🫀 Eucharist of the Ravenous 🫀
It started out as a bellyache, guts rumbling after two days of barely eating. An unfinished visage, featureless, fixing the blurry sockets it had for eyes into his soul.
The humble priest dropped his brush onto the cold floor of the chapel and stumbled backwards. The walls, towards the ceiling, all full of still fresh perfect faces framed by golden halos, that he had been carefully painting non stop for days. Faces of dead saints and prophets, long gone, commissioned by the high church as a display of power and opulence in an age of religious and political crisis. And this last saint, the one that still had some loose and tired brushtrokes for it's face. There was something about it that made the priest flinch out of his creative trance. He swore the paint moved, vibrated with anticipation at the touch of the brush.
He laid tired in the center of the chapel, exposed to a hundred pair of eyes that almost felt judgemental, knowing of the priest's internal thoughts. "Why am i doing this" "Why do i have to over exert myself with work to survive while i use pure gold to embellish... You. This" "Why"
And the faces remained still and silent.
"Why all this for long gone martyrs that had the fortune to die for their for their beliefs, or to let their God speak through their lips, bestow miracles through their fingers"
"Why this for a God that let them die at the heretical hands of the non believers. That leaves hundreds if not thousands of people to die of the pestilence outside this golden, rotten, WALLS"
The bottle of turpentine exploded and its contents dripped down the wall, dragging hours of work with them, dissolving like acid false flesh and gold leaf alike. And then blood, through the priest's hand, holding the neck of the bottle. He panicked and kneeled towards the wall, trying to undo the mistake with cloth, only to make a bloody mess. Red running through the gold, ichor like.
The priest cried holding his hand, a deep wound running through his palm, burning because of the chemicals. But the pain was not the cause of his tears.
"A sign" "I just need a sign"
But the faces remained still and silent.
The priest got up, slowly, and turned around towards the door. Why be here then. Why remain hungry, at the mercy of a dying church that kept their riches safe in mausoleums and layers of paint upon gold leaf upon stone, while its believers died in the streets famished and sick. The priest saw it clear now. If God did ever exist, it was long gone, uncaring for its creation. He might as well die outside, with his people. It would be like inviting the sickness into his chest but at least his last breaths wouldn't taste of incense. His steps echoed through the chamber, determined, reaching for the doors.
But the faces opened their lips. And with a cacophony of voices, each one vibrating with a torrent of beating wings, It spoke. No.
It sang.
Super happy to finally be able to show you this illustration i made for Tome of Pacts, a zine about warlocks, patrons and their pacts! There's a leftover sale going on right now! This is Pantheon, a shapeshifting entity that impersonates long absent gods and feeds on the faith of their followers, always hungry for more. But it's not for me to tell you.
! First of all, credits to @/gothhoblin, the writer of our team, for helping shape out this Patron "...and it spoke with a cacophony of voices, each one vibrating with a torrent of beating wings, a thousand or more." Is a marvelous line of her creation.
Tome of pacts has 11 more patrons and 24 warlocks for your enjoyment, all beautifully depicted by teams of artists and writers. Im super proud to have been able to participate in this project 💛
This short story is about an original character i created after the patron, just as an appetizer, pun intended. You get it right??
Hungry for a copy?
586 notes
·
View notes