wonder she looks like a Citizen.
Arturus offered her his hand. “That’s fine,” he said with a smile. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded and stood after taking his hand, wiping snot and tears off of on her cotton shirtsleeve with her free arm.
“The flatbread first,” Rick suggested. “It’ll be the most familiar to her.”
The church, Father Klein often insisted, was built by those same men who had designed the Fore. It was not, and of this he was most certain, designed by Hell’s architect.
Its hallowed halls, made of slick blue marble, were large enough to hold all the Citizens and then nearly all of the villagers of Harpsborough. Its far wall, behind where Father Klein sat now, was marked with the dust and dirt of the villagers who prayed there. Above that line of pollution was a giant woodstone cross which hung down from the fifty foot ceiling. Along the church’s east and west walls were tall Doric pillars, each supporting the high arch of the ceiling with its symmetrical sister. Between each supporting pillar was an ornamental one, which had once been topped with the pagan statues of strange gods and heroes.
Father Klein had made sure those statues were taken down, but even he was afraid to ruin them, and had stored them instead in the small room he called the catacombs. It was the same room where he stored the flatbread and bloodwater. He prayed over them nightly, begging that the body and blood of Christ would make some hopeless sojourn into the bowels of Hell to give the semblance of a communion to his damned flock. Backless stone benches were laid between the pillars, taking the place of pews. Forty-eight of the village’s fifty Citizens sat in them now, not facing the pulpit as a congregation might, but arranged in a half circle, looking towards each other.
The Citizens had not always held their votes here. Even into the first year of Michael Baker’s reign they had made their votes in the Fore’s parlor. Now that there were fifty of them, the parlor’s confines were too small. Father Klein had been only too happy to put them up in his church. It had been his suggestion, in fact.
First Citizen Michael Baker and Davel Mancini were the last two Citizens to enter the church, and the buzz of quiet conversation died down at their entrance. Mancini’s booted feet could be heard clopping along the center aisle, echoing in the close stone confines of God’s building.
Michael’s footfalls, perhaps owing to his previous post of Lead Hunter, were much softer, and the room fell into silence as Mancini took his seat. Michael continued towards the pulpit. Unlike Father Klein, he did not dare stand behind it, lest his words be confused with God’s.
Father Klein stood up from on one of the benches, and intoned the beginning of their meeting. “We came to Hell as Wolves. We denied our Lord God, in thought, word, and deed. In His magnificent judgment, He has damned us to Hell. We are contemptible men, deserving of our Fate. Though it is too late for our Salvation, let us leave Hell as Sheep, that we may do in Death what we failed to do in Life. Lord, if you see fit, guide us in our Damnation with Your Wisdom.”
“Amen,” came the Citizens’ reply.
Mancini wasted no time in getting to business. “Alright, as you have undoubtedly noticed, the villagers aren’t eating very well. Certainly you have seen the decline in our stores of meat. You have definitely resented the pressure we’ve given you to keep your villager’s visits to the Fore at an absolute minimum.”
He looked about the room at that, and received a few scattered laughs. “Particularly when a villager would eat a dyitzu whole if we let them.” A few more laughs. “But I would argue that, by and large, this is actually a period of great prosperity. Times are tough in the village, sure, but there are more villagers than ever before. We may have had to cut down just a little in the Fore, but it hasn’t been out of what we eat,
Arturus offered her his hand. “That’s fine,” he said with a smile. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded and stood after taking his hand, wiping snot and tears off of on her cotton shirtsleeve with her free arm.
“The flatbread first,” Rick suggested. “It’ll be the most familiar to her.”
The church, Father Klein often insisted, was built by those same men who had designed the Fore. It was not, and of this he was most certain, designed by Hell’s architect.
Its hallowed halls, made of slick blue marble, were large enough to hold all the Citizens and then nearly all of the villagers of Harpsborough. Its far wall, behind where Father Klein sat now, was marked with the dust and dirt of the villagers who prayed there. Above that line of pollution was a giant woodstone cross which hung down from the fifty foot ceiling. Along the church’s east and west walls were tall Doric pillars, each supporting the high arch of the ceiling with its symmetrical sister. Between each supporting pillar was an ornamental one, which had once been topped with the pagan statues of strange gods and heroes.
Father Klein had made sure those statues were taken down, but even he was afraid to ruin them, and had stored them instead in the small room he called the catacombs. It was the same room where he stored the flatbread and bloodwater. He prayed over them nightly, begging that the body and blood of Christ would make some hopeless sojourn into the bowels of Hell to give the semblance of a communion to his damned flock. Backless stone benches were laid between the pillars, taking the place of pews. Forty-eight of the village’s fifty Citizens sat in them now, not facing the pulpit as a congregation might, but arranged in a half circle, looking towards each other.
The Citizens had not always held their votes here. Even into the first year of Michael Baker’s reign they had made their votes in the Fore’s parlor. Now that there were fifty of them, the parlor’s confines were too small. Father Klein had been only too happy to put them up in his church. It had been his suggestion, in fact.
First Citizen Michael Baker and Davel Mancini were the last two Citizens to enter the church, and the buzz of quiet conversation died down at their entrance. Mancini’s booted feet could be heard clopping along the center aisle, echoing in the close stone confines of God’s building.
Michael’s footfalls, perhaps owing to his previous post of Lead Hunter, were much softer, and the room fell into silence as Mancini took his seat. Michael continued towards the pulpit. Unlike Father Klein, he did not dare stand behind it, lest his words be confused with God’s.
Father Klein stood up from on one of the benches, and intoned the beginning of their meeting. “We came to Hell as Wolves. We denied our Lord God, in thought, word, and deed. In His magnificent judgment, He has damned us to Hell. We are contemptible men, deserving of our Fate. Though it is too late for our Salvation, let us leave Hell as Sheep, that we may do in Death what we failed to do in Life. Lord, if you see fit, guide us in our Damnation with Your Wisdom.”
“Amen,” came the Citizens’ reply.
Mancini wasted no time in getting to business. “Alright, as you have undoubtedly noticed, the villagers aren’t eating very well. Certainly you have seen the decline in our stores of meat. You have definitely resented the pressure we’ve given you to keep your villager’s visits to the Fore at an absolute minimum.”
He looked about the room at that, and received a few scattered laughs. “Particularly when a villager would eat a dyitzu whole if we let them.” A few more laughs. “But I would argue that, by and large, this is actually a period of great prosperity. Times are tough in the village, sure, but there are more villagers than ever before. We may have had to cut down just a little in the Fore, but it hasn’t been out of what we eat,
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