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7/12/2025, 4:56:44 PM
The mysterious letter sits in your pocket like a poisoned dagger, something to be drawn at the opportune moment. You’ve been waiting for an opportunity to show it to Cato in private, but his duties have kept him too busy for that. You haven’t shown it to Elle at all, though you’re not sure why. To avoid worrying her, perhaps. It’s strange, how your perception of her has changed overnight.
Touching a hand to your pocket, as if reminding yourself that the letter is still there, you take a long look around the grand cathedral. A high dais has been set up on the far end of the cavernous room, piled with so many cushions that it looks more like a raised bed surrounded by gauzy curtains. Later today, when the sun reaches its peak, Saint Lucille will ascend that platform and address the waiting crowds.
Until then, she sits amidst a surging retinue of servants attending to her every need. The first time you saw her, you were struck by how much she reminded you of Elle. If not for her hair, arrow straight instead of wavy, you might have taken them for sisters. That aside, she looks like you suppose a saint ought to. Her face is usually set in a serious, solemn mask, apart from a few brief moments – when she thinks that nobody is looking – when traces of a smug smile tug at her mouth. Perhaps it’s only natural to be smug when you have so many servants waiting on you.
The main doors creak as Captain Renoir’s minions, Mira and Jericho, hurry inside with armloads of junk. You approach as they set them down with matching groans, idly sifting through the haul. You see bunches of flowers, already starting to wilt in the remorseless heat, as well as pieces of cheap costume jewellery. Most of them depict the same thing – a blazing sun with a stern, serene face. “What’s all this?” you ask, waving a hand at the pile.
“Offerings. Gifts for the saint,” Mira shrugs, “We tried telling people not to bring anything, but they didn’t listen to me. We’ve been standing out there all morning, handling the stuff. I tell you, every time some pilgrim approaches me and sticks his hand in my pocket, I piss myself a little. I keep expecting to see them pull a gun on us.”
“It’s a disaster just waiting to happen,” Jericho adds glumly, “And to think, we were excited when Captain Renoir picked us for this job. How foolish…”
“Why a sun, though?” you wonder, holding up a particularly gaudy medallion.
Mira coughs, covering up a dirty laugh. “You haven’t been reading your scripture, have you? It’s okay, me neither,” she shakes her head, “Apparently the prophecies compare the coming God to a blazing sun. So it’s like a holy symbol, you know?”
“I’m already sick of the sight of it,” Jericho mutters to himself, glancing over his shoulder to make sure there aren’t any priests listening in.
[1/3]
Touching a hand to your pocket, as if reminding yourself that the letter is still there, you take a long look around the grand cathedral. A high dais has been set up on the far end of the cavernous room, piled with so many cushions that it looks more like a raised bed surrounded by gauzy curtains. Later today, when the sun reaches its peak, Saint Lucille will ascend that platform and address the waiting crowds.
Until then, she sits amidst a surging retinue of servants attending to her every need. The first time you saw her, you were struck by how much she reminded you of Elle. If not for her hair, arrow straight instead of wavy, you might have taken them for sisters. That aside, she looks like you suppose a saint ought to. Her face is usually set in a serious, solemn mask, apart from a few brief moments – when she thinks that nobody is looking – when traces of a smug smile tug at her mouth. Perhaps it’s only natural to be smug when you have so many servants waiting on you.
The main doors creak as Captain Renoir’s minions, Mira and Jericho, hurry inside with armloads of junk. You approach as they set them down with matching groans, idly sifting through the haul. You see bunches of flowers, already starting to wilt in the remorseless heat, as well as pieces of cheap costume jewellery. Most of them depict the same thing – a blazing sun with a stern, serene face. “What’s all this?” you ask, waving a hand at the pile.
“Offerings. Gifts for the saint,” Mira shrugs, “We tried telling people not to bring anything, but they didn’t listen to me. We’ve been standing out there all morning, handling the stuff. I tell you, every time some pilgrim approaches me and sticks his hand in my pocket, I piss myself a little. I keep expecting to see them pull a gun on us.”
“It’s a disaster just waiting to happen,” Jericho adds glumly, “And to think, we were excited when Captain Renoir picked us for this job. How foolish…”
“Why a sun, though?” you wonder, holding up a particularly gaudy medallion.
Mira coughs, covering up a dirty laugh. “You haven’t been reading your scripture, have you? It’s okay, me neither,” she shakes her head, “Apparently the prophecies compare the coming God to a blazing sun. So it’s like a holy symbol, you know?”
“I’m already sick of the sight of it,” Jericho mutters to himself, glancing over his shoulder to make sure there aren’t any priests listening in.
[1/3]
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