to you with a wink, “The walls are thick, sound doesn’t get in, or out… perfect for a personal, in depth confession if you’re so inclined.”
You blush and clear your throat. “Uh, I… maybe later.”
She giggles. “On your own time. Well, that’s the tour. There’s a pond within the walls and a stream out by the rear gates, a few maintenance sheds for tools – as I said, Brylie looks after most of that. You can find all the neat little nooks and crannies our Sisters have made for themselves on your own time. Come. Lets secure a dormitory for you. There are plenty to chose from.”
Excitedly taking you by the hand you’re lead back towards the priory though your mind’s still largely lingering on the offer from before.
* * * *
You follow behind Prioress Mara, hand on the hilt of your sword. You don’t know how to really use it, or if she even needs your protection, but you can at least hit any maddened animals with it. You’d much prefer your mace, but over your long meditation last night you still weren’t able to muster that staunch belief in yourself required to channel the Light to make the mace effective. You feel like you made headway, but it’ll take time to mentally adjust to what you’re learning. The two of you walk the broad perimeter of the monastery and a little beyond the walls and into the woods, Mara trying to sense where the death magic pollution might be leaking from. Sister Sophia placed protective wards down long, long ago and there’s a chance some might have broken one way or another. From the state of things, you doubt it’s that bad. The wolf from before is probably more anomalous than not. Though it is nightfall – a time when the dark energy is at it height and easier to sense. Something might be prowling all the same.
The two of you stop by a broken section of wall where a rather nasty looking vine spreads over the rubble. You frown. “That doesn’t look good.”
Mara frowns “No. This isn’t supposed to be here. This isn’t like the tree growing out of the wall we passed earlier, that was tended to by Sister Ethilieyr for the sole purpose of soaking up any radiant magic. It actually produces fruit come the dead of winter, quite tasty. This is acting more like a… bridge to funnel the magic out and into the forest. That’s not good at all” She squats down and your eyes are immediately drawn to the pale curve of her rear and her white thighs trapping her scapular between her legs, cutting the enticing image. You jolt, as she reaches an arm out that begins to glow a pale, ghostly gold. The glow solidifies around her arm in the shape of a claw, wreathing her forearm, hand and fingers in the tufted light. This must be the wight’s innate ability to manipulate spiritual essences and death magic. The vast spanning weed begins to shrivel and turn to dust as she absorbs the essence within. The pale golden light seems to gain in intensity and opacity for a moment as a stream of mana flows out of the vine and into her hand. The brighter, holy glow casts a jarring juxtaposition to her undead pale flesh.
Perhaps sensing your staring, she turns to you. “Oh. Did I surprise you?
“A little. Why does it look so… holy?”
She glances at her hand. “Ah, it wasn’t at first. It was a kind of pale blue, as you’d expect I suppose. The gold came in after my ascension to a higher… awareness I suppose.” She gives a puff of air and rises as the dust scatters. “I’ll have to let Sister Sophia know to give this area a quick fix up. Sorcery is her thing. You do recall how she manipulated it, yes?”
“It’s still a little hard to believe, but yes.”
“Good. I figure now’s a good time to continue with our discussion from earlier.” She begins walking away, leading you further around the monastery’s perimeter. “There’s… something I haven’t told any one yet.” You pass by dipping branches and gnarled roots breaking the earth, the gentle bubbling of running water growing louder before the breach the treeline. Mara comes to a halt by the stream and takes a seat upon a large boulder resting by the water, patting beside her. “Sit with me for a while.”
You smile wryly, “It must be something big, if I have to be seated for this. What is it? Is this all a simulation?”
She giggles and shuffles over to you despite the conservative distance you sat at. “Maybe, how would you know? Though, if we are all just characters in the writings or dream of some mad god, I think our way of thought would be the way out. It is funny you should mention it, in fact.” She casually places a hand on your thigh and leans in, face close to yours. “It is my personal belief, just a hunch, that this all goes beyond Sister Sophia’s abilities to manipulate magic with the power of her personal faith, this is all more than just regaining the powers we had in life and I think deep down some of my sisters suspect as much.” Her soft golden eyes begin to blaze with a fanatical zeal and she leans in a little further, large breasts pressing delightfully against your arm.
“For a while now I’ve yearned for one among the living to join our convent. I believe this may go beyond the mere ability to bend any power to your will. I believe that through enlightenment one could overcome life and death itself, becoming something greater than the sum of the parts, close your eyes while alive and awaken dead. Maybe even twist the fabric of reality to your will. Then, become a God through nothing more than self actualisation.” The blaze in her eyes calms down and a tinge of self doubt begins to creep in. “Is such a thought… insane, Brother Auren? Do you think I’ve been driven mad for power in the process of trying to regain what was lost? Strayed too far?” She pleads to you with her eyes, revealing vulnerability behind that supportive and motherly image she wears so often.
You put a hand over hers. “Did you wait until we were alone to tell me this?” Mara nods. “Are you afraid of what your Sisters might think of such theories?”
“I am. But don’t misunderstand me Auren, I’m not confessing to you because I think any less of you. Though you’ve only been here a short while – a day, even – you’re just as important to me as my Sisters. I just feel like… I can confide in you. There’s something about you, I don’t know what it is, truthfully.” She laughs weakly and hangs her head. By some compulsion that has you crossing your fingers and wishing to also rake your own face off, you slowly extend an arm around her shoulders and pull her closer. She stiffens for the briefest moment, before her lips curl as she rests her head on your shoulder. “Smooth, Brother.” She twists her head to look up at you coyly, “But why does your heart pound so?”
Mortified, you clear your throat and jerk to look ahead, reflexively trying to pull your arm back from her, but her hand makes its way to yours, a golden glow around her fingers robbing your arm of strength and will, and making holding her under your arm so sublime. Her hair is so silken smooth, her skin flawless and soft. Her icy flesh begging for your touch. Your brain begins to war against the instinct to disengage. Perhaps seeking to resolve this conflict, the words spill out of your lips at a rapid fumble until you begin to calm yourself.
“Y-you begged me yesterday to come to you if I should have any fears, no matter what… I should tell you the same, Sister. In whatever ignorant meagre capacity I possess I’ll be here for you. And I don’t think any one in the world could be as open minded as your Sisters. You should confide in them as you’d expect them to confide in you.”
She nods. “Thank you, Auren. I know I’m being hypocritical.” She sounds a little sad and perhaps by way of trying to comfort herself, she sticks a little closer to you, going from resting her head on your shoulder to over your heart. The arm around her shoulders finds the strength for a reassuring squeeze.
“As for your question… to be honest, Sister…” You pause and deliberate over your words. “Maybe. You and I both know madness, I doubt the Inquisition has changed much from your time to mine. Some are sadistic and cruel but some are genuine. Some are blessed with a singular, unbreakable conviction, that no matter what happens, no matter what they have to do, they’re always right. Frankly, they’re insane.”
“Yes, they really haven’t changed much then. Though, I do hope you’re not about to compare our peaceful little sect to the Inquisition of all organisations.” She protests with a cute pout.
You rebut. “Am I wrong to? Sure you’re not cruel, but from my meagre understandings, you share the most important trait. Conviction. You believe in yourself so much you’ve… stolen power from a God, I cannot put it any other way. I watched Sister Sophia break the conventions of what we understand magic to be. You just told me you hope I’ll be able to master life and death at will, you want to warp reality and become your own god…” You look down at her and she looks up at you, big golden eyes searching yours. You rest a hand on her cheek and she reflexively presses against it, seeking warmth. You smile weakly. “You’re insane. You all are. I am. I have to be, after all, I’m trying to become insane too.”
