Veom’ra laid out the wreaths and the drapery beside the neatly folded vestments, dyed a bright mulberry to scream their allegiance in accordance with the season, as he rooted around. The preparations for this festival required special decoration, locked away in an armoire with a key even the ruunte was not allowed to touch. He pulled the forbidden implements from their hiding place, scanned them appraisingly, and buffed one with a sleeve before handing them over to his assistant. Silently they swapped their robes for their new raiment, before marching outside to hang the decorations at the shrine gate. A great wreath, a heraldic shield—and two glaives, the harbingers of war.

Such was the fell feast of harvest-time among the Keepers, when even a shrine of peace and love sported weapons. The rest of the monks looked on solemnly before changing into their own colored robes. Even those excited for the event knew better than to broadcast it loudly. Veom’ra would be righteously pissed if they were so irreverent. That could come later.