In that dimly lit room, tucked away in the underbelly of the city, only two things could be heard. The soft moans of a woman and the loud grunts of a man.

It was a mess of limbs, smooth and slightly hairy. A petite and surprisingly lithe body arched as a battering ram attacked the gates. Again and again and again.

Sausage fingers wrapped around her buckling thighs towards her nethers. Her face smothered against a pillow, her moans muffled. Auburn hair rippled down her milky white back, of which he clasped a handful.

If anything the ordeal was a stinging reminder of his age. Sweating, panting, with legs aflame and waist quickly giving out. Embarrassed he kept the pants shallow, but he could feel them soon becoming a drowning mans gasps.

A race was underway, between his todger finishing or his fatigue getting the better of him. As much as he cried and appealed to his soldier, it seemed intent on stubbornly ignoring him and never surrendering. All he wanted now was to reach the end...

When had sex turned from pleasure into labour? Probably around the same time he had begun concealing his pregnancy. At a glance, he was at least six months in. Fine food, fine wine and finer women, by God they had been the death of him.

Sometimes during fornication, it is something strange that stokes ones fire. As one grows older and proportionally more complicated and peculiar, so are the things that bring us to full-mast. For some it is toes or teeth, others content with wimps or whips (or an abhorrent mix of the two).

For the gasping man, it was a rather simple remedy. A birthmark, shaped like a crescent on her right shoulder. Whether it reminded him of someone, or he couldn't resist lunar curves. Hell perhaps he was just a fan of the shape. Friend I could not tell you, regardless it was just what the doctor ordered.

Where once were only embers, there now was a raging fire in his bloated belly. A final rushed spurt of movement. Thrusting like a sword through armour. Louder and louder came the elicited moans and groans. Faster and faster he plowed like a farmer behind schedule.

"aaa aaa aaa aaAAAAAA" he cried.

A symphony of pleasure, violently he twitched and shuddered, his muscles contracting as his blue eyes rolled into the back of his head. You know the story. As he fell on the bed, a sweaty exhausted lump, the girl peeled off and scoured the floor for her discarded clothes.

"Olivieri, can't you stay a little longer? I could bring us some breakfast." He pleaded in a honey sweet voice, while watching her don a silk scarlet slip. Cut low, covering only the necessities. It drove him mad.

"Well I ain't a gal to turn down a free meal. But I have other clients love, and you have work." Bending over to retrieve an article of clothing, he couldn't resist watching her. Her flawless long legs, tiny hands and rebelliously red hair that danced with her movements.

"Bah, I work for no one lest God and my hours are-" Olivieri arched her back in a stretch, the sunlight brushing against her skin and the shape of her breasts fully visible underneath the red silk. "Flexible." He mused as his eyes glanced ever southward. She let out a playful yelp. Someone rapped against the wooden door.
"Father Arcanio." Came the cry.
"Fuck me." He muttered under his breath. Groggy, he wiped his face with a hand. Already feeling the resistance building within him as a new day beckoned.

Another rap at the door, slightly more insistent than the last. "Father Arcanio."

"I must be going mad, it sounds like the voice of God himself telling you to get back to work." The father simply rolled his eyes.

"Oh very funny." He lulled. Now fully dressed, she scurried around the room collecting her last possessions. A loud sigh escaped his lips. "You're money's on the table, little extra for those beautiful lips to keep shut about last night."

Plucking the fat leather purse off the table, she rummaged through the clinking coins.

"Still no trust after all our dates?" Cried the butt naked man on the bed in mock pain.

"Been screwed over too many times after the screwing part. Nothing personal padre, just business." She shrugged.

"Fatherrrrr Arcanioooo!" The voice demanded most insistently, knocking on the door so loud, the burly man winced.

"I swear to Almighty Ulag and his sons and daughters if you knock on that door once more I will personally have you drawn and quartered."

"Apologies Father, it is a matter of most importance." Squeaked a voice beyond the wooden arch.

"Aren't they all." He muttered.

"Seems in order." Satisfied, she slipped the bag of coin in a black pouch. Before leaving, she turned and neared the man. So near they were a breath apart and then gently with a slender finger she pulled a rogue strand of his ashen hair behind his ear.

"Sure there isn't time enough for another round?" He whispered.

"Not today sweetheart, besides I wouldn't want the death of a holyman on my hands."