Mara sighs and closes her eyes. “Some how you don’t make it sound quite as scary as I thought it would be.”
“Maybe it’s normal. How can you experience despair, reform your soul and come out of it entirely the same?”
She frowns and opens her eyes, glimmering with an irksome sympathy and pity. “When you put it that way, dear, I start to feel like I’ve ruined everything for you. Should I have just had the sisters moan and groan and bite you before throwing you out? Was I wrong to show you what you’ve seen?”
Your face sets sternly and your caressing hand grasps her chin. “Knowing what I know now… I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
“That’s good then.” Your eyes fly wide open and your heart freezes as you suddenly find those brilliant gleaming golden orbs so much closer, so close you can make the detail where her golden iris meets golden pupil, a fine gleaming line, brimming with a soft motherly warmth. That hateful sympathy and pity gone, as if a lie.
Your breath stills in your chest as her soft, full lips compress against yours, the last shuddering of your diaphragm in this moment, a surprised gasp through your nose. Her arms wrap around your back and she leans further in, compressing her bust against your chest such that more spills out of the sides of her skimpy scapular. You’re still stunned when her cold lips vanish with a soft chuckle.
She hops off the rock and takes a few steps away before turning back, warm smile on her face and hands linked behind her back. “That’s what you get for not telling a girl what she wants to hear. Honestly, Brother Auren, this must be why you weren’t plucked away by some thirsty priestess long ago. Though… I suppose I’m thankful for that.” She clears her throat and stows the playfulness, straightening herself back into the figure of that motherly Prioress. “At any rate, these are just theories for now. We’ve been working on others like the effects of trying to collect our consciousness to a singular goal, but our numbers are too small to progress overmuch down that line of thought.”
You gape, mind still stuck on the sensations, the softness, your arms ache to hold her. You don’t know if she did it on purpose, but she’d stopped and strayed by a spot where the canopy is weakest. A strong beam of moonlight showers down over the wight, lighting the bright smile upon her face, causing your frozen heart to thunder almost painfully as you look at her in the cold, warm light. Her pale lips slowly curl up, and up.
“I don’t believe I stole your soul, Brother Auren. Yet” Your heart, on the other hand… You jolt, blushing a beet red and awkwardly rubbing the side of your neck, slipping off the rock onto weak legs.
“It was just… unexpected is all.”
“Come, let us continue surveying the perimeter. I think we’ve had enough of a break, as thrilling as it was.”
“Yes… Right.” You swallow and clear your throat softly and hastily move to catch up with her, mind still whirring and not entirely with the implications of her radical theory. Perhaps straining to break the agonising silence of the night, you blurt the first thing to come to mind. “If the fundamental nature of magic and power is malleable. Water can be fire and vise versa. Why is such a thought not mainstream? This would shake the foundations of the world so long as it was published even just the once.”
Mara nods to herself, “I believe it is because of the indoctrination I mentioned to you some nights ago, and how before you even learn to think, your perception’s coloured by the world around you. Even if not on purpose, the facts of life are fed to you as absolute truths. And for most, they are. Fire cannot be water. Perhaps some eccentric priest or mage had some questions as to the fundamental nature of power, may have even dabbled. But without facing that despair, that shatters your soul and going through the cleansing reformation, I fear that dabbling in these thoughts could cost them everything. Perhaps subconsciously they realize this. The greatest irony is, if they push onward and lose it all, then they’d be ready to be reborn, but already bitten and twice shy for it. They would lack that essential quality you so unflatteringly related to the Inquisition. Conviction. Conviction is the one quality you cannot lack. I will not be as brazen to say we are the first. But if any one out there had managed to overcome their subconsciously preconceived notions and master nature in this way, I have not heard of it and I have been around for quite a while. As you said, even a single publication would have groundbreaking implications upon the world.”
“Then if a pure soul free of preconceptions is so vital… aren’t you just recolouring my soul now? Doing the same thing you did to Reylana?”
Mara shoots a comforting smile. “I think you’re plenty open to questioning the true nature of reality despite how I personally describe it to you. You look so lost it’s kind of cute. Don’t think too hard yet. Work on gathering the pieces of your soul first and understanding some of our sisters’ observations. I wouldn’t have told you this much if I hadn’t known from prior experiences with the other sisters that it’s not as through your soul has to be entirely blank and ignorant. We’ll have plenty of time to work on it.”
She looks around, the two of you finding yourselves at the front gates to the Monastery. “That vine appears to have been all. Hm. I suppose finding more than the one breach would be more surprising.”
“Probably just a starved lone wolf poking his head where he shouldn’t. In regards to my meditations, I suppose you’re right. Besides, I’ve all the time in the world it would seem, here I know I don’t have to fear death untimely terminating my meditations. I doubt I could return to my old life, or to the old world at any rate.”
Those pale pinkish lips curl, “Then I shall show you our new world.”
* * * *
You watch as Prioress Mara kneels down by the side of Millie, who found her way into the garden shed, tripped and managed to locate every sharp and pointy implement therein. For such a gruesome scene to be treated as a mere inconvenience leaves you with a bit of a …culture shock. She kneels and prays. It still looks terrible, but she heals. You ogle the pale golden wings that manifest from Mara’s back as she prays. You were a little surprised at first, but after at few days where she’d cause the ghostly limbs to appear for some purpose or to betray her mood or to tease and play you’d grown used to the appendages… Interested, even. They begin to fold and fade as she finishes her prayer and something possesses you to reach out and stroke a ghostly feather.
“Eep!” You win a decidedly girlish reaction.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“N-no, they’re… ahem,” blushing, she tries to compose herself, “Just a little bit sensitive.”
You look over at Millie, already standing and shuffling away. “I’ve been meaning to ask, but these past few days with all the… failure, it’s slipped my mind.”
“Not failure. Don’t worry about it, the little death is just a baby step after all. You don’t want to fall too hard before you learn to walk. It will just take time, you haven’t been broken as harshly as any of the sisters who’ve had to face more than just a broken faith. But I don’t think falling so hard to begin with is good in the long run. Don’t call it failure when it’s only been a few days. Sister Ylka has been here far longer.”
“Thank you, Sister Mara.” She shoots you a glare and you flinch, not quite ready for the first name basis she insists upon. “What I’d been meaning to ask is this, how are you able to heal with the light? I understand how you might use it, but the light abhors the undead. How are you able to use it to heal? How are you able to turn the light against me and cause its healing energies to burn the living? I understand the principle that fire can become water and vise versa, but while it’s fire, it’s still fire on a fundamental level. You can’t soak things with it…” Your brows furrow as you express your confusion and Mara smiles, holding a hand out for you to help lift her up from her kneeling prayer.
“You’re not wrong. Fire has to consume, burn. But who says the Light’s nature is the same?”
You baulk. “Well, I mean… it’s Holy.”
“We’ve pondered long and hard on this and to be honest with you, I’d be inclined to agree, if not for the fact that we’d witnessed Millie’s miracle and know it to not be true. This world… is old. It’s races, older than the gods they worship. You understand as any one with any power does, the importance of willpower and understanding. Fire magic is fire magic, but it could be a ball of fire, a light, a warm healing glow, a beam of energy, part of a ball of magma, a flash of light or an explosion. The magic is the same, but it varies from fire mage to fire mage based on their perceptions and understanding, what aspects they’ve chosen to develop, where their affinity lay. Is is to a lesser extent that this is true for priests. There will be various different aspects of the scripture you’ll come to relate to, have a deeper understanding of, yet there’s a greater similarity here as it all stems from the same scripture, some times divine, sometimes written by mortal.”
