{
(set: $sidebar to false)
}Resentful ❅ Revered
[[Begin]]
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[[About]]{
(set: $sidebar to true)
}Petals line the path before you.
A pair of priests - staves in hand - lead you to the shrine.
Destiny compels you to [[continue]], though you have seen others try to [[flee]].{
(set: $faith to it + 1)
}You follow the path of petals towards the shrine's great steps.
Even if destiny did not compel you, you would never make it through the crowd with your hands bound.
Their voices rise like the smoke from the pyres all around you: [["Holy, holy, holy..."]]{
(set: $will to it + 1)
}Turning suddenly, you shoulder one of the priests to the ground.
Leaping over his prostrate form, you lunge for an opening in the crowd.
But as you do so, he snatches out a hand and seizes your ankle.
Hands bound in front of you, you land face-first, tasting blood.
The other priest feeds his stave between your elbows and your back. Silently, without acknowledging this discrace to the ritual, they lead you to the shrine's great steps.
The voices of the crowd rise like the smoke from the pyres all around you: [["Holy, holy, holy..."]]<span id="box">
(if: $sidebar is true)[\
Will: $will
Faith: $faith
]
</span>{
(set: $sidebar to $true)
(set: $will to 0)
(set: $faith to 0)
}The chanting of the worshippers grows fainter as you climb the steps(if: (history:) contains "flee")[, hauled along by the priests who flank you].(if: (history:) contains "continue")[ Though you make your own way up them, still your legs tremble as you think of what awaits you there.]
Soon the chanting is barely a faint pulse carried on the wind. You have left behind the ashy smoke of the city, and can now smell the fragrant smoke of the shrine just above.
But there is another scent, beyond the incense.
It is the scent of [[decay]].At the gates of the shrine, the arch-priest waits to greet you.
He draws his dagger twice: first from his belt, then across the back of his left hand. He is old, and from the tally of raised scars the blood flows over you surmise that he has greeted seven or eight before you.
Raising his bleeding hand, he steps forth to mark your forehead with his sacrifice.
Tradition demands that you [[accept it]]. Opportunity allows that you [[strike at him]] instead.{
(if: (history:) contains "flee")[(replace: "strike at")[headbutt]]
}{
(set: $faith to it + 1)
}The arch-priest wipes the back of his hand across your forehead, then swiftly wraps it in a cloth to stem the flow of blood.
He gives you a brief smile, as if to recognise your courage.
"This vessel is willing, O Weeping One!" he calls into the shrine.
(if: (history:) contains "flee")["Willing but hesitant..." comes the reply. "Still, bring forth my flesh."]{
}(if: (history:) contains "continue")["Exactly as foretold," comes the reply. "Bring forth my flesh that I may wear it."]
The words are accompanied be a rush of breath that has you retching(if: (history:) contains "continue")[ on the ground](else:)[, kept on your feet only by your captors].
The arch-priest speaks once more: [["As your will demands."]]{
(set: $will to it + 1)
}(if: (history:) contains "continue")[When the arch-priest is barely an arm's length away, you lunge forwards, swinging your elbow as hard as your tight bonds will allow.
The feeble blow is enough to startle him at least, and he stumbles back.]{
}(if: (history:) contains "flee")[The arch-priest notes his acolytes' tight hold on you, but is perhaps a little under-cautious because of it.
Once he is close, you throw yourself forward. His nose cracks beneath your forehead and he stumbles back.]
"This vessel resists us, O Weeping One!" he calls inside the shrine.
"As the willow resists the weaver," comes the reply. "Bring forth my flesh that I may wear it."
The words are accompanied be a rush of breath that has you retching(if: (history:) contains "continue")[ on the ground](else:)[, kept on your feet only by your captors].
(if: (history:) contains "continue")[The arch-priest takes the opportunity to quickly mark your forehead with his blood.]{
}(if: (history:) contains "flee")[The arch-priest touches a hand to his bleeding nose, then looks at your stained forehead.]
[["As your will demands."]]You find yourself torn between two competing desires: to [[witness the Weeping One|no choice]], or to [[run and never look back|no choice]].[[No.]][[You cannot.]]For in the presence of such glory, [[no choice is yours to make]].You step towards the great gates of the shrine, eyes lowered in reverence.(if: (history:) contains "flee")[
The priest to your left takes back his stave.]
As you pass, the arch-priest cuts your bonds.
Before you waits the Weeping One, the Eater of the Dead. Ageless and eternal, it is a creature older than creation, a god who has been gifted with a thousand fawning epithets, yet whose unvarnished name would make each seem an insult.
To know that name is to die.
And now you know it.
"No," breathes the weeping one, and as it speaks [[you understand]].[[You have always known it.]][[For was that not why you were chosen?]][[Is that not why you are here?]]"Raise your eyes," breathes the Weeping One, "that I may look upon myself."
[[Your head lifts]], though you do not lift it. You wonder if you could [[resist]].{
(set: $faith to it + 1)
}You allow this force to move your head, as a street performer would move a puupet of clay.
(display: "The Weeping One"){
(set: $will to it + 1)
}You struggle to keep your head down, to shield yourself from whatever horror lurks before you, but it is futile. Your head rises. Even your eyes in their orbits move without your command.
(display: "The Weeping One")"Good..."
The creature in the shrine lies on its side, its ribs heaving beneath the white sheets swaddling its gargantuan form.
Then, as you watch, it props itself up on a misshapen elbow. Through the sheets - tightly bound with woven cords - you hear hard talons grate against the floor.
Suddenly, as you gaze upon it, you find that it is gazing back. The hood tied across its head is saturated with blood that trickles onto the tiles of jet - there are no eyes beneath it - yet it watches you with great interest. And through your intact eyes, it watches itself.
Only the bottom jaw - reptillian, but barely clothed with scale and sinew - remains uncovered by its shroud, and this drops open as it speaks:
"I will not lie to you: for all my power, this is one thing that I cannot do. From this day forth, my presence is your burden. The living can not long accommodate the Eater of the Dead, and each day you give to me in service shall take several from you."
You stare up at the Weeping One, immobile, eyes watering.
Finally, [[it remembers to blink]]."But as I demand great sacrifice," the Weeping One continues, "I offer great power. Though your life is shortened by many years, each year remaining is as a lifetime."