Priest approached the gate with a determined stride, unfastening his cloak and casting it away. He continued to strip when he halted, casting off his shirt to stand bare-chested in front of the thick iron bars that filled the portal. The bars were set within an arch of white marble, metal and stone free of any sign of age or weathering. The pillars on either side of the gate were similarly unmarred, the relief carvings that marked them from base to top appearing to have been crafted only days before. The sky had darkened again, bringing a resurgence of the storm and Pilgrim’s view of the carvings came via the lightning that flashed overhead. The pillars were similar in many ways to the tall columns he had seen in Valkeris, echoing the same precision and skill in the execution of the carvings. However, Valkerin columns were invariably martial in nature, phalanxes of legionaries subduing an endless procession of barbarian tribes. These were different, depicting scenes of joy rather than war. Smiling, laughing people gathered harvests or constructed tall buildings. Others danced and frolicked in carnal abandon amidst a bounteous feast. These then had been the people of Alnachim, or at least a preserved testament to how their god chose to remember his adherents.
“I come as a supplicant to the Absolved!” Priest intoned, drawing Pilgrim’s gaze back to the gate. He stood with his arms raised, his bared torso streaming with rain as the sky unleashed a fresh torrent. “Know that I have borne all burdens, suffered all punishments!” Priest turned to present his back to the gate and Pilgrim saw the many scars that marred it. Some were old, others standing out as fresh, livid red stripes across his skin. It was clear he had been whipped regularly since childhood. “Bear witness to my suffering and know that it was accepted gladly for every stroke brought me closer to this day. To seek the blessing of the Absolved is to recognise his suffering and join with it.”
He paused to take a small knife from his belt, putting the edge to his palm and drawing blood before approaching the gate, hand outstretched. “By virtue of suffering endured and blood freely given,” he said, pressing his bloody palm to one of the bars, “I seek communion with the Absolved!”
“Pilgrim,” Seeker said. Her voice was faint amidst the storm, but the urgency in it undeniable. She had one of her few remaining arrows nocked to her bowstring, rain-streaked brow furrowed as she focused on the denizens of the glass sea. Pilgrim saw that they were all still now, the aimless pacing or circling replaced by immobility. Also, despite the continuing thunder he could tell they had fallen silent, their gazes uniformly fixed on the gate with hungry expectation.
“Their prayers were denied,” Book said, backing away. “But still they seek the Mad God’s blessing.”