Millie trundles off and the two of you resume your walk around the monastery grounds, stopping briefly by the pond inside the grounds to watch a skeletal duck float around. “The issue here is… what if the ‘Holy Light’ only banishes the undead because we think it does? Because the undead stand in affront of their god’s personal kingdom of heaven? Every undead is a soul not going to them, or torn from them, not completing the cycle – unnatural. So it makes sense for the gods the castigate them for denying them their follower. What if the mortals who think this go on to become gods? Do the gods actually hate undead or are we collectively warping their powers to banish the undead because that’s what we think their powers should do?” Mara frowns as she gets these questions she’s evidently unsure of herself out.
You, on the other hand, openly gape. “You mean to tell me mortals have enough power to change the gods?”
Still frowning, she nods, hesitantly. “Collectively. Tell me what do you think would happen if I could snap my fingers and every single worshipper of the Light all at once were made to believe that the colour of the light wasn’t that golden glow, but was instead the reddish glow of dawn? What do you think would happen?”
Your eyes widen. “I… don’t know.”
“Neither do I. But I think the fact that neither of us are certain that nothing will change speaks for itself. All it takes is a single mage’s will to call the wind and the rain. What kind of willpower could you get from an ocean of souls?”
You lapse into silence. “Hm…”
Mara shakes her head. “Come, let us clean up after Millie’s mess and head to the chapel. Reylana would scold us if we were to miss out on prayer.”
Your lips tug into a grin. “She’d scold the Prioress?”
Mara giggles and sighs. “Oh yes. She would.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask. Why do some of the sisters not attend prayer?”
Her eyes widen, “Oh, sorry! I forgot to mention. You see the prayer is just a neat little thing for those of us who used to be of the church. We’ve just been praying for so long that it seems to be the best way for us to really reflect inwards and focus on enlightenment and that little spark. The others don’t join because they’ve never known church like that and it doesn’t really help them focus on their own thing. Sister Dead Heart meditates under the tree in the cloister, Ann finds herself through cooking, Sophia finds enlightenment through pouring through the arcane functions of the world. We’re all brought together here to understand our own personal enlightenment.”
Mara chuckles, “We can’t just sit them all down and preach, church isn’t for every one. If we tried I’m sure we’d just strangle the personal growth of our sisters. There are even differences among those of us who do attend the sermons, Reylana and I focus our worship on ourselves – gosh, that sounds bad, doesn’t it? I just mean we believe that enlightenment comes from within. Faerlina and Millie… well, are Faerlina and Millie and Sister Ciel actually continues to worship and seek enlightenment from the Light itself.
You gawk, “How can that be? I thought enlightenment was supposed to come from oneself?”
Mara just smiles a little cryptically, “Every one’s enlightenment is as different as they are. You’ll have to ask Sister Ciel how it works for her. The way I understand it is, though she still seeks enlightenment from without, she uses her understandings on the truth of the Light to help her understand the divinity within herself.”
You blink and shake your head, honestly lost. Mara puts a cool hand in yours. “What about you Brother? Do you feel these prayer sessions are right for you?”
You nod, “Yes, I think I’m in much the same boat. I don’t know if I’d be able to search for enlightenment the way sister Sophia does. The prayers definitely put me in the right mindset. Whether or not I can search for enlightenment from within, or I have to search for enlightenment by the Light from outside myself… I don’t know.”
“Not to worry brother, we’ve all had many, many years to ponder this for ourselves. You’ve had but days. Your truth will come to you in time.”
The two of you are the last two to enter the chapel, earning a bit of an unhappy glance from Reylana, but still a minute or two early. The chapel is small, only eight pews split into two blocks with four rows. Like usual, only the ex-clergy of the church are present, Sister Dead Heart, Sophia, Brylie, Ann and Ethilieyr having chosen their own path. The others are quite spaced out and asides from the two zombies, you and Mara are the only two to sit shoulder to shoulder, forming the conspicuous pair, though no one makes much of an acknowledgement as Reylana steps up to her pulpit. You spy out of the corner of your eye Ylka sitting alone, looking somewhat moody and despondent though clearly here of her own volition. The sermon is a great departure from the grandiose and spectacular norm you’ve become used to, but it does remind you of your earlier days, where a simplified version of mass would be held among the faithful clergy.
She opens with the prayer you’d since become faintly familiar with. The first few times it felt a little silly, as the whole purpose of the prayer had been turned on its head. Whereas once you’d extol the virtues of the Light, thank it for the boons it had bestowed upon you and thank the long generations of the church that led you to the light, here it’s about extolling the virtues of the divinity within. Strangely, almost thanking yourself for your own enlightenment. It grows easier to accustom yourself to as you come to see it for what it is – the same old reaffirmation and honing of the soul towards the faith at hand, it’s just now it’s internal rather than external. At the end, a solemn sonorous chorus voices as you all offer your affirmations.
There’s a brief pause before Reylana launches into preaching upon your inner divinities, the bonds that make them stronger together. Here, you kneel down upon the faded upholstered kneelers. There’s no greater significance – and a few opt not to – but you’d found the posture always helped put you in the right mindset. You can’t help but feel Mara joins you in kneeling mostly because she just wants to. Indeed, as you look over from the corner of your eye, her eyes are closed and there’s a soft small pious smile on her lips as she looks locked in focus. Yet a pale golden pair of horns have sprouted and a thin ghostly spaded tail to join it. You feel Reylana’s judging gaze on the two of you for a short while.
After a moment’s silence, Reylana goes into what would otherwise be the penitential rites elucidating one’s sins, but here she warns against the certainty of truth and the need for constant introspection and reflection, as one’s enlightenment changes by the day to reflect new sights and thoughts. Perhaps fittingly for this section, Mara’s tail snakes its way over to you as Reylana extrapolates upon the sins. Vexingly it passes through the material of your robes without obstruction and begins coiling itself around your thigh, bringing with it a faint weakness and pleasure – the degree to which is entirely under her control. You catch it at a certain height and earn a quivering gasp and a low chuckle from Mara. Lifting your head you look around to make sure no one’s noticed anything, though Reylana’s eyes are already on you again. You dip your head, but don’t stop subtly wrestling the ghost tip.
Instead of a customary hymn, Reylana skips to the silent introspection, allowing you to better focus inward on your understandings of self. Of course, you spend most of it fondling the sensitive tip of the wight’s tail. In place of the Scriptures of the Light, the observations of the members of the sect are revealed as their nascent theological text forms. Today Reylana voices Sister Ann’s recent writings on the metaphysical significance of a meal made with love. It stirs the appetite at the least, though even in this, there’s much to ponder.
After another period of silence is observed and the pesky tail truly trounced, Reylana leads the convent in a final prayer of thanks and appreciation for the community around them as they search for their own personal enlightenment and thanks to the sisters for sharing their own revelations. The sessions ends with these final words and some depart immediately, tough some seem lost in their own thoughts.
Somewhat stiffly, you rise from your kneeling position while a smiling Mara rises next to you, horns and tail fading along with all evidence of her mischief. Still in the pensive mind frame, you can’t help but wonder if there’s some deeper theological significance to her temptation. Something she hadn’t told you. Surely with they way they’ve all treated you so far, the tenets of their belief, they aren’t the same monsters guided by their lust as the others. So is there some deeper purpose? Is she trying to steel you against temptations and lusts? The thought leaves you confused because though you’d have never admitted it earlier… the women of the Light’s hierocracy weren’t too different in looks or behaviour. If you’d managed to resist them, you’re evidently capable of resisting others.
