FINAL CORE - Chapter 66 (Patreon)

The shape of prayer.

When offering one’s thoughts, hopes and essence to the heavens, it is considered important to hold a specific physical stance, a pose, a so-called ‘prayer stance’. It has commonly been debated amongst religious scholars, which stance is the most acceptable to use, while offering oneself up for divine inspection.

Should one clasp their hands, or fold them? Should they be spread out wide flat on the ground, as one bows in deep reverence? Or should the praying person assume a kneeling position? Perhaps they should cross their legs in a meditative pose? Is just the body enough, or should the person praying have some form of talisman, such as beads? Can the prayer be done anywhere, or only in specific locations, shrines and temples?

We do not know which form of this practice the gods prefer for us to have, as the knowledge of their particular preferences, if any, has been lost to us over time.

What this has resulted in is that each branching collection of faith follows their own specific series of rules for the act of praying itself.

However, in common teaching for the class of aspiring ‘priest/esses’ at most Holy-Church institutions, the particular shape of prayer is left up for the individual caster to decide, as it would be wrong to impose an outside human preference on a personal connection between a man and his god.

This is the official doctrine, however, it seems that the social nature of the classes held there has led to a homogenization of the form of prayer, so that most priests unofficially adopt a common stance. Exceptions are often found in religious travelers from abroad.

~ How do I pray? From Sister Selma’s guide to priesthood

_________________________________________________

The spring air, calling with the voice of longing winds that sing as they move along the body of the island, is full of a sweet and pleasant aroma of blossoming flowers. The season is coming to its cusp, the end of it now just before them all. Summer will soon be here and in the last attempt at pressing themselves forward unto life, the blossoms of many thousands of spring flowers all bloom to glory one last last time, before they must make way for the colors of the seasons to come.

Bright morning light cascades down around them.

Isaiah stands on the crown of a proud tree, gazing down off of the edge of the island, towards the blobs that move below, down at the end of the staircase. With its hands behind its back, it observes the creatures, the humans. A small, warm, cream-colored pearl is held in its grasp.

What are they?

Why are they?

Humans may claim to be rational, calm, sophisticated creatures. But it was one of them and had experienced their ways from the inside perspective. Now, it is apart from them, separate, and it views them from a new, outward perspective. In both visions of life, it has seen many things joyful, good and full of the breadths of brotherhood amongst the covenant of all living beings.

It tilts its head.

Yet, it has also seen what stirs just below this upper layer. Fear. Humans, despite all of their warmth and loving devotions, are guided by simple animal drive. They’re akin to a fox wearing a mask. It may be clever, but at the end of the day, it will act as a fox acts and chase a chicken.

The soldiers below have split into factions. Exactly as expected, a significant chunk of them had split off and resigned themselves to whatever fate awaits them for rejecting any future orders to attack the tower.

Grand Icon

The name of Isaiah has been uttered.

+300 EXP

[Level Up!]

You are now a level {17} dungeon-core!

SOUL: 52/52

EXP: 02/6500

[+1 Ability point]

You may choose {1} new ability.

Ah. How pertinent.

The ‘Grand Icon’ ability has been firing off a lot now, although pilgrims can no longer deliver experience points. As for the people on the island itself, many have come to realize that they are trapped.

They can get down again, using their tokens of pilgrimage, but getting up will be a problem and so, many simply refuse to leave, as they worry that they will never be able to ascend up here again to this place that brings them wealth, strength and comfort.

— As for the soldiers below. Many have refused new orders to attack the tower. Many others have found themselves unimpressed by the theatrics presented and many remain firmly in the middle, in the mires of uncertainty. However, uncertain people steer towards the side of caution. An immediate beheading now is a much more convincing argument than the prospect of damnation in the future.

So a small nudge will be needed to seal the deal. The stairs. The omen. Red’s speech. This will be the last action needed. Isaiah is fairly confident in that.

“Here it is, chief,” says a voice from the side. Red. “Straight from floor thirteen,” says the uthra. Isaiah looks her way. She’s casting a shielding spell in front of herself, inside of which is trapped a ghostly, ethereal presence of some foggy creature. The incense-elemental from floor thirteen.

[Incense-Elemental]{Passive}

A whispering cloud of fragrant incense. It takes the rough form of something akin to a human, but its body is dissolute and gaps appear inside it at random places, shaped like eyes.

Class: Monster

Element: Fire

Type: Caster

Category: Elemental

Rank: C

Level: 12

HP: 00/00

SOUL: 33/33

• *Elementals do not have health-points. Instead, their soul-points act as health.

[Whispers of Doubt]: Whispers to any passing person, smelling of a familiar smell from a fond memory.

They will attempt to dissuade them from whatever cause they currently pursue and allow them to consider the faith instead.

Isaiah lifts its gaze, staring up towards the wind that carries a sweet, floral pollen, carrying it off of the island. “Thank you, Red. Do you have the bottle?” Red turns her hip to the side, a bottle of mushroom-brew dangles from a cord.

“Straight from the head-cultist herself.”

“We are not a cult, Red,” says Isaiah, dryly, pulling the bottle from her hip. “We are a gathering of individuals, tied together by the many strings of fate.”

