[Shraal POV]
"No, the Altar cannot be such a limited item. It will be filigreed and we are waiting until Her divine alloy is prepared to decorate it. The Sanctum is coming along nicely, but it lacks the trophies necessary to capture Her will. I suspect that once our victory is gained over the Misti Hawar, there will be plenty of relics from our first great victory as a people to illustrate our willingness to follow her. And how go the efforts in the Representation?"
Shraal felt Nievtala's own strength in him as he strode among his fellows. The robe he wore fluttered as his steps carried him through the assembled ranks of his Goddess's priesthood. The Unbroken Blade would hold strong. They lived by the Words, even if most weren't able to Speak the entirety of them. Each possibility, each opportunity to prove themselves, it settled deep in his core. Their Goddess was good, and she was strict. Only the strong could survive and thrive, and she would form her people into the strong.
"—is how we'll ensure that it is reflective of her majesty beyond a mere statue." Khall explained.
"It's not a bad idea." Shraal allowed. "I believe we'll need to ask the goddess herself, though. If she is willing, she can descend upon the representation and grant a certain boon to those who are near."
Khall and the rest of the Unbroken Blade flared their frills and bowed in acknowledgement. They never doubted his connection with their goddess, and that was why they were the Unbroken Blade. There was no mortal force that could break them. Shraal raised his hands and offered a brief prayer.
"Our goddess, the Conqueror, the Victor, we offer our devotion once more. We shall slay these vile heathens that rose against your chosen people in the past. We pray for your blessing of strength, of unflagging energy, and an absolute determination to overcome the difficulties that the infidels bring to us. With your guidance, we shall remind the world of your existence, and serve as a reflection of your strength and overwhelming conquering presence."
The rest of the Unbroken Blade bowed their heads in acceptance of the prayer, and Shraal felt the blessing flow through him to Nievtala's followers.
"Very well." Shraal said as he clacked his teeth together. "You have your assignments. Complete them after you are done with your other duties for the day."
Shraal stood at the door as his people filed out of the room. Each offered a small portion of themself to the offering bowl as they left the skeleton of the Temple they'd built, each a symbol of their willingness to suffer for the divine. As their leader, he evaluated the meaning behind each sacrifice. Most kept a small wound unhealed on an arm or leg that they could tear the scabbed blood off of to then offer their blood to pay their devotion to their Goddess. To Shraal, that was a constant mark they wore to remind them of their devotion. Some of the others cut small portions of their claws or fangs free and left them in the stone bowl that received all their offerings. They signified their belief that the Goddess would cover their mere mortal weakness and carry them to victory.
Then there were those who cut themselves in a new location every time they exited Her chosen edifice. Those were the truly devoted. Those who would sacrifice themselves for their Goddess and her people. Their series of cuts, scabs, and scars were a testament to their willingness to bleed, to hurt and suffer for their beliefs. Their certainty made them the best of the Unbroken Blade. The edge, the unbreakable, the dangerous part of Nievtala's worship. That was made of those who gave their own, their fresh blood every time they came near to Her presence.
Once he was alone in the Temple, Shraal shed the robe he wore and placed it to the side of the space. Then, his body exposed, he drew his blades in a criss-crossing shape across his torso. His blood flowed freely, and Shraal offered it freely to Nievtala's Altar. The dark porous stone let the liquid soak in, though it was hardly noticeable. That didn't matter. Shraal poured the rest of the offerings over the altar, Nievtala's devoteds' very selves soaking into the altar that they would offer sacrifices over.
As he prostrated himself over the Altar, Shraal prayed. It was a common prayer of his, begging for mercy from the Goddess, for understanding of her plan, and for a willingness to submit to her. Shraal found himself too prideful to listen to her words, sometimes. That he'd been chosen was a reason for pride, though nowhere near the closeness that the Zaaktif shared with her. After all, his ascendance to Keel had been witnessed and blessed by the Goddess!
Pride was no sin, but to place his will before the divine? That was an error in truth. Shraal devoted his life to the Goddess that brought him into Ashlani's path. If not, he would have died as an unremarkable Kha—no, a keelish, something so unaware of the world and of the powers above it that it couldn't understand what a person was. How far he'd come…
After his adorations were complete, Shraal stepped out of the Temple. His blood was already clotting, and it wouldn't be long before it was entirely impossible to tell that he'd been wounded. Perhaps it was from the Goddess, giving him an additional opportunity to prove himself. If he could heal so much faster than the rest of the Unbroken Blade, then he could give so much more of himself to the Goddess. Yes, that was sure to be a part of why she had made him the way he was.
Flaring his frills at whoever walked past, Shraal made his way deeper and deeper into the city, his purpose obvious to him. There were people who needed his guidance, as they had forgotten that all they had came from the Goddess. They would learn. It wouldn't take long, he was sure.