Clasping his heart as if struck a fatal blow. "O ye of little faith. We both know it's you who should be paying me for these dates." She smirked, but not out of derision. Out of all her clients, she did enjoy her time with the Father, and he enjoyed her a great deal more. With a brief kiss on the lips, and on second thought one on the pecker, she turned, opened the door and left in a flurry of red. Leaving him drunk on her body, and yet still parched. A handy trait for any whore.

Not only that, she left the door open. A man of the cloth gawked as the woman passed him. Fat fingers dragged the fustian blanket over his nude potbellied self, covering the unholy bits. Barely. Satisfied he beckoned the man enter. Enter he did in a hooded cloak, ducking under the arch.

In truth he was not a man but a boy. Pale, thin and of average height. An Adam's Apple jutted out of his neck ferociously. His movements awkward, like a foal just birthed and figuring out his body. Neither attractive nor hideous.

Cheap night-black cloth draped his body, loosely fitted it swayed with his movements, restrained only with a large white rope tied at the waist.

At a glance, the Father found the only thing striking about him, was how extraordinarily lackluster the boy was. Except for his piercing ruby eyes.

"Mori Padre." Like a man with a knife to the jewels he squeaked. Like a Venitan he rolled his r's. In tradition he bowed low. "Tessia embrace you."

"Morning you twit. Hasn't anyone taught you not to interrupt a man during carnal matters?"

"Apologies Father, It really is of utmost importance-"

"Bah, it's fine." He said with a wave and an already exasperated sigh. "You must be my new assistant."

"Yes Father, Chapel of Litesbrook sent me, Father Dante told me you were in need." Alike a soprano choirboy, he sung his words in the most intolerable high-pitch. As he spoke Arcanio grimaced.

"Acolyte Tissius at your service." Then as an afterthought the boy rather clumsily bowed again.

"Dear lord boy stop bowing, this isn't the theatre."

"Apologies Fath-" He mumbled.

"And what's wrong with your voice? Have your balls taken flight for the winter?"

"Well if they have I doubt they're coming back." Replied the Acolyte to a furrowed brow from the Father. Rolling up his right sleeve, on his wrist was a scar of a pentagon within a circle. Arcanio sucked in air through his teeth as he realized it had been branded on him. The brand of a eunuch.

"Ah I see...they've taken flight indeed." The Father felt a tinge of regret at mentioning his voice at all. Only a tinge though.

"Right what's your bloody message then?" Arcanio sat up, even with gravity working against him.

"Well, you'll probably want to get dressed."

"Whatever for boy?"

"You've received a summons, your presence's been requested."

"Issued byyyyy?" Eunuch assistant or not, if he needed an interrogation to divulge information he would not be assistant much longer.

"Siliac the third." Tissius said stumbling over his words. "The King." He coughed.

Eyes widened, while his jaw dropped.
"The...K...King?" Arcanio stuttered. Only a few times had he seen any King, let alone been summoned. Like a child, his mind raced to his transgressions. Listing them in his head, sizing up how likely he was to be scolded for this or that. Scrunching his face, he analyzed what crime he had committed so grand it was worthy of an audience with the King.

"Can't be the Diocese, they'd handle matters internally." He mused.

"What?" Arcanio didn't even hear. I mean had he done some grey deals? Sure. Nights of debauchery? Most certainly. But nothing popped into his head as a valid reason for a Kings reprimand. Unless. But he couldn't have. Far too old. Although he was known to be persuasive. Alrighty Ulag.

"I must have plowed the Queen." He said, fear in his eyes. "A princess, some noble."

"Dear God, just how often do you do this?" Righteous Incredulity flared in those red eyes. Leaders of the church of Ulag each undertake a vow of celibacy. Himself included. Such blatant breaking of the Heavenly vows, well Tissius reacted the same as if he saw a ghost, or a heretic.

"What kind of High Priest are you?" A shaking finger aimed at the Arcasio.

"Oh give me a break, I'm about to be missing a head Acolyte.You can chew me out after I get out of this alive."

"How the hell do you ... boff... nobility without even knowing" Wincing at even the mention of the word. Horror at the act.

"Wait a minute, the Queens off to Hyute and nobility wouldn't admit to screwing around with a High Priest, let alone an old geezer like me. It'd hurt them more than me." He mused, satisfied the King was not about to hand out a scolding. Tissius watched the priest ramble on, uncertain what to do with his hands.

"But that would mean...what the hell does he want with me?"

