As I stepped into the alcove of the church's main room, I was enveloped by a hushed reverence. The small space was adorned with the soft glow of stained glass, as I previously mentioned our dear lord asyrin (you can't tell, but I'm grinning now), casting colourful patterns on the floor. In one corner stood the confession booth, its wooden structure polished and worn by countless whispered confessions. Surrounding it was a procession of chairs, meticulously arranged in rows, each one inviting the weary soul to pause and reflect amidst the sacred atmosphere. The air was thick with a sense of history, echoing the secrets shared and the solace sought within these walls. It was during that unforgettable moment when I first caught sight of her. Even though her name eluded me, I found myself momentarily frozen as I observed her from a distance. She sat on a worn wooden bench under the vibrant stained-glass windows, which filtered the warm afternoon sunlight into a kaleidoscope of colours that danced across the ground. Clutched in her hands was a book, and she animatedly read to two children nestled beside her, their eyes wide with wonder and curiosity.
As I watched, I couldn’t help but ponder whether this was the last glimmer of light in Darkspire, and whether I held the power to snuff it out?. Her rich, chocolate-brown skin glistened with a subtle sheen, catching the light in a way that seemed to radiate warmth. Her smile revealed a set of well-cared-for, pearly white teeth that shone with an almost ethereal brightness, strikingly different from the muted hues of the dreary surroundings.
The breeze from the church’s air conditioning ruffled her frizzy black hair, which framed her face like a halo, and in that fleeting moment, I was transported back to memories of my mother—her laughter, her comforting presence. It was during that unforgettable moment when I first caught sight of her. Even though her name eluded me, I found myself momentarily frozen as I observed her from a distance. She sat on a worn wooden bench under the vibrant stained-glass windows, which filtered the warm afternoon sunlight into a kaleidoscope of colours that danced across the ground. Clutched in her hands was a book, and she animatedly read to two children nestled beside her, their eyes wide with wonder and curiosity. I moved toward the nearby chair, noting with each step how her movements were careful and infused with idealism as she attempted to educate the children. As I lowered myself into the chair, it strained slightly under my weight, though it might not have been noticeable to most. Unlike my experience on neutrotellin, I wondered if I had gained weight recently or if the chair was simply old. As I reclined in the chair, its plush fabric yielding softly beneath my weight, waves of nostalgia washed over me, each memory swirling vividly in my mind. “This place is stunning. What time does the sermon start?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, a false inclination of wonder creeping into my tone. The ornate details of the surroundings, which had filled my heart with disdain did not suddenly captivate me, but i allowed the image of it drawing me into a moment of unexpected reverence. This smooth transition from disdain to awe was a familiar dance, as though the beauty I had long ignored was at last enlightening me or enslaving? We are all gathered up, aren't we, into manageable cults from adolescence onwards? Perhaps I ought to create my own cult that partook of blood, something about the purity of a virgins. The larger a collective consensus, the easier it is to manipulate and control. I wonder what would happen when those groups are under strain and when ideas are challenged, but I let that thought linger. She leaned toward me—not aggressively—but offered a smile that seemed instinctual to her, perhaps intended to disarm me. In any case, she continued with a polite acknowledgement of my question: "Father Duran is almost back; he has an issue out front..." She paused, trying to avoid sounding like a gossip or as if it bothered her. "The protesters." She said, straining slightly, and I noticed the inflexion in her tone. Using my peripheral vision, I could see she was angry about this not maddeningly psychotic, but angry. It was a subtle quake as her ventricles strained under the pressure of restraint. I replied, " You mean the workers out front?" allowing it to sound puzzled while also deflecting and provoking her further. Since by adding myself that these were working men, they must have earned the right to be treated well, especially if they felt mistreated. "They repeatedly do this here, and it’s not the first day. I don't understand why it can't be done in the admin district or closer to where they work." She snapped quickly as one of the children tugged at her side, allowing her to regain her composure and nearly ending my fun. The child said, "connor is pinching me" The child's demonic-like form was reddened, and her hair was messy from fighting, or at least that was my assumption as I continued speaking while she attended to them. "Well, it's easier here, isn't it? Since darkspires admin could shut them down or their employer could fire them... I suppose they would rather risk the wrath of the lord." I already had a clear knowledge of the situation, and I suspected she was also aware of the unvarnished reality we faced. I wanted her to pause and truly contemplate the inequality of it all, i wanted her despair, I suppose. The Matriarchy, meaning the Credit Syndicate, was locked in a relentless struggle against Industrya’s Lumen Collective, each vying for dominance, while on the other side, strategised to secure their own position. The miners in the western territories were pivotal to this power play; if the Matriarchy couldn't persuade them to join their cause, they wouldn’t hesitate to simply seize control.
This was a harsh territory where survival often came down to brutal decisions. If it required cutting compensation for the smaller but still essential operations at Darkspire, then so be it. The concept of incentives out here was a grim one; they often came at the cost of either financial resources or, more chillingly, the lives of those caught in the crossfire. Sacrifices were not merely a strategy—they were a grim reality that everyone had to face. She lowered her head slightly as she tried to shake off the dark thought lingering in her mind. Was it righteous justice or the lingering effects of a life of mistreatment that made her cling to the idea of "fairness"? I chuckled softly as I noted how Connor calmed himself, while Duran was already making his way to the podium, as if the delay was minor and the show had to continue. It felt theatrical, but also like misguided manipulation, I thought. Suppose it's true what they say: people are fragile, and there has to be light.