Kitshaar
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Vol. 2 Ch. 35: Cleansing Ceremony
🕑 Added 2025-08-05 07:49:33 +0000 UTCAuthor's Note:
Recurring Characters:
Peter: The protagonist of this novel.
Mariah: Peter's mother. You can find her picture in the Art collection.
Lady Anselma: The arch priestess of the Church of Avaris in Rosefall.
Lady Nyara: The arch cultist of the abyss cult in Rosefall.
Recap:
The ceremony was about to begin.
…End of Author Note...
...
Mariah looked ahead, watching as the clergy men and women moved aside, revealing the person who had been blowing the conch shell all along. The Arch Priestess stood straight, wearing her ceremonial garments, her silver hair flowing freely behind her back. She held the conch shell in her hands, raised high as she blew air inside.
Mariah bowed reverently along with the crowd, paying her respect to the Arch Priestess. As the highest-ranked member in the city, she represented the goddess herself according to the custom.
Lady Anselma handed the conch shell to one of the priestesses and stepped forward, climbing the stairs that led to the statue of Avaris. She stopped a few meters away from the statue and turned around to face the crowd.
“Rise!” she shouted, her arms spread wide in an arc and motioning up.
As Mariah rose, she noted how the priestess only reached the toes of the statue in height, which highlighted the statue's considerable size.
“People of Rosefall,” The Arch-Priestess’s voice was loud and clear. “For nine days, we’ve suffered the tiny amount of hardship that the goddess might have suffered, and now it’s time to put an end to it on this day of Solace.”
“This year, too, we had a bountiful harvest, and the river that flows through our city is full of fish. It is all due to the grace of our goddess—and thus we must offer our sincere gratitude to her. Thank the goddess!”
“Thank the goddess!”
“Thank the goddess!”
“Thank the goddess!”
The crowd shouted in one voice.
Lady Anselma allowed the chant to continue for a while before raising her palm to calm the crowd.
“I’d like to invite the viscount to stand beside me as we begin the ceremony,” she said, turning toward the side where the nobles were gathered, separated from the commoners by a rope and a line of guards.
A hush settled again as the viscount stepped forward. He walked with deliberate grace to the base of the statue and stood beside the priestess. Then, facing the crowd, he spoke.
“Citizens of Rosefall,” he began, his voice carrying easily across the square. “On this sacred day, we stand not as nobles or commoners, not as merchants, craftsmen, or labourers, but as children of the goddess. It is her mercy that blesses our fields, her patience that watches over our river, and her strength that keeps our city safe.”
There was no cheering this time, only quiet listening. Even the youngest children seemed to sense the weight of the moment.
“This year has tested us in small ways, but we endured. And now, as tradition demands, we offer to the goddess what we can, to remind her that she is not forgotten, that her gifts are not taken for granted.”
He turned to Lady Anselma and nodded.
The Arch-Priestess raised both arms. “Then let the ritual of cleansing begin. Water mages, step forward.”
From the steps of the cathedral, four figures emerged. Each wore white ropes marked with a large golden crest of the goddess, both on the front and the back. Their faces were calm as they approached the base of the statue, the crowd parting to give them a clear path.
Only two of them carried staffs. They started to chant, standing before the statue, with the crowd on their back, and the cathedral to the side. One of them drew symbols in the air, the staff users raised their tools in the air, and the last one had her eyes closed in concentration.
Their chants had the intended effect. The ambient mana surged towards them, shimmering faintly even to the naked eye. A heartbeat later, it slowly turned into water droplets, which slowly combined to form a large blob of water in mid-air.
The crowd watched with fascination as the water lifted high into the air, then poured gently over the statue’s head, washing over the stone as though showering the goddess. The mages continued their joint spell, creating a constant flow of water that fell over the statue for a few minutes.
Sunlight caught in the droplets, casting faint rainbows over the square.
Mariah watched quietly, hands clasped before her. Despite having witnessed the ritual multiple times before, the moment still felt sacred.
As the last of the water drained away along carefully carved runnels at the statue’s base, the Arch-Priestess stepped forward once more. She held a small ceremonial bell in one hand, and as she rang it three times, the sound rang sharp and clear across the square.
“Let the second cleansing begin. Bring forth the milk.”
Attendants stepped forward from the cathedral steps, each carrying the barrels that had arrived earlier with the viscount’s procession. The mages stepped aside, their task complete, as the attendants took their place at the base of the statue.
One by one, they unsealed the barrels. Lady Anselma stepped forward, her robe trailing softly behind her. She raised one hand, eyes fixed on the contents of the nearest barrel.
The crowd watched with bated breath.
Slowly, the milk began to rise. It hovered in the air, shaped by invisible force, then moved upward in a smooth arc. Following the same path the water had taken, it flowed gently over the goddess’s head, down her face, and along the carved folds of her robe. It pooled at her feet before trickling into the channels below.
The act itself was silent, but awe swept through the crowd.
Everyone knew Lady Anselma had reached the third tier. Her psychic abilities were well known, granted by the high intelligence required for such gifts. But witnessing it in person was another matter entirely.
Once the milk had drained away and the statue stood glistening in the sun, pale and radiant, Lady Anselma stepped back and lowered her hand. A soft pause followed, broken only by the rustle of robes and the murmur of the crowd.