"I don't know, message came fro-" A single raised hand silenced him, as he rubbed his face.

"When does he want to see me? I must prepare, finest garb... he trailed off."

"Today." Tissius said with a wince faster than the crack of the whip.

"I mean he ain't giving me time to spare, but I should be able to-"

"Now. About half an hour ago actually."

Eyes widened, mouth turned agape, brow furrowed. Then still turned to a flash. Leaping out of the bed, throwing off the blanket and his decency, he scowered for his own garments.

"Half an hour ago!" He cried. "My God, he'll have my head." The acolyte averted his eyes ever so slightly, to not see the branch blowing in the wind. Suddenly he stopped, the light of dawn on his bare skin. "Where the fuck is my robe?" With a hand over his eye, Tissius gestered vaguely to the floor.

"Ah, there it is." Quickly, he donned the tossed white robe. His hands fumbling as he rushed the cloth. Layers and layers of cream white cascaded off his shoulders, the finest material in the land, reserved for only the highest of priests. Hands flew out of sleeves, the acolyte noticing the sickly blue veins, flowing across his hands like furrowed straights.

"Oh Ulag, I'm so rushed." With a forfeited sigh, he added the last touch, golden manacles, latched onto his wrists. They clicked in place with a metallic clink. They weren't real gold of course, traditionally they used to be, but then everyone turned on priests, and not for salvation. Simply an echo of the suffering of Jercho, the God Ulag sons suffering. Mixed with the cream white cloth, he looked positively regal, yet carrying an aura of humility and reverence.

"Right, lets get the hell out of here." Said Arcanio, a model of purity.

"As you wish Father." And with that, they were off.

It stank of heresy.

Sweat, perfume and rot hung thick in the air.
As Father Arcanio walked out, in a flurry of white, I followed behind, as per tradition. Begrudgingly.

He was portly, slightly hunched over as he walked. His gait was uneven, swinging his right foot around in an arc slightly longer. Probably gout. It's what he deserves the gluttonous pig.

Rumors of the man had echoed throughout chapel walls. Rumors of his...impiety. It was because of them, that I asked to be posted to him. I never would've imagined this though.

Moans filled the corridor, soft and gentle. Each different as they passed room after room. It was all I could do to not grit my teeth in anger. Just the thought of a naked woman sent shudders down Tissiuses spine, the thought of copulation... it made him sea sick.

Down a spiraling wooden staircase they went, the stairs squeaking as they went. The entire establishment was in disarray, just like the moral character of its inhabitants. Any pressure and the whole thing would collapse.

"Sinners the lot." I mumbled under my breath.

"What was that?" Asked the half-wit, without stopping.

"Oh, nothing Father." I said. He grumbled here, something about 'should've taken the lips too.'

As we descend the tightening stairway, I pull on my hood, almost instinctively. No one must know I am, let alone that I am here. Merely a feather to a bird. A word in a book.

Eventually the stairway opens, the slabs of crude wood widening as the stairs breathe into the room.

Tall, yet cramped. Rows and rows of shelves and corridors line the room. The floor was cold stone and the roof arched high. Designed like a parish, I suppose that was the idea. The scent of sage strong in the air. Singing could be heard, accompanied with the sounds of a lyre played.

"Ah Arcanio, done are we?" Said an old lady, perched behind a stone counter at the corner of the room. He hobbled over to the counter, me in tow.

"Yes, I'm afraid pleasure had to give way to business today."

"What a shame, when shall we be expecting you next?"

"Depending on today, soon or bloody soon."

As they talked, I looked beyond the woman. Her counter joined with the wall, and to her left the wall gave way to another room. I struggled to see much but there were some rugs splayed and clothes. It's light flickered. Probably candle.

Paintings ordained the wall, apart from a few landscapes all depicting some scene in the Utrecht. The holy text about the life of Ulag, and his sons and daughters, and then there sons and daughters and so on. One showed Gutrech cleaving the head off his brother. A crowd gathering before Levont and his miracles. The crumbling walls of Aeodus. I eyed them idly, good paintings no doubt but they were just to give the impression of humility, faith and adherence. More importantly that this was just a store for holy trinkets and only holy trinkets. Beautiful art used as a cheap trick, like the incense covering the stink of rot, the paintings were simply to cover the stench of foul play. Release me O' Grandest of fathers, and smite me for my sins.