“I’m going to help Sister Ann in the kitchen, don’t be late~”
You nod to her as she leaves and take your time walking out, passing by both the vampire and the ghost on your way out, both absorbed in their own worlds. Ciel seems at peace, eyes placidly closed, though she nods to you as you look at her. Ylka seems to wrest with something, not heeding your passage, brow furrowed, eyelids twitching as they clench. You wish you’d be able to offer help, but you’re little better yourself, though you’ve spent a good long while ruminating on everything you’d seen and heard in the past few days.
You leave the chapel via a small old door and enter into the cloister, thoughts lost in matters of faith. Your eyes are drawn to the depictions upon the walls. A few bass reliefs brood, some twisting, eldritch, archaic thing by Sister Sohpia’s hand. Some tenets are written onto other sections by different hands, though most by the strict, structured hand of Reylana while simple yet queerly charming chaotic frescoes of scenes from the Holy City adorn others. Strange from what you’d expect of a sect of apostates, but you doubt they had little say in the matter when Millie and Faerlina had decided upon something.
Walking about the cloister absently, eyes glossing over the paintings, reliefs, frescoes and engravings – even the love letters carved into the wall by Sister Dead Heart – you enter the garden within. Sister Dead Heart sits beneath the great dead tree as it stands in the middle of the garden, over the turf of greyish blueish grasses, all neatly maintained. The tree’s pale, twisted form comes off as vaguely ethereal in the afternoon light while faint ghostly leaves flutter in the breeze. Through the ghost-boughs you spy the afternoon sky, smeared with oranges purples and reds as the sun sets.
With hands held behind your back, you gaze up into the darkening sky, feeling something smoulder within you, yet elusive. Like an ember that some how slips away before you’re able to blow on it and let it ignite. You feel the pieces are there, not even a puzzle, you know where and how it all fits together. In your meditations you’ve even touched on the why. But it’s like every time you try and put it all together, something stops you. Distracts you. In that moment you’re brought back to Sister Mara’s smile earlier in the day as you’d helped her hang the linens out over lines propped up by the gardens. Perhaps its her? These feelings you have for her? They definitely border beyond base lust, as you’d witnessed Millie and Faerlina wrestle together in the pond, their soaked habits clinging to very crevice and curve as they grappled and gnawed together. What you’d felt then as you watched Sister Ethilieyr try to break them apart before they ultimately fled the scene together was definitely base lust. What you feel for Mara is different. More.
You’d never been shy around spiritual council and she’d routinely reminded you to come to her with any issues you face. As the first stars begin to twinkle, you resolve to take Mara aside after dinner and seek her guidance. This decision leaves you feeling a little lighter inside as you become less stifled, though an equally as heavy anticipation settles in.
There isn’t a dinner bell as much as there is an all consuming waft. Something baking, something roasted, something fried all bobbing about and below the surface of the broth-like scent. Your stomach reacts before your mind does, hence the sudden, drawn sniff. It’s almost enough to rid the distractions from your mind. Almost. You stroll leisurely back into the cloister, allowing your appetite to build as you round the perimeter and enter the corridor that spans the width of the building behind the chapel’s back wall, allowing access to the dormitory, refectory and balneary. Here there’s also the staircase leading up to the second floor.
A couple figures head back and forth, Sister Ciel passes through the chapel walls, through the corridor and through the refectory wall. Sister Brylie brazenly walks out of the balneary, head under arm and muscled body steaming with heat and passes you by in the nude on her way to the dormitory, while you just so happen to approach the staircase as Sister Sophia descends it, rags dragging, regalia chiming.
She nods to you and you nod back as you head into the refectory, a number of figures already seated while Sister Ann busies herself in the kitchen. You take a seat and fall deeper into your reverie when a soft hip and slim shoulder bump into your own and Prioress Mara makes her cold presence known. “What’s bothering you? You look distracted.”
For some reason, you feel gratified by her attention. She leans into you, and it isn’t hard to talk quietly without being overheard. “Sister Sophia!” You jolt a little in surprise as a plate, bowl and set of cutlery and a cup appear before you. It doesn’t get any less jarring the more you see it and you wish Sister Ann’s call wasn’t immediately proceeded by the apparition of food. Even a second to prepare yourself would be nice. Taking and fiddling with a spoon, you look into your food, feeling her soft golden gaze. “I’m struggling to… pull myself together, Sis-” you earn a ghost pinch to the side. “Mara. I need your guidance. I understand and meditate on your teachings nightly and it feels like a… puzzle, but I know where everything fits only, when I try, something distracts me.”
Her brow furrows and she puts a hand on your upper arm, leans in closer, causing her breasts to press against you. “What’s distracting you, Brother Auren?” It takes great effort to not roll your eyes.
“You are, Mara. Every time I try and focus on the teachings your image pops up in my mind’s eye. I must confess…” You close your eyes. “If you’re trying to tempt me, I fear I’m failing.”
She gasps and leans back a bit, though her hand stays on you. “Oh, Aruen. I had no idea. I mean, obviously I did, but to think I was standing in the way of your reformation…” She sighs in disbelief. “Come to my place later tonight, I’ll help guide you through this. I recall now, I didn’t get to teach you about one of the most interesting aspects of our faith. To think I was wondering why you hadn’t made a move.” She chuckles, “I would recommend you steel yourself.” She just smiles cryptically at that, leaving you to finish your meal in silence.
She makes quick work of her own and leaves you with a suggestive glance and a word of how she has to get ready. Somewhat apprehensive that all you’re about to get out of this is a wet dick, you rest your elbows on the table and rest your mouth on your hands, ruminating with furrowed brow. You weren’t celibate on purpose and the church certainly doesn’t forbid these kinds of relationships. You were just more focused on your learning and at that time there were more than enough men eager for the easy way in to mop up the wandering attentions of any priestesses. Furthermore, you were blessed to serve under a Father of the hierocracy in your small church, so your job didn’t involve mopping up any excess fluids. Really the only relationship you were forbidden was one with monsters and… you’re probably the most heretical man the church had seen in a long while that hasn’t got his dick sucked for it.
There’s no greater spiritual reason not to and the boat’s sailed on any other reason you might’ve have had. Though a number of the Sisters have their own considerations, there are a few who might jump on you if given the chance and you already feel something for Mara. Your furrowed brow twitches. Perhaps taking yourself off the available list is the best option here.
This thought in mind, you rise from your seat and head out towards your dormitory. You nudge the ancient door open, leading you into your little humble abode. Of which all that there is, is a desk, chair, chest and bed, all wooden and simple in design, though the bedding’s a rich burgundy. Cracking the chest open, you pull out an ancient, folded robe the Sisters had found for you and head off to the baths.
You barely make it out of your dorm when you pass by Sister Reylana. The stern wight eyes you up and down before passing you by and leaving her words trailing. “Report to Sister Ylka if you struggle to feel energised afterwards, I’ve heard from others it’s a common… teething issue in regards to our kind.”
You blink and stare at her back blankly, before shaking your head. You honestly haven’t had too much interaction with Reylana, so focused is she on running the place smoothly. You like her though, get the sense she’s dependable and trust worthy. You’ve no clue why she’d blurt that out though. Shaking your head, you head down the hallway and enter the baths – unoccupied, thankfully. No one but you has an issue with sharing them, but you have quite the large issue. It’s natural.