“Yup. We’re a cult all right,” remarks Red, shaking her head. “Whatever. ‘Could be worse.” She shrugs. “My feet are getting big enough that I could go for a massage. So it’ll be good for us to recruit some servants.”

“They are not servants,” corrects Isaiah. “They are worshipers.”

“— Mhm,” replies Red, rolling her eyes. “’Love ya, chief. But you’re pretty far out there, you know?” she asks, tapping her head.

Isaiah lifts the pearl in its hands looking at it and at the wobbly spirit of the monster contained inside of the shield.

It’s time.

“That is sweet, Red,” says Isaiah, placing a hand on Red’s shoulder. “I love you too.”

“Yeah, like a freaky, tree prancing, chirp-chirp bird monster would,” replies the uthra, looking at it. “It’s like you think I came from one of your eggs.”

Isaiah crushes the pearl and drops it into the bottle, which it then swirls around. Red opens the shield a crack and Isaiah pours in the mixture. “No,” replies Isaiah. “But I would have been overjoyed if you had.”

A shine begins to form inside of the bubble, warm and bright, like the vivid dayglow falling down from the heavy sun.

“Ugh… Can I go now?” asks Red. “It’s bad enough you’re stopping the whole mass-execution thing. But this is going too far.”

“Faith comes from the heart,” replies Isaiah. “As do many other things.”

“Yeah, like heartworms.”

Isaiah smirks, spinning a finger to gesture for her to open the shield. “You are a gift, Red.”

“No refunds,” replies the uthra as the shield cracks open and the monster that was trapped inside floats out, changed.

[Mushroom Incense-Elemental]{Passive}

A whispering, pearl-white cloud of fragrant incense. It has a form of many bodies and wings and arms, clasped together in a unified effort to hold its shape coherent. Radiant lights of many colors emit out from it, casting visions of distant days into the eyes of those who look its way.

Class: Monster

Element: HOLY

Type: Illusionist

Category: Elemental

Rank: B-

Level: 47

HP: 00/00

SOUL: 99/99

• *Elementals do not have health-points. Instead, their soul-points act as health.

[Whispers of Hope]: Whispers to any presentperson, smelling of a familiar smell from a fond memory, together with an oddly earthy scent of wet soil.

They will attempt to dissuade them from whatever cause they currently pursue and allow them to consider the faith instead.

“Bring the gift of your presence to the people, Red,” orders Isaiah.

Red captures the monster in a new bubble and then flies off, down towards the humans.

_____________________________________________________________

Gadrian

Human, Male, Swordsman

Honestly, what’s the alternative?

He’s not a man of faith, but even he knows a sign when he sees one. Some people might claim to see a message from the heavens in a funnily shaped cloud, or in a bird that lands on their windowsills as a representation of their long-since departed mother’s spirit or whatever. That’s all fine and good. It’s not for him, but it’s fine if that helps people.

But… how can anyone even deny this? This is just absurd.

He stands there on the sidelines, as one of the bystanders. The trees all around them are dead. People are still dragging statues out of their collapsed tents and piling them up in a heap that seems to symbolize the ready-made graveyard for those about to be executed for desertion.

The creature… the messenger from the heavens was a real, tangible entity, as real as the trees and the statues. It spoke to them. She… spoke to them in words so simple and human that they reached even the uneducated bunch of goons that make up half of this outfit. That’s what struck him the most, that she spoke like they do, as if she had been amongst them all along.

And yet, despite these things that are impossible to deny, the orders continue to storm the tower.

He doesn’t want to, not after what he’s seen. But he also doesn’t want to wake up without his head tomorrow, so… what’s the alternative?

There isn’t one.

In a way, he admires the poor fools who are about to lose their lives. They’re true creatures of conviction and faith. He isn’t anything like that.

The men are lined up, strung together by their limbs in long chains that have been specifically made to amplify lightning-magic. In the city, executions are often more ornate and ceremonial as they are a display of political power or some noble-bloodline related nonsense. But out here in the field, they do things more pragmatically.

On one end of the column of men stands the lightning-caster.

The luckiest man is the one on the front, closest to the executioner. He’ll take the full blast right away. The lightning magic loses potency the further it goes, so the further back you are, the longer it takes to die.

Grim stuff.

But really, what’s the alternative here? He doesn’t know.

Gadrian lifts his eyes, not wanting to watch.

His eyes are filled with radiant crimson, not from the glowing sun, but from the light that descends down from the heavens above. His mouth opens, agape, as the entity reveals herself to them once more.

— A fog creeps into his mouth and into the mouth and eyes of every person present here. Every soldier, officer and low ranking noble stare with wide, doe-like eyes at the world that changes all around them, melting.

Gadrian looks down at his hands.

They’re melting.

He feels his body grow heavy and he falls to the ground, watching as hundreds of others fall down at the same time, their bodies dripping and leaking like so much ooze as they all come apart and return to the soil that he can taste in his mouth.

Gadrian hears his mother’s voice, just before his eyes view into a place that is beyond concepts such as color and darkness.