Another showed a beggar, Damion the humble, he who gave all away. Covered in a beige cloth, he's painted with an outstretched hand. Originally a cherub, Ulag had sent him to Earth often. When he saw the plight of man, the tremendous suffering of the downtrodden, he gave. At first it was a few coins on his clandestine missions, yet the more he stayed on Earth, the more his heart filled with sorrow. Eventually he gave away his horses, his house, his gold. When he had no more to give he gave away his wings and became wholly human. Then, when he had nothing left to give, he became a beggar as well. Only then, did he learn the extent of mans greed.

"Right, Mari we must be off. Business attends." Said the Father, turning around and scanning the room in a suspiciously unsuspicious way. Few people wandered the aisles, commenting on a piece or another. No one of interest. Then he placed a handful of coins on the table, and the old lady Mari gave a toothless grin before gently resting a wooden chest on the table.

"You like the painting love?" She said, turning to me. Obviously noticing my lingering eyes.

"I do, Damions my favourite angel."

"Figures you two have a lot in common. Bland and unremarkable." Chuckling, alone, the gangrenous tumor seemingly found his joke very funny. My jaw clenched hard, behind a forced smile. Blood boiled. Another slight by the impious. Your time will come Father. Hopefully soon.

Ignoring the comment, the old lady continued. "He's me favorite too, not many folk spare a thought to him." Then she ruffled under the counter, things clanging and clinking till she pulled out a small wooden carving. A carving of a beggar with wings.

"Here, for you." She handed them little winged man over.

"Thank you, what do I owe you?"

"It's on the 'ouse. Damion doesn't really sell anyway, compared to the others."

"I love it."

"Well I'm off to the Palace, Acolyte I'd suggest you hurry."

"Bye, thank you again." I said, to which I was gifted another toothless grin.

"Today boy!"

"Coming." And so I sped after him. Under that fake arch, hiding whores as shoppers below weighed buying a sketch or a figure of their favorite diety.

As they pushed through the small door, they arrived at a street. A throng of people moving, as markets and stalls lined both sides of the cobblework. The buzz of conversations everywhere, and the smell of roasting meat wafting through the air.

Father Arcanio entered his gilded carriage, drawn by four horses. Assisted and settled he looked at me through the window.

"I'll see you tomorrow." To which I have a curt nod. "And for the love of all that's holy, wipe that grimace off your face, it's sex not murder." And with that, and a crack of the whip he was off. Leaving me in the reek of his sin.

It was night, the ghostly light of Niro shimmering down on the land. It was a full moon, and it shone brightly into houses and manors.

Yet there was a place, so deeply rooted in the ground, that Niro's light couldn't touch. In there, the steady light of a single candle shone.

"Forty four." Said a voice, before the sound of a crack echoed.

It was a simple room, all walls made of dreary stone except the wooden door. Furnished simply enough, a bed, a table beside it with a leather-bound copy of the Utrech. It was dog-eared and worn from use and age.

"Fourty five." Another crack, and a muffled cry.

Few clothes, all black and all cloaks. A rope was splayed on the floor. Apart from that, there was only a main table that dominated the room. It seemed like the only thing allowed to be anything more than the bare minimum.

"Fourty six." A suffocated scream.

Carved and polished oak. Long, with stacks of parchment, some new and some with scribbles. Drawings and notes, diagrams and paragraphs. A feather lay in an open bottle of ink. A mirror was hung on the wall above. Reflecting a man as nude as when he was born.

"Fourty seven." The cat of nine tails cracked loudly. A haunted scream escaped his lips before he could stop it. Chains rang as he buckled under its sting. Then there was silence, and all that could be heard was drip...drip...drip.

"Ulag the gracious, Ulag the just, my pain your feast, my blood your wine." His left arm was shackled to a chain that dangled from the roof. His right gripped the whip as his body swayed limp.

Stumbling to his feet, clutching the chain for support, he looked at the little carved man on the table. The beggar angel. Semi-conscious, his gaze swirling he focused on him. Drip...drip...drip.

"Fourty eight." Again he cried, and buckled. A string of red sinking from his mouth.

Looking at the winged cherub, all he could think about, was Father Arcanio. His jests, his insults, his impiety. Grown bloated on the churches purse, whoring while the rest stayed chaste. Stayed true. The acolyte himself had lost that in his pursuit of God. His genitals a mutilated mess. He thought of him, like a clot to the heart, a cancer in the lung, a tumor in the brain. That corruption, in one of the highest offices, why he deserved what became of any cancer.