You disrobe, leaving the old cloth in a basket to be laundered later and head into the bath, turning the taps. The familiar welcome stream of hot waster begins to full the tub and you half distract your wandering imagination by scrubbing yourself down. Despite earlier rationalisations, a sense of giddy tension builds within you all the same. You find yourself being a little extra thorough with the soap. You heave a long sigh, put the soap aside and force yourself to lean back against the bath and relax. Much as you’d rather jump out this instant, you take the time to rest in the steaming hot water and try to soothe and compose your mind. It takes just shy of the amount of time it takes the skin to prune before you’re in a better frame of mind, at least for the moment until the gears start grinding again.
You step out, drying and clothing yourself before heading outside into the night. The fresh air is particularly stark on your freshly cleaned and still somewhat raw skin and it causes the exposed skin to bump up like gooseflesh. Pebbles crunch as you walk the neatly maintained monastery paths to the Prioress’ abode.
However, you get scarcely more than a dozen steps in the direction before you’re blasted with a foreboding, deathly pious aura that makes your spine tingle, ghost caresses making your skin crawl. The world seems to shrink as you look at that small house, grow darker in fear or submission. Curiously, you don’t feel afraid. Nor is it harsh or aggressive, in fact it’s almost gentle, a vast presence simply asserting itself onto reality. You keep walking.
The small, humble grey stoned and red tile roofed building has a simple dark wooden door upon its face and a small, high window on the wall over that faces the sun as it traces the sky. It’s humble in make, though the stone bears a kind of pride in what design is there. The door opens with a creek before you can touch it and the inside is dim but for a veritable sea of faint candle light backing the silhouette of Mara. You step in and the door closes after you of its own accord. “What’s this all?” You wave a hand, gesturing to the brooding sepulchral atmosphere around, most of it emitting from her, though you’re slowly becoming accustomed to it.
Mara smiles, “Getting comfortable, it’s a bit of a chore holding it in all the time. Especially since you told me about the wolf, that’s why we try and contain ourselves, but I get the feeling tonight’s going to be special, so I wanted to be a little more true to myself.”
You look her over. She forms a drastically different image and it’s a little jarring, though not unpleasant. She’s as dressed as the zombies – though obviously with more intent. A long black veil sits atop her head and reaches down as far as the middle of her back, while a white band spans her forehead, long pale golden hair still free under the veil. The veil is tattered towards the bottom, riddled with holes yet strangely it almost feels deliberate.
She wears a simple, yet form hugging black habit, the same fabric as the veil, a solid darker than black almost shimmering cloth that makes her pale skin seem to almost glow – of which you can only see her hands and face. Only the candle light behind her really allows you to make it out in the gloom, though a faint golden glow lends itself to the effort. The outfit is entirely nondescript asides from the white guimpe and the ornate black lace choker set with a faintly shining pale golden gem. Silver chains hang from the choker, down between her breasts and split off to wrap around her chest and under her bust, morbidly reminiscent of a rib cage. The small details woven into the choker, of skulls, souls and grasping skeletal limbs definitely reinforce the theme. “Is that why the getup?”
She does a little twirl for your benefit, hair and veil fluttering. “A friend made it for me. She has… interesting views.” Mara chuckles, “She thinks I wear too little, so in order to make an impact, I should actually wear a little more. It’s a quaint idea, but I appreciate the infrequent break from the holy cloth…” She looks at you, almost shy. “Is it not good?” She leans down, breasts swaying behind what seems to be an impossibly thin layer of cloth and bunches up two fists of her habit, lifting and half revealing soft, pale thighs. She stands barefoot, not even wearing stockings. “Do you want to see more after all?”
You blush and fluster. “No. I mean, yes. It’s fine…” You swallow, chewing on your words before deciding to just spit them out, trying your hand at this wooing thing. “A gift’s… better when you get to unwrap it.”
A grin breaks through her uncertainty and she saunters over “Oh, is that what I am?” Placing a hand on your chest, pinning you to the door behind you, she grasps for one of yours and places it on her hip. It’s almost like touching her directly, the cloth is so thin, you feel the cold of her soft flesh and… nothing else. “Well maybe you won’t need to unwrap me fully to use me.”
You swallow again around a dry throat and give a soft cough. “I uh… believe you were going to reveal more of the scriptures to me, Sister Mara. Perhaps we should do that before getting too lost in… other things.”
She leers and leans into your ear, whispering. “Oh Auren, I’ll have you calling my name before the night’s over. Without the ‘sister’, unless you prefer that kind of play.” She chuckles at her teasing and by the hand holding yours to her hip, she leads you off to her bedroom. The interior is as humble in make as the exterior, the bedroom is the only a room, away from the conjoined dining room, unliving room and kitchen. It’s got a domineering black lacy aesthetic and you’re starting to wonder if that’s a her thing, or an undead thing they’re contractually obliged to follow. It goes well with what little luxury there is, golden religious icons placed sparingly and a private altar.
You step into her boudoir after that pair of swaying hips and she turns you about, putting your back to the bed. Arm wreathed in pale golden ghostlight, Mara gives you a playful push that sees the strength sapped from your legs, making you all but collapse onto her bedsheets. “You see Auren, one of our most important beliefs, one of the cores, is love. Love’s an important, beautiful, powerful emotion. Love is life, love is love, love breeds communities and love keeps them together. Beyond being a powerful, primal focal point for the will and thus conviction, community is important in and of itself. Why do you think Reylana and I would run this convent otherwise? Recall what I said about the power of a sea of believers? While the path to enlightenment is a personal journey, there’s still power and support in a community. Some times you need to rely on the light of a loved one when your own way seems to be lost in the darkness.”
She leans over you and opens your robes from the front – because of course they do – and splays them out over the bed, baring your body to her as unconstrained hunger burns in her eyes. “Alone you can only achieve so much, but together, putting our minds, hearts, souls and wills into something we can warp reality itself, stand against any who could seek to harm us.” She reaches a glowing finger out and touches your toe. Instantly, you feel the queerly pleasurable touch of death, as that toe loses all power and function and feels nothing but an endless bliss. Then your foot, as she rounds the corner of the bed and slides her finger down to your ankle and up your shin, soft golden eyes locked on your slowly but surely hardening cock. You shudder as the pleasure felt by her touch begins to mount, yet despite it all you keep your eyes trained on hers and try to absorb her words.
“And, we’re monster girls. Ours is a way of self control, discipline and enlightenment.” Her finger glides up your thigh like the reaper’s scythe, leaving pleasure and oblivion in its wake. Her touch spreads from the faintly glowing line she’d traced but for each scrap of vitality robbed, it’s not right to say it’s lost. It merely gathers as one part feels more lively than ever before. The bounding surge of pleasure ripples through you, the last sensation before the muscles die and you’re left practically immobile from neck down but for an oasis of cock. “But that doesn’t change our fundamental nature. In fact,” she adopts an uncharacteristically lascivious leer, “All it really does is concentrate it.” You’ve absorbed enough of her message. You’ve spent the majority of your life in church and it’s your professional ecclesiastical opinion that you’re about to be fucked. Her silence would seem to concur, as she hikes her habit up above her knees and crawls onto the bed by your head.
“So if you’d allow me to turn this session of confessions into one of guidance, then the first thing we’ll have to work on it your self control and discipline, Brother Auren.”
You strain your largely powerless neck to look at her. “How do you suppose we do that, Prioress?” But all you get in response is a flash of white, pale, slick thigh flesh and darkness as she settles her ass down over your face, her excitement readily apparent and dripping.