“Let the final cleansing of the goddess begin,” she declared.
From the edges of the square, druids stepped forward, their robes marked with twisting leaf patterns, some already flecked with pollen and soil. They moved to predetermined spots and planted their staves into the ground. With bowed heads, they began to chant, their voices low and rhythmic.
At their feet, the cobblestones shifted. Tiny shoots broke through cracks in the stone, followed by leaves and buds that bloomed in mere moments. Dozens of varieties sprang forth—roses, marigolds, violets, and more—covering the ground in clusters of vivid colour.
Then came the wind mages. Positioned at intervals around the square, they lifted their arms and called upon the air. A gentle breeze stirred, then grew steady and directed, sweeping through the flowers.
Petals rose by the hundreds, lifted into the air and scattered like confetti across the crowd and over the statue. A collective gasp followed as the sky seemed to bloom.
The petals settled slowly, clinging to robes, hair, and outstretched hands. Children laughed softly, trying to catch them midair, but the rest of the crowd stood in reverent silence, their faces turned upward. It felt like a moment outside time, brief and beautiful and fragile.
Lady Anselma stepped forward once more. “The goddess has accepted our offerings of water, milk, and bloom. Now we present her with our bounty. Let the feast be laid before her.”
At her signal, another line of attendants emerged from the cathedral, each carrying a polished silver tray. Dozens followed, forming a long procession that curved around the square and up toward the statue.
Each tray bore a different dish. Sweetened rice, baked root vegetables glazed in honey, stuffed breads, seasoned lentils, and delicate cakes made with rosewater and saffron. Bowls of ripe fruit, platters of dried nuts, jugs of pressed oil, and wheels of soft cheese were laid out in neat rows along the tables arranged at the statue’s base. The scent of warm spices and fresh herbs filled the square.
…
(Sometime earlier)
Deep beneath the city, in the damp subterranean corridors below the sewers, the cult of the Abyss gathered together.
The cultists stood shoulder to shoulder, their bodies covered in ashes, their eyes red from inhaling too much psychedelic herbal smoke. They swayed in place, whispering low chants that merged with the hiss of burning herbs. The air was thick and heavy, clinging to their skin.
Ahead, Lady Nyara—the arch cultist—stood facing the statue of the Abyss in reverence. A bowl filled with fresh human ashes rested in her palm as she stepped forward.
Behind her, others scraped bones against skulls, producing an unnatural rhythm that echoed in the chamber. It wasn’t music. It was a reminder of death.
With slow, deliberate movements, Lady Nyara dipped her fingers into the ash and smeared it across the face of the statue. She marked the cheekbones, the chin, the brow, her touch almost tender. Her face carried a gentle smile, her eyes half-lidded, lost in whatever vision gripped her mind.
“From dust, we return,” she whispered.
“And to the Abyss, we offer all,” the cultists murmured behind her.
Another stepped forward, carrying a basin of blood.
The cultist holding the basin of blood approached the altar in slow, reverent steps. The liquid inside was dark and warm, and as he neared the statue, its metallic scent cut through the smoke hanging in the air.
Lady Nyara turned to receive it, her ash-covered hands steady despite the swaying all around her. She held the bowl high, lifting her face toward the figure before her.
The statue stood at eye level, carved from dark stone and shaped in the form of a woman. Her face was sharp and angular, with empty eyes and no mouth. Her hair, braided like serpents, coiled down over her shoulders and back. One hand clutched a rough, three-pronged trident. The other rested gently on a pile of skulls at her side.
“This is the second offering,” she said. “The lifeblood of the nameless, spilt not in war, nor sacrifice, but in silence.”
A shudder passed through the crowd. Several cultists moaned softly, their trance deepening.
She poured the blood over the statue's chest. It ran across the stone ribs, dripped between the braids, and pooled at the statue's feet.
Another cultist approached with a platter of human organs of the recently sacrificed.
“The feast of mortal bindings,” Nyara whispered.
She placed the platter at the statue’s feet, knelt, and pressed her forehead to the ground.
One by one, the rest did the same.
…
Elsewhere in the city, not far from the cathedral, Peter moved along a quieter market street. The stalls here were smaller, older, and less crowded than the ones closer to the square. Overhead, faded fabric swayed gently in the breeze, and between it all, the sounds of the ceremony still reached him. He could hear chanting rising and falling, the ringing of a bell, and the faint pulse of drums echoing from somewhere uphill.
He stopped at a stall draped with hanging masks. They twisted slowly in the air, suspended by twine from the awning above. Some were shaped like animals. Others were painted with bright colours or carved smiles. One, near the back, was plain and pale, with no mouth, no markings. Just two eye holes in an otherwise smooth surface.
“You looking for something festive or something quiet?” the vendor asked, his voice dry with age. He leaned against the post with crossed arms, watching Peter with mild curiosity.
“Something that covers the whole face,” Peter replied. “Nothing flashy.”
The old man nodded and reached up, plucking the blank mask from its hook.
“This one’s common during Solace. Keeps you anonymous if you're throwing colours or playing pranks,” he said, offering it over. “No one looks twice.”
Peter turned the mask over in his hands, then pulled out a few coins.
The vendor accepted the payment. “Have fun and be careful not to hurt anyone with your pranks.”
“Thank you,” Peter said, slipping the mask under his arm.
…End of chapter…