Staggering to his feet once more, his gaze narrowed not on the wooden man, but the mirror, on himself. Panting and wheezing through gritted teeth he stared only into his own green eyes, and saw something deep harden.

"Fourty nine." This time he stayed on his feet, not so much as moving at all. Merely grunting. Drip....Drip...Drip.

"Fifty." The final strike. His feet gave again, and the only thing that held up was his one arm pulled to the ceiling, wrist shackled to a dangling chain. Slowly he swayed, and he focused on that little wooden man once more. The corners of his eyes began to blur and it crept in till it was all a big blur. Like chapel bells he could hear ringing, his pain subsiding to a heat at his back. Yet even as he feel his resistance, his control waning, he kept on looking at that little carving.

"Release me O grandest of fathers, and smite me for my sins." He breathed, before the virgin mother herself took him in his arms and his body dangled limp, one arm pointed to the heavens and one to hell. Only a feather to a bird, a word to a book, a single scar on a back torn with them. Drip...Drip...Drip... sounded the scarlet drops ebbing from red streaks along a beaten back and finally flying. Down, down till it splashed in the tin bucket, half-full.

"Hopeless, you are bloody hopeless." Said one rather indignant high-priest.

"Father it's simply precaution for-." Protested a guard clad in so many layers of armor, the rain would paralyze him.

"What? I'm going to kill the King with a damned necklace?"

"Just the pentagon Father."

"This thing?" Said the priest incredulous as he held the necklace in a white knuckled grip. A silver pentagon dangled from the chain. "It'd sooner kill him through lead poisoning." Stone-faced, the large soldier merely stared back.

"I'm a high-priest of Hyute for fucks sakes." Again met with a parental disapproval, slack jawed and indignant he reluctantly handed it over.

"Thank you Father, follow me please." A grunt was all he could offer, before the man turned on his heel and marched off.

With ringing steps, he lead the way. In the few slits that weren't covered in folded metal, revealed purple cloth underneath. Ashraki Guard, elitist of the elite in fighting or just incredibly loyal, there was a small tightening of Arcanios belly when he saw them posted around the palace. Almost every change in despot not due to death or war came from the Ashraki Guard. Why it took an enemy king years to win a war, it takes minutes to be plucked slumbering from bed by your protectors, and they often were. A slight of the tongue, empty coffers or just downright poor pragmatism be sure that 'God save the King' would quick turn to 'By God get the King and throw him out the nearest window.' Kingmakers and King-unmakers. In truth the high priest wanted ten.

Opulence echoed within the palace. As he was led through an endless maze of corridors, he couldn't help but notice it. The floors a marble, while the tall walls, a blend of white and gold. Stiff faces on stiff portraits watched him as he continued forward.

"You know my shoes are pointed, do you want those too, lest I behead the king with a kick?" Half-shouted Arcanio, above the hustle of stedfast feet and bubbly chatter. Courtiers, he quickly was coming to find were a mundane bunch.

"I have a ring too, would you like to take that too before I uppercut his majesty?" No response except a sharp turn and the guard seemed to be strutting faster, metal clanging more ferociously. Perhaps Arcanio had attended a feast too many. His bouncing belly would concord to the latter.

"Maybe have him cut of my hands instead, just for precaution."

"Please, the most dangerous thing would be that tongue nagging him to death." Replied the guard gruffly. Why, the audacity! He was a priest. A high priest at that, respected and revered. He was not the fodder for the quips of a lackey. Yet shocked and affronted, no words came for his tirade, and something about the colour of the palace told him to swallow rather than spit his anger. It wasn't the white of marble or the white of the walls or the gold of the gilded designs, or even the gold of the crown. It was purple, and by god it was everywhere. So reluctantly he hobbled over to catch up to the Ashraki guard.

Door after door inched past, as the squeak of shoes and the heavy panting of a man far too reserved to sitting and speaking sounded. Every door had two purple guards, eyes forward, unwavering.

The door at the end had two guards, but it was nothing like the other doors. Grand, intimidating, oaken, triple the guards height.

As they reached the entrance he bid Arcanio stay and he went through the doors and disappeared. His gut tightened once more, he hadn't an altar boys clue what he was summoned for. He doubted anything good.

They creeked open slightly, and the guard re appeared.

"You may enter." And so he did.