RP:The Grey Area

This is a Devout's Guild RP.

Summary: Jahren joins the Devout's Guild!

The Grand Temple Of Vakmathras, Vailkrin

Khitti || The screams of the dying (and not always willing) victims of the Vakmathras priests in the temple sure did make it hard to think and to meditate. Often, Khitti wished she could put a soundproof enchantment on herself, like she had with certain rooms on Brand’s ship, The Tranquility. But, alas, it was not something she wanted to spend the time and money on, so here she was, struggling as usual to connect to the gods. The silver lining? She’d been able to sit here for quite some time without someone bugging her to move on so that they could hoard the altar for themselves. The redhead, finished with attempting to do things the hard way, decided to finally go about the easy one and grabbed one of the bowls from the altar. Her gladius Embershard was snatched up off the floor, the blade sent to slice across the pads of a few fingers, the blood allowed to flow into the probably not very hygienic offering bowl. “How am I going to deal with them? With any of this? I can’t kill what I can’t find. Which means no souls for you… so… frakking help me to help you.” Some devout folk were blessed; they were able to hear their gods and get their answers to their prayers. Khitti was not so lucky. She blamed it on her lack of piousness, but yet never attempted to fix it. There was no answer. No guidance for her. How was she to kill these people that attacked the Warrior’s Guild if she didn’t know where to look?! Eternally frustrated, Khitti picked up the bowl and tossed it like a frisbee into the nearby wall, an angry cry sent with it. No one would come to check on her, however. She was a regular here, so the guards knew quite well of the rage that never seemed to be quelled for long. Sighing heavily finally, she pulled a handkerchief from her pants pocket and wrapped them around her fingers, all the while glaring up at the statue of Vakmathras himself.

Jahren || Death. Dying. Be it in the open air, your eyes to the sky as your life bleeds from a hundred cuts; be it in the shadows, away from prying eyes, with the calls to the Gods or Goddesses carried by your fading strength; or if it was on the street, an amalgamation between the two, warriors who fought for their right to live, yet were hanging from roofs and awnings, their viscera wound around stone figures with the cries of the pious and the pitiful thrown up to the cooling corpses. Death was prevalent. Death was eternal. And Death was this place. The half-drow passed between body, standing or laying, his iron heels click overtaken by the louder hit of the carved wooden stick in his left hand, and through the twists and turns both led a trail to the Temple. He passed through doors and beneath the eyes of guards as though he were a local, as though his dusky skin and fair human features did not speak of a history of kind and race deplored by the City. But, his task he would not be persuaded from, and so it was with slow steps that he brought himself near the altar. Khitti would not need to have heard him arrive; his presence was felt long before his steps stopped, something massive and feral, something meant for the forest in warmth and caves in the cold. Even when he walked, solid stone gave to an immensity that the lithe figure most certainly did not have; though only three steps from boot and stick, he sounded of four, padded paws. It would take a hard look to her side to see he was only a humanoid, of medium height and build, his features speaking a tale of years of hard living made harder by whip, by fist, and by hard service. He stood before the altar with no gift, with no sacrifice. He stood before the altar, his shoulders squared and his head held high. If he spoke, it was near silence, and only by seeing his lips move would one know supplications were being made. And as quickly as he had come to the altar to pray, he was finished.

Khitti || For a long time, the ability to sense a darkness about others had been lost to Khitti, coinciding with the nullification of her dark magic. It wasn’t even something she’d gained as a follower of Cyris, a “good” god. Perhaps it was only reserved for his paladins, as Zahrani had the ability to do so. Khitti wouldn’t look until he was beside her, olive-green eyes settling on the half-drow, silently comparing the stranger’s outward appearance with that of the aura that he carried with him; the whole thing didn’t match up, of course. So soon he was finished, much sooner than Khitti ever was when she went to any temple--it’s a wonder she even left the Sanctum of the Divine at all. She could take all the time she needed with the three altars right there in the same room. “He probably won’t hear you if you don’t offer something up. Then again, my thoughts go unanswered as usual regardless.” It wasn’t much longer that she was on the ground, having made sure that her fingers had stopped bleeding. The cloth was repocketed and Embershard snatched up. It had not been alone, however. Another weapon, the katana Tenbatsu Kaji was also retrieved. Each weapon radiated with their own magicks; light for the katana and dark for the gladius. There was a slight wobble once she stood up straight and she made a face at it. The momentary lightheadedness faded and then once more her attention was on the half-drow.

