With the sun howling above, he signed it—his mind refusing to provide any clarity.
"Hahaha!" the Devil laughed, his voice echoing in the darkness of the alleyway. There, a priest, drunk to the brim and sinking to his knees, presented his own soul without hesitation.
A grand bell tolled in a distant church as the building shook; perhaps it wanted to stop the very abomination being birthed in this city. The Devil glanced at the sky. The sun churned its light while winds blew with a violent force, born from divine anger.
He smirked, his lavish coat whipping in the heavy gale. Holding his hat firmly against his chest like a performer, he bowed, his sharp nails glinting.
"I won this time," he said.
A round of cursed energy spewed toward him. Divine chains lashed out to send him back, but the disguise of his human form instilled a revolt in the chains themselves. The Devil howled with laughter, dancing a joyous step in the dark alley while the man before him remained still as a rock.
"You are bound to be fortunate!" the Devil cried to the drunken priest.
As expected, the priest didn't respond. He remained kneeling on the ground, his mind already eaten away by ecstasy. Before the sun could become serene once again, the Devil snarled at the kneeling man and spat on his head with disgust.
"Son of God, this is the end of your piousness and the start of your blasphemy!"
Before he even finished the sentence, he began to vanish into the fog of the night. All that remained was the dark alleyway and the inebriated priest.
Where is the goat-man? the priest thought as he fell to the ground with a thud, slipping into a drunken sleep.
...
A blistering morning arrived, the sunlight nearly blinding the priest's shut eyes. With a jolt, he stood up, finally free from his intoxication.
"Where am I?!" he cried, struggling to rise. His knees were still wobbling; the alcohol was clearly still in his system.
"My head!" With a splitting pain, he pressed his hands to his temples in agony. But as quickly as the pain arrived, it vanished.
"Forgive me, Lord Gomer..." Priest Enosh was barely holding himself together. If someone saw him in this condition, it would only be a matter of time before he was burned alive at the stake.
He pulled himself straight, stretching to his full height. "Arghhh!" His back flared in pain. His old bones were too rigid; he needed to warm them before moving.
Enosh wondered for a second about the glimpses of memory that flashed before his eyes as he woke. When he couldn't pinpoint their meaning, he stopped trying. All he could remember was going to the pub to talk to Farmer Frederick.
Frederick, once a pious believer, wanted to join another church: the Church of Sight. Even if one wanted to change religions, it wasn't usually a major problem. The issue was the reason Frederick provided. Everyone who changed faiths had to provide a reason; whether it was significant or not didn't usually matter—it was a mere formality.
But Frederick's reason stated that he was under threat from the Church of Ancient.
Enosh tried to remember how the conversation had gone, but he was unable to recall anything after reaching the pub. He sighed in vain.
"Frederick..." he muttered.
Clasping his head, he slowly strode out of the dark alley toward the open street. The city was bustling, and the thoroughfares were already crowded with people. Merchants lined the street with hastily erected tents. Each of them screamed at the top of their lungs, hawking their wares and the "rare artifacts" they were hoarding—though the latter were likely fakes.
With the streets so busy, Enosh was apprehensive about using them to return to the cathedral. But just as he was hesitating, the bell rang. The Cathedral of the Ancient used its bells to denote the time for prayers and any rituals scheduled for the day.
"I'd better move," Enosh scolded himself. He pushed past his hesitation and stepped out into the crowd.
He was greeted by the people around him; some even presented him with offerings in good faith. He couldn't reject them, so he bowed slightly as he accepted the gifts. In doing so, he drew too close; many of them could clearly smell the reminiscence of alcohol on his breath.
He jolted backward when he noticed their expressions shift. After departing from the group, he was greeted less frequently until he reached the cathedral doors.
Fortunately, the Deputy Padre wasn't waiting at the gate today. Enosh quickly turned toward the back of the building, heading for the hidden crypt that led inside—a backdoor used only by church officials.
As soon as Enosh reached his compartment via the crypt, a paper hanging on his door slapped against his face. He pulled it free and began reading the contents right there in the hallway.
"The Worst Human, Gwen Voice, is to be executed at the cathedral grounds. The Padre and Deputy Padre of the Church are requested to attend the execution on March 23rd, 2001, at the Cathedral Grounds."
No specific time was mentioned for the event. That silence implied the "Death by a Thousand Cuts," a ritual where every attendee would carve into the criminal until he expired. Enosh folded the paper, scanned the hallway one last time, and stepped into his room. The letter carried a grim, indirect command: the Padre was expected to perform a final ritual once the cutting was done.
Enosh had a weak stomach for blood; he loathed seeing it spilled before him. However, as the Padre, he rarely had the luxury of choice. With a heavy inward sigh, he spread the letter wide across his table.
His quarters were sparse, containing only a small bed with a cushion donated by a devotee of the Ancient, and a simple table without drawers. He didn't even own a wardrobe. Instead, he kept his clothes draped over his chair, as he was rarely in his room long enough to sit down.
"Gwen Voice..." he whispered.
"If I'm not mistaken, isn't this the man who killed Culie Suporo of the Night Canary?"
Given that the Night Canary was notorious for abducting children, this act should have been considered a blessing.