“Hush,” Her voice comes distant and you’re almost too absorbed in the cold, wet pussy now squishing into your face – and dearly wishing you had the power to move your hands – to hear it. “I’ve told you time and time again.” She lies down across your belly, breasts pressing up against your pelvis and grinds her hips down to stifle any rebuttal. “Call me Mara. Keep being naughty and I’ll stop here and just drain you dry. Now, your task is this…” You jolt as her soft, cool lips kiss the tip of your cock. You’d think that having something just a hair’s shy of being soft, woman-shaped ice lying over you would be discomforting. Yet when mixed with the near sensation-less void that is your body – barring a certain stiff part – the deep chill reacts in a queer way, melting into pleasure and heat. “To make me cum, before I make you cum – or at least try to hold it in for as long as you can. I understand I’ve already cheated a little bit, so I’ll give you a head start while I enjoy this warmth. Get licking.”
Your tongue darts out before she finishes talking, flicking against her clit before sinking into her slit, parting the folds and being rewarded with a mouthful of icy wight wetness. Meanwhile, her breasts press a little flatter and silken hair slithers over your hip and thigh as something soft and cheek-like nuzzles by the side of your cock. One hand slides down your thigh, fingers splaying out while another cups your balls and pulls them into a cool, wet and wanton mouth. You groan into her cunt as she pops a testicle into her mouth and sucks before relinquishing it with a pop. Her saliva drenched soft tongue returns to lick along your balls and up your shaft, almost slavishly and you get the sensation your head start will only last as long as it takes her to lose focus and start on your head.
Which might not be long at all given how she licks up your shaft and around your throbbing girth, slathering it in saliva and breathing heavily as she rests her cheek up against your base and moans while she suckles and nibbles at your balls. Asides from the obvious sensations, you can get an image in your head for how she desperately and faithfully worships your manhood by the growing wetness of her wight pussy, the sudden tightness as you divert your tongue from her clit and plunge into her folds only to be gripped greedily. Her cool breath has your cock teetering between extremes while her slowly contact-warming full, soft lips smooch up against the side of your prick.
The chill swirling within you raises your body heat to almost feverish heights – the pleasure feels like something equally delirious as she needily smooches and licks and drools over the length of your cock and fairly slathers your balls in the stuff. It actually begins to feel hot. Some part pleasure-sparked delusion and some parts your own abundant heat sinking into her and driving her wild. She grows wetter by the minute, only some part due to the tongue plunging and roaming about her cunt, licking around her clit at times and sucking and kissing her soft plumpness – something you’ve come to feel first hand rather than see which is probably not the usual order of events.
Your cock, slathered in spit starts to almost burn as if it weren’t her cold, dead whoreish veneration slicked and bubbled along your shaft and balls, but molten wax. Her hand joins the fray as her mouth takes over for cupping your balls and her devilish, delicate digits wrap around your spit-soaked spear firmly and begin to stroke in rhythm with the tongue swirling about your balls, her tight grip alleviated by the ample lubrication. A part begins to dearly hope for her to quench your heat deep within her throat and another part suspects that’s coming sooner rather than later.
So it only grows more torturous that she stokes the heat within you with more kisses and fawning licks and nibbles without taking your head anywhere near her wet and warming mouth. Need driving you, you recall that this all has a higher purpose than having your cock and balls worshipped by a slutty undead nun – so you set to diving into her muff as much as you can with no muscle control below the neck and little better above.
You thrust your tongue as deep into her pussy as it’ll go, flicking and rubbing against the many folds, earning mouthfuls of her cool, almost tasteless and scentless juices – though a faint musk lingers in the background of your tastebuds like a quiet reminded of her true nature. As if you needed it, given her devotion to your masculinity and the scent of her lusts trapping under her habit as it rests bunched up a round her knees.
As you withdraw from her depths momentarily to focus on sucking and licking circles around her stiff clit, and poking around the hood, the sheets rustle as two icy feet slip under your head and press you up, while her hips grind down. About the greatest sign you could get as to her mounting pleasure if not for the gushing. You don’t get long to feel proud however, as your mind bursts in the next moment. Her tongue doesn’t flick around your head, her lips don’t kiss coyly at the tip. The first thing you feel – register, rather – is her cute nose pressing into your sack. Then, the cold, quenching blessed tightness of her throat and a sudden, jerky spasm that shakes the walls strangling your intruding member as you hear a distant “glurk!” from between the soft thighs trying to knead your head like dough.
She doesn’t move her head, but that’s little consolation to you as her quaking throat writhes to get used to the girth spearing it, the stimulation causing you to spurt a fat glob of pre down her neck – or up it, given the position. Now, you fear – as you desperately lap at her slit, earning a mess of a face that smears against her inner thighs as she grinds her hips on your head – you didn’t get enough of a head start.
It takes only a scant moment for her gag reflex to calm down and through it all her nose squishes against your balls. She doesn’t even breathe, as subconsciously autonomous a mechanism as that is, so focused is she on the dick down her gullet. You can feel the constricting tightness of her choker, vague fantasies of snapping it with your girth flit about your mind, but unfortunately it’s made of sterner stuff, so all you’re left with is a vice tightness stroking up and down your cock as she finally begins to move her head. Though, your tip never truly leaves her throat and she makes do with slowly sucking off the lower quart of your length.
Her thighs clench around your head as she rides your face and begins to rock the bed with her movement, slim, soft belly rubbing against yours, breasts pressing against your hips though the thinnest, barely there cloth scarcely possible as she gently bobs her head up and down following the momentum. She stops every now and then to just hilt you deep in her throat and sit there, milking you with the rolling contractions of her muscles as her fingers knead your nuts. You’d love to contribute, but despite the heat rising within your body and the deathly chill seeping in from hers, your muscles are still mired in the void of her touch. You can’t thrust as dearly as you’d like to. You’re just thankful she left your tongue to flick at her clit and part her folds in swirling circles or this very pious session of honing one’s self discipline and willpower would just be a farce where she rides your face and deep throats you. A travesty.
You don’t know if she’s doing it on purpose, but the hand on your thigh strokes it ever so softly. You can’t see it for the pussy and the ass and also the tent of cloth surrounding you but you’d gladly wager those delicate and graceful fingers are glowing that ghostly gold, because your body is bombarded with an abyssal icyness, radiating from that spot, keeping you well under her sway as it mixes with your inner heat and births a deep pleasure. You’re glad then that the cool hand that starts to grope and massage and caress your saliva-soaked balls isn’t doing the same thing. Though the mounting tension in your loins is already problematic, as you’ve no tell of your own but for the clingy contractions of her cunt to go by as to how close she is, it’s already pleasurable enough that you don’t want to see it sunk into some frigid fathom. Or worst yet, some freaky fusion that flares pleasure throughout your body and soul and would probably result in you dumping your load down her throat almost instantaneously. That would be horrible.
Feeling the bell toll for you as she massages your balls and throats your shaft, you do all you can to catch and flick at her stiff clit as it passes over your mouth, before she grinds her pussy against your lips and you’re left to plunge into her tunnel and circle her tight walls with your tongue, before she rocks back and rubs her clit against your lips once more. You’re fighting a losing battle with a tongue growing stiff and sore, the former a parallel to the lower front you’re also losing. Damn her not needing to breathe.
