{$title} CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of imagined child murder, human sacrifice, and general religious fanaticism.
Rolling hills of gold emerge over the horizon, sloping away from the jagged mountains Sanctity can see clawing into the sky. The color of the burnished grass nearly matches the wide eyes of the silent child at her side. They have not exchanged a word since they left the bounds of the abandoned church. She can feel the rust in her throat from lack of words. She weighs this, and considers it good: silence is holy.
In the silence, though, she can feel her god's eyes on her. You have forsaken me, she can hear ringing around in the quiet, sinner. She can feel the pressure right down to the toebones of her claws, the itch to wrap around a throat and squeeze, to let the warm hot blood flow and call it good. Every moment of her life had vaulted her towards the chambers of the heavens… and at the last, she had turned her cheek to her god.
She could repent. She could do it here and now. She does not think they would even struggle.
Instead, she motions with her tail for them to still, fearful to touch them. There is a thorny line of catsmell here that she dares not cross. They wait for a time, until bodies begin to crest the nearest slope.
" Hail, strangers! " she calls, thick and hoarse with disuse. She waits for the strangers to draw up short of them before she speaks again.
" We seek shelter. Would ye be so kind as to permit us refuge within thy moor? " she asks, stone-still. They will see her for a sinner and deny her, or they will not. She has no paw in it. She is a lost sheep at the mercy of a godless paw. " I am able of body and willing to work, and the… the child will soon be of an age to work themself. " The child, she says. Not the sacrifice.
In the silence, though, she can feel her god's eyes on her. You have forsaken me, she can hear ringing around in the quiet, sinner. She can feel the pressure right down to the toebones of her claws, the itch to wrap around a throat and squeeze, to let the warm hot blood flow and call it good. Every moment of her life had vaulted her towards the chambers of the heavens… and at the last, she had turned her cheek to her god.
She could repent. She could do it here and now. She does not think they would even struggle.
Instead, she motions with her tail for them to still, fearful to touch them. There is a thorny line of catsmell here that she dares not cross. They wait for a time, until bodies begin to crest the nearest slope.
" Hail, strangers! " she calls, thick and hoarse with disuse. She waits for the strangers to draw up short of them before she speaks again.
" We seek shelter. Would ye be so kind as to permit us refuge within thy moor? " she asks, stone-still. They will see her for a sinner and deny her, or they will not. She has no paw in it. She is a lost sheep at the mercy of a godless paw. " I am able of body and willing to work, and the… the child will soon be of an age to work themself. " The child, she says. Not the sacrifice.
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