Another land, another monster leading into another sickness— and another rift that had opened and leaked filthwithout her consent. Maren waded cautiously through the liquid that felt like it mirrored her entire soul. Her mist danced and curled around her, evaporating as the warmth of the sun caressed it and, as it hit the cold, reviving itself. She breathed it in, her friend, and breathed it out with the inclusion of grey dusty sickness. The lands were perfect, the air felt like home and the liquid glass reminded her of her dreamy visions in the Gardens, the Medium — But what would it take this time? Where does this end, she thought. What could it be— Yet another phantasm.  


Through liquid traveling she had arrived (apparently), for through her scattered senses she smelled the light, felt the pressure of the other horses on her bare skin; Gaucho, Megaera, Ampere, Ashamin, Mauja and Ërthe and whoever else; but her eyes… Her eyes seemed blinded by the overthrow of all the different senses that were rushing through, as if her iris and pupil had turned into an intersection of it all and there was no making sense of. Only when she desperately concentrated could she see what was before her. But she did not whine for this handicap for long, because what the priestess felt on her relieved skin was the pure luminous pressure of her God. 


Still moving with care, she walked towards Him, more and more beginning to think and feel like it could be a dream because of the fluffiness filling her head (perhaps the cotton-y mist she had breathed in). Still, there was no mistaking the godly presence: The power, the warmth, the illusions of light dancing around her, with her; yelled and sang and shouted —and she would almost forget that there would most certainly be a monster appearing soon. (Although surely He would handle it with speed and ease.) Even though her halo was not illuminating as she stood bathing in the light of these mirroring lands, before her God, she had rarely felt more connected to it. Her devotion was seamless, endless. “My… —God,” she managed to get over her blackened, foul dripping, quivering lips. She bowed her head, shadowy smudge lining her alabaster cheeks, raining down from the openings of her skeleton face. In thought she begged him to release her from the darkness in her lungs, the demons that had nestled inside of her after the Wolf battle, but she would also not let it stand in her way for protecting what she felt through her senses and into her very spirit. He knew her heart, He knew her soul and He knew her sins, for she knew they would be save in his glowing eternal embrace. Take my worth and make it more. 


She took up her chin again and joined her herd. As she walked past her respectable colleague Ashamin, she gargled up a failed ‘hello’ and only managed to make it seem like she was attempting to either spit questionable smudge at him, or curse him with the included strange sounds. However, she didn’t do as much as notice that she had failed so miserably, and thus, when she walked up to Gaucho and Megaera, the same thing happened with her precious Sultan and Sultana. 


At last Maren found a spot somewhere near her herd mates where she could throw her beforehand prepared, cold, grim golden glare towards the Riftians (foul creatures with shattered souls, callers upon damnation). Since, however much her God welcomed them in their land, a dark voice in her head kept whispering that perhaps the Helovian Gods weren’t aware of this seemingly so innocent danger yet. For, had the Rift-Gods seen the end of their reign coming? Had they been aware of their falling doom? Time shall tell, but she would be there, too. 


But then, out of nowhere, her darkening, yellow eyes spotted them; focused so that the details started to flow out: Small wings behind the ears of… of a stranger— An untrue reflection, she told her awareness as her breathing stopped for a desperate moment. Is that my soul? Is this me? But the logic of her senses was not to be found, was evaporating and seeing what could be a demonic play of shadows, a growing danger to her very being. Maren’s chin rose, pupils small as the yellow, framed by black, shimmered in what could be said was fright. From her widening, stained nostrils Maren puffed thick fog as she looked at her, a girl —herself? What demon are you?

— Am I?
But she was pure, she was light.
I am priestess of the Sun. I have smelled it, tasted it myself.


Her eyes flickered as her ears flung back, wings stiff and unmoving like horns sticking out from the sides of her head, feathered fingers spread over the air underneath. How dare you bow before my God. But still she stood unmoved, like marble stone statues from era’s too old. And yet, she was not frozen by anticipation, the promise of a fight. She was turned to coldness by horror and confusion; the pure innocence of overwhelming unknowings. Tar dripped from her face. Demons. Filth. Still, through it all she swore by the light. Swore by its strength and  swore by the strength of her trust, her faith. 

— Why, now I have smelled darkness, too.

Maren

BY THE PRECEPTS OF HER PURITY