gods that are best unsung | Glowfic Constellation

Pontifical Bull, 13th October, AUC 2669

Whereas the Church in our age has suffered strife and injuries innumerable, the declaration of our losses in many forms by changeable rumour has misled men of the nature of our standing, and it behooves us to report freely and clearly the truth of events.

We grieve the murder by poison at the hands of the enemy of His Imperial and Most Holy Majesty King Roald XI, last of his line, Defender of the Faith, and the sacking of Alarican lands and the suffering of its people; and the grievous destruction and desecration of our churches in that country, and of many good men of the faith. We mourn the death in glorious battle of Her Holiness the Most High Priestess of Our Lady Sirenna, whose seat is vacant, and counsel that all good men turn their thoughts to Her.

Though the citadel of the Hand of Heaven stands unbroken and incorruptible, its townlands and holdings have fallen to our enemy the most avaricious Wyrt out of the Northlands, foes most implacable to all men and despisers of the gods Themselves. We mourn that we may no longer welcome men of the faith to worship there, nor do we promise any safe passage, and the land of our forefathers is lost and the Holy Citadel open only to those who by great piety or by great cunning may have been granted the power to set foot there from afar.

Our rightful suzerainty of the Free Cities, now even of perfidious Altgrove and ruined Ravenstone, and Eldglass and Elturel and the Kingdom of the First, has been most treacherously defied, nor are men of the cloth considered to have safety and dignity there.

Our most fearsome ally the Grand Calipha blessed be her name lies dead and without an heir, and the line of those blessed and chosen by the Prophet ends with her, nor does any new light come from Heaven, for none lives now who is worthy, or for some Heavenly cause of which we may not know; but in those sands the enlightened dwell still and men may find safety there.

The elves keep their faith, but we do not counsel that any turn there for aid.

Those who may make the journey can find safe harbour still in the northern part of the last and most distant kingdom of Valynrest where our most pious daughter dwells still as queen, should they submit to her imperial will and pledge themselves in the Lord's name.

We dwell in the Last Bastion of the Church in the Farthen Woods, whose ancient ways our templars guard, and there we shall stand until the undoing of the world, where any may come in refuge and build, wherefore ye all are bidden keep watch for the day when it is necessary to turn there.

We stand firm in our faith here until the end of all things.

We sign our name and affix our seal this day,

His Holiness the Most High Priest of Pelor Ophel of Volturgard.

A black and dreadful space below the ground. The dust of centuries shifts uneasily as they walk, Ambrose's wizard-fire light casting grim shadows on walls of archaic stone.

Chambers on chambers, a labyrinth in stone - mere doors and corridors, spaces full of rot that might have been - what? kitchens? bedrooms? - and beyond them, the prisons or tombs of gods.

Many of the rooms are empty; many have been smashed into dust, or collapsed, or burned out with fire.

But some of them hold -

Ancient and crumbling shrines. Cracked statues. Offering bowls full of sullen treasures Ophel will know better than to look at too long.

And-

Dim whispers. Sights out of the corner of the eye. An eyeless woman with a hand and torch upraised in the dismal dark. A great pregnant mother-wolf, womb distended, bloodied ribs showing.

Between them, they can thread their way through, not interacting with any of the... things down here, to find the trail of the adventurers.

...Or they could investigate.