Your mind’s almost wiped out then and there as a blazing heat erupts from your loins and Mara gags in surprise as she’s suddenly flooded with thick hot cum, coursing down her gullet, so much so some of it flows back out in spurts to squirt out her nose and land on the hand cupping your balls. She splutters and gags and rolls her eyes up in bliss, moaning, though you can only know the latter by the maddening vibrations quaking through your cock as her throat quivers and clenches around you, milking you for everything you’ve got. The only solace, is a sudden squirt of cold wight-juice filling your mouth and splattering your face as your tongue gets stuck inside her. Though, thankfully, while her depths are cold – a little warmer now thanks to friction and her first meal of a new liquid diet – she’s not that kind of cold. That is, if the crass jokes about ice women were to be believed. It’s her powerful inner muscles keeping it there and there’s a tiny fragment of disappointment within you, that it was her throat that christened your cock’s first experience of being inside something not-so-warm and wet, rather than her pussy which now marks and claims your face.
Her soft, milky thighs shake and clench as her calves press against your ears and despite the sudden jerk or two as you lick her insides or suck her clit, the engagement on her end has all but ceased. Her nose is still pressed up to your sack and you’d be deeply concerned if she weren’t, well, already dead. After a long silence broken up by the errant suckling clench of her throat, she lets out another moan and languishingly unsheathes your dick from her neckpussy. You don’t get any response resembling sentience though, as she plants her face against your still hard cock with a cum and spit slicked splat and sets about absently slurping and kissing, denying any possible flagging to your sensitive and throbbing fellow. You wish dearly for the strength to tap her thighs and awake her from her apparent cumdrunk stupor, if only to get some fresh air that isn’t fuckhaze tainted. It’s an unfortunate evil, but you need the face of wet pussy and ass to go for that.
Alas, it isn’t until your cock’s clean but for a fresh layer of spitshine that her hips move and you’re granted light and fresh air as her leg swivels over and she sits down beside you. Almost like a cat, she cleans her hand and face of any errant fluids. The patch of cloth above her breasts is damp and stained but that vanishes before your eyes. You swallow as her predatory eyes flit to you and your cock twitches as she takes you face in her hands and licks it clean, eyes open and observing you amusedly. Indeed, by design or happenstance, the ghost silhouette of a pair of golden cat’s ears adorns her head. Slowly, strength returns to your muscles, you give the forgotten things a flex, almost full body and the one that moves the most is the muscle between your legs, bobbing eagerly and stiffer than ever. Mara’s soft golden gaze hones in on it immediately.
“Fufufu, still so lively. But.” She gives a long and exaggerated sigh. “I’m disappointed you couldn’t last. Your discipline is lacking Brother Auren.”
Your mouth drops open, “I-I mean, if you hadn’t used your touch on me and I’d been allowed to be more proactive, I think I could have… besides, you came.”
She grins and waggles a finger. “But you came first. And those are just excuses, Brother. You know as well as I there will be times unfavourable to you, can your will be broken then just because it’s a little harder?” She gives your proud staff a longing look, biting her lower lip before sighing dramatically again. “Ahh, alas.” She slowly slides off the bed and begins to walk away, with an ass bouncing, hip swaying slow gait. “It seems you’re not ready yet. Your conviction isn’t stiff and hard and… pulsing enough yet. Perhaps this was the wrong idea…” She sounds broken up over it even, like the world’s ending.
Having found a second wind – revitalised, almost – you all but pounce on her, springing from the bed and grabbing hold of her. In another step you’ve pushed her against a wall with a hand on the small of her back and the other reaches down to bunch up her habit. “Oof.” She gives a soft gasp as you press her into the wall and thrusts her rear back against you, rubbing your prick in the cleavage of her ass. “How’d you guess I wanted it hard?”
Her out thrust rear is the perfect shelf to toss her habit over and your fingers find their way to her drenched pussy, cramming three in at a time, stroking along her soft walls while you nudge her legs apart further with your ankle, making her wiggle her hips against your hand in anticipation. A bead of her excitement drips from her delta, fat and heavy and long, reaching halfway down her thighs before snapping and splatting onto the stone floor, the remnant string bouncing to smack into the inside of her thigh to join the other rivulets of her lewdness.
Your hand on her back slides down around to her side and comes to a halt over her pale ass, while you press your fingers into her mouth with our other, now pussy-slicked hand. “You’ve got a thing for determination.” Your hand leaves her ass only for as long as it takes you to press your swollen crown into her giving, sopping entrance and then returns to the large shapely and bouncy thing with a smack, while you hammer yourself in to the hilt with a wet fleshy plap, making her whole soft body jolt and her breasts sway pendulously in their clothy prison.
You almost cum again then and there as your eyes involuntarily roll up and you breath out a groan, manhood quivering with each fold your oversensitive head plunges past. She’s got her own determination though, and she braces herself against the wall with her hands splayed wide and begins to shake her hips, not letting you set the pace entirely, as her veil and long, pale golden hair jostles and jolts. The room soon fills with moans and gasps as she sucks on the two fingers and slithers her cool tongue around and between them. Perhaps due to being pent up, or inexperienced with banging a woman of the cloth so beautiful as to easily rival the contemporary idols, you know if you give up the pace to her you’re doomed to a quick spurt.
Thrusting harder, you take your fingers out of her mouth and gently grasp her throat, pulling her back into you as you step forwards and press her into the wall, pinning her there with a hand on her hips and a fat cock in her cunt, allowing you to pound her ass flat at your own measured pace, though you have to offset speed for power, or the situation would really be no different to before. Her ass deforms against your thrusting crotch and you’re overwhelmed with the softness of the woman before you as your heart screams to take and hold her. The hand on her hip flicks under her bunched up habit and slides over her soft belly while the hand around her throat deviates down to grope a large soft breast through the cloth, while the other bounces wildly.
You hold her close as you jerkily thrust into her from behind and relish in her cries and moans, joining the lewd fleshy cacophony as her passage grips and twists around your shaft in continuous contractions. She does everything she can to reciprocate, tipping her head back onto your shoulder and arching her back, thrusting her ass out to be pounded. Clutching at her firm yet giving breast, you find the stiff bud of her nipple and lean down to kiss her slim graceful neck, and look down the hand shaped bulge in her cloth. It’s usually tight enough to reveal her immense, large bosom, but with your hand in the way, you’re not able to spy much.
You grunt with displeasure and thrust in, pressing her against the wall while you free your hands to come down and lift her habit up and over her head. You toss away the veil too, for good measure. Mara giggles, “I was wondering when you’d get to that.” She presses a glowing hand to your hips, keeping you still with a momentary feebleness, and shifts and twists, leaning her shoulder against the wall as she balances on one foot and in a remarkable display of flexibility – though you do have to lean back to avoid being kicked – she brings her leg up and around and over you, causing you to almost faint with pleasure then and there as she twists her tight pussy around your girth.
Her leg rests over your shoulder for a moment before slipping down. She smiles softly at you as her arms come up to rest where her leg did and her other leg joins the first, wrapped around your hips with ankles locked. “I’d thought of leaving them there, but I really want to hold you. I’ll show off my flexibility later when you pin my ankles to my ears” She leans into your ear with a giggling whisper, “Mollis mortis is a lot of fun~ There’s other perks to being undead too, I’ll let you in on a little secret. Incentive for you to focus on your path.” She gives your earlobe a nibble and a lick before continuing. “The way the Light burns really… really gets me going. Now ravish me.”
You give a soft groan as she fills your head with lewd images, the cock buried in her passage and butting up against her cervix twitching and giving a spurt of precum. You could just slam her ass back into the wall and oblige, start pounding away at her wet box. But you suddenly look up, as a rare clarity takes you.
“No.”
“What? Eep!” She gives off a cute cry as you spin on your heel, nearly toppling over, and carry her off to bed, slowly and gently setting her down and laying atop her. She shoots you a sultry, knowing look. “Oh, you want it nice and gentle and slow then? That’s nice too~”
You reach a hand out and brush her golden fringe away from her beautiful, deathly pale face. “I love you Mara.”
