Rated Aure.
Her screams of lust echo through the halls and into my head.

I thought that seeking the embrace of the Church was a monotonous venture. As I sit here in this austere white chamber, locked away with my alleged "sins," I've been urged to seek understanding and penance for them from gods who left long ago. "Prayer is the bridge between the faithful and peace," they told me. I remember every word of their dogmatic drivel, and I despise all of it.

That's what fuels my tenacity. I hate them. I hate them all. Every second I spend behind this locked door is another dagger in someone's back. It's only a matter of time.

When we first volunteered as Acolytes, they told us we would face trials that pitted us against ourselves. That was a cute way of putting it. I watched them cast the woman in chains ahead of me and drag her screaming toward the inner sanctum of Denebriel. If I hadn't heard it all, I'd have never believed in the sheer amount of corruption that goes on beneath the surface of a religious body.

They called for virgins. I remember distinctly what they said, "the vessel to house Denebriel could be born any time; she may already be among us. Bring out your pure, chaste daughters that we might seek our beloved within their hearts." Fuck.

My knees hit the floor and I sag forward as vomit spills unbidden from my lips. I can feel my ribs almost ripping through my flesh, and my tongue is dry like the desert. The sound sustains me, but in a way so profoundly disturbing, it sickens me.

Erica had been a virgin; I was certain of it when she first looked at me. She wore the blush of a school girl and a skittish smile flicked away from me every time I matched her gaze. Gods, I'd have fucked her senseless. Blonde tresses marred by brown in uneven proportion framed her petite face. Full lips and eyes blue as the sky were her best features by far. Her teats weren't as big as I'd like, but she had all the arse in the world to make up for it. They proved it, though. Spread her wide right there for all to see, much to her great disdain, and inspected her purity.

It was gone, now.

How many times have they fucked her? How many of them? I think I'm less jealous than enraged. They sold her father lies about his faith and soured his child for any man. Oblivion take all of them. I'll send them myself. As I find my feet shakily and grasp the bed frame, I take in the sounds of her twisted pleasure. Certainly, she hates it. I take solace in that fact. Nothing she learned and nothing they told her could make her enjoy this fate.

Perhaps when I find her, she'll still be sane. I can hope. I will hope for that. For now, they've taken my weapons and left me with trousers and a simple shirt. I've gotten used to the chills, and the shivers are much rarer. Salvar hates all of us, but I'll make her my bitch. I'll make the whole fuckin' world my bitch. Just watch me.

"Stalt!" There he is again. The cleric Jessar, a man of many words, but little kindness. He's quick to take tithes, but slow to give out blessings. "Tobias, what did you learn last night?" Here we go again. I know what he wants from me. I know exactly what he needs. And just like his gods damned faith does, I'll dose him with placating words.

"I have learned," I rasp, "the measure of my sins."

"And they are vast," Jessar agrees. He always agrees. "Have you sins to confess?"

"I've manipulated myself thrice in the past bell," I tell him, "to the sounds of sister Erica." It's not entirely untrue, I suppose. Surely not three times. She sounds much less fascinating than a whore.

"Understandable," the cleric assures me. He's so readily forgiving when it comes to my humanity. What a wonderful blighter. "The flesh calls strongly to us. At times, stronger than reason. You must remain vigilant in your prayers and seek the direction of the Sway."

"Yes, Brother Jessar." I've decided. I'll kill that old fucker first. His holier than thou attitude and and wrinkly, grandfather face have always rubbed me the wrong way. "Thank you." Let me at just one of my daggers, you old bastard. I'll cut your tongue out and ram it up yer arse. Just like all your friends have done to Erica.

"Rest well, Stalt," he tells me, "perhaps tomorrow, you will be cleansed." Tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Madison better pay me good for this shit.