Her brilliant golden orbs fly wide as she gasps, splashing that pallor with hues of aroused crimson before settling, almost melting in a warm, motherly smile. She pulls herself up to you and your lips meet in a kiss that starts like the first but quickly becomes more as she pulls you down. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think how it’s funny that you’d gone about things backwards, been balls deep in both ends of her before even wrestling tongues, but that thought quickly fades as you all but melt into her warm cool embrace.
Her fingers thread through your hair and her delicate jaw works while she traps your tongue in her mouth and her soft, plush lips press up against yours. You hold yourself above her with an elbow sunk into the sheets, letting your free hand roam, stroking through her golden locks. You both jolt as your fingers pass over and partially through a pair of ghostly elven ears. Yet that touch alone has her pussy squeeze and spurt out a dribble of pleasure, making you recall the cock buried with in her, almost forgotten in the passion of the moment, but never flagging.
She moans loudly into the kiss, more wanton than you’d heard yet and nuzzles her head into your hand, pleading to you with her eyes to kiss and stroke and pet her more. You start to seriously question what she’s seen, that a pair of long elven ears are what she subconsciously recognises as the expression of a needy kiss slut. Such pointless questions pass as you temporarily leave her hole stuffed with dick as consolation for continued neglect and keep your attentions on the kiss, swapping both spit and initiative as you catch one of her soft plump lips between your teeth, giving them a light pull before it pops back with a springy ardour.
Your breath hitches at the sight of her lust swollen lips and red-tinged face, feeling your own loins stir powerfully at the display, but she doesn’t let you gawk, pulling you back down with her unholy strength and mashing her sensitive lips against yours. Her pale, pink, soft tongue slides out to lick between yours before she bites your upper lip and moans, fingers curling through your hair. You give her ear a stroke and take advantage of her gasp to suck on her poked out tongue before plunging into her cool mouth and making it lukewarm with your passions whilst you continue tweak and caress her ear.
Mara gives up an orgasmic cry as her legs clench around your hips and she pulls you in, manifolds rippling and sucking while her cervix dips kisses around your tip. You hiss through your teeth, or try, mouth occupied as it is and only managing a sharp breath through your nose. The pleasure rams its way through your spine like split bamboo, making your ass, balls and abs clench while your cock tries to deal with the sudden crushing vice. Your fingers fly from her ear as if scalded and you look down at her, eyes more white than gold as they roll upwards. You idly toy, lick and nibble at her bottom lip as you look at her in askance.
She breaks the kiss, breathing heavily and blushing. Two responses probably even more honest than a bitch’s tail. In fact, you’re surprised she didn’t form one to thrash through the sheets. “That was, uh… don’t do that unless you really want to see me turn into a sloppy mess.” Her ears begin to fade, drooping with evident unwillingness as she controls herself.
You smirk. “The problem is…?”
Her lips curl up in a pouty smile as she puts a finger to your lips. “The problem is~, you haven’ let me respond yet.” She pinches your cheeks and gives it a few playful tugs before caressing over the fain redness with a tender hand. “I love you too Auren. I’ve been looking at you the same way since the day you came. I love your heart, your mind, the way you’re so ready to accept, this way of life, all the other Sisters, everything. I love you. Now, come inside me. You’ve no idea how much I need your warmth right now. I haven’t felt this way ever since retaking the light, you’re going to make me addicted. Fill me.”
She grasps your hand and guides it to her breast and you give a chuckle as you take her lead and join in with your other hand, sitting up and pressing her ample bosom down as you lean a fraction of your weight on them. “I’m a bit far from that, yet.”
Her eyes begin to glow golden. “I can change that.”
A bead of sweat rolls down your cheek, “Uh, no need.” Perhaps to prevent your mouth from making any further transgressions, your hands slide around her immense bosom and you press her boobs together such that those stiff, faintly pink buds resting on a sea of ghostly white are close enough to catch in a single mouthful.
You all but hug her breasts, licking and flicking and sucking her nipples as you thrust into her, causing lewd ripples of carnal lust through her and are rewarded in the way her thighs clench around your hips, ensuring only the shortest and deepest strokes. The way one of her arms wraps around your head, fingers playing through your hair while her other strokes your back. Her chest thrums with a purring moan and her sensitive nun’s cunt wraps around your plunging girth with a lover’s caress.
Her wanting, wanton walls wrap around your shaft, clinging needily such that a small, oh-so pale pink band’s pulled out of her pussy by the short egress before she squeezes down to make you fight for your entry. A fight entirely given up by the ample, carnal lubrication flooding her canal and the added effort as her hips buck to meet yours. She almost tightens to the extent that pressing in grows arduous, excruciatingly blissful as you fight the urge to roll your eyes back and cum then and there. Each pull out spills more of her girl-cum, the scent of your passions combined rises around the two of you like a hedonistic haze, spurring the two of you to even greater heights, as her inner muscles grope and caress and your swollen cock throbs insistently.
Loud wet slaps fill the room as your full balls bounce off her soft ass and are joined with the faintest squelching as your cock head dredges out her ample excitement all over the sheets. Her nipples only seem to grow harder in your mouth as she begins to moan your name. You start feeling pretty proud of yourself at making her squirm so, evidently pushing her towards yet another climax, but you can only inwardly groan in dismay as she forces your face down further into her breasts and she slips a hand between your mashing bodies and her cool delicate fingers curl around your balls. You finally get that dreaded sensation, as you can all but feel her hands begin to glow, the strange sensation of claw tips scritching at your scalp and curling around your nuts. Her touch on your head, wipes you of all thoughts of resistance, makes you deeply, deeply inclined to blow your load deep inside her and bask in the warmth, impregnate the holy wight slut. Strength leaves you all at once to fall into a death-like state, but her heels dig in to your ass and keep you hilted with the head of your cock half breaching her cervix.
Her touch on your balls however, elicits an entirely different chain reaction, a white explosion of ecstasy that rips through you, beating back the darkness of her deathly influence with virile life. The fullest display of her sinister powers, at once lulling her foe into a deathly state and coaxing the purest most concentrated expression of their vitality to spurt out in thick molten streams. “Cum Auren! Fill me with your waarrrrmmmmm~”
“Mara!” She climaxes as you do, your hot seed smashing into the back walls of her womb, sending her into overdrive, undead pussy undulating as she ululates, writhing walls constricting and quivering around your throbbing girth as her instincts take over to milk you of every cum-vein distending drop. Her slurping folds suck as your manhood spasms inside her, part manic throbbing and spurting, part jittery half-thrusts as she massages and squeezes your balls.
Her orgasm passes and by the time she’s twitching with the aftershocks, you’re dribbling out your last weak spurts, having filled her womb to the point where her seal around your cock had failed, causing small rivulets of cum and wight-juice to squirt out to stain her soft milky thighs.
She stops exerting that dastardly power of hers at some point and you muster the strength to wrap your arms around her and rest your head in her bosom with a weary sigh. Those gentle, almost motherly fingers begin to softly stroke your scalp again. You look up at Mara, warmth in your heart and love in your eyes but gasp softly. “You’re uh… glowing?”
She smiles down at you, and chuckles softly, golden hair a sex-stirred mess, beaming a blissful post-coitus radiance. “Fufufu~ Am I?”
Penywise's Reliquary 
“What kind of willpower could you get from an ocean of souls?”
If you paint your horse red, it will go faster. WAAGH
LikeLiked by 2 people