Jahren stood as still as the stone upon the stone, and though his body was unmoving, unwavering, his aura -heaved-. A body as large as three of him, its chest---had it a chest?--- sucking in deep barrel fulls of air and heaving them out in an unheard woosh. Fur --- where was the fur? --- bristled, and the rankness of fear fought the pungent aroma of flesh, forest, and and the foul stench of dried blood matting gore stained hide. Both rose in battle, sensed more than smelled by those akin to magics and sorcery, until the walking stick struck the stone with one sharp crack. "Stop asking to be heard," He said, his voice deep, the words wobbling between common and Drow. "When the Master needs its slave, the Master will call it. Begging for attention is begging for Its wrath." Master and slave. Servant and the servile. In as brief as many words, an entire history, and entire world, was brought to the figurative light. And by how his hand gripped the carved stick, how his body sent the accouterments, both seen and unseen, to syncopated life, he gave away his side of the tale.

Khitti smirked at Jahren. She couldn’t not. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that sort of thing. Who had been the last? She couldn’t remember. Quintessa Dragana? No matter. “Might as well get rid of all of these temples then, I guess. If it’s pointless to try to be heard, to pray, then there’s no need for them.” The katana was fixed to her back as she spoke, the gladius returned to her right hip. “And not all devout are slaves. If I wanted chains, I would’ve become a paladin.” Her dark attire spoke in agreement; Khitti was not at all a paladin, nor was she the typical templar. “My path lines up with that of certain gods. I work -with- them, not for them.” Khitti exhaled sharply through her nose, shifting her line of sight to the altar, “However, that doesn’t mean I don’t get frustrated and feel the need to call on them. Everyone calls on them at some point in their lives, whether they believed or not… it’s usually when they’re dying, though, of course.”

Jahren felt his own smirk tug at the corner of his lips; he was of two minds, of three forms, though it was that of the slave and the whip that now warred for show. "A chain is a chain, whether it is iron or silk," He retorted, he riposte, and the truth of his words strengthened his resolve and put iron in his spine. "And you 'work' for them as much as the bull works for its drover. You go as far as is needed, and then you are slaughtered." He dipped his carved stick towards the statue, a salute of sorts to Death, its features finally able to be seen clearly. Along its length was a body of sorts, with hundreds upon hundreds of finely cut markings leaving what could be seen as fur. Its head was the head of the beast, its mouth open wide, a similar craftsmanship seen through sharpened fangs and flattened teeth. "But, you do ask a poignant question. Why would Death need a temple? Why would something that revels in the lessening of things, of the finality of things, want something this...ostentatious? Death comes and leaves nothing. Not a life, not memory, not a body...yet here, in this temple, it will remain even if the temple is brought low. Why would Death come to a place like this, something so anthema to It? Perhaps that is why It never speaks to you in these place."

Khitti rolled her eyes and shook her head, a step or two taken away from him, around the side of the altar as she settled her attention on the skulls. She studied them, letting him speak before finally offering a retort. “You know nothing of me. You know nothing of what I do, whether it’s for gods or mortals.” Khitti picked up one of the skulls to observe it further, this one small, likely that of a pixie or some other sort of fae. “It’s here because it’s a tool. Even if the gods do not answer their followers, it still aids the devout to believe, to help their faith grow. It’s no different than the witches and the implements they use in their rituals. Someone like Cyris should not have a temple either, what with his need of those places to be plain and for no offerings to be left. But, it’s for the rest of us to take some sort of comfort in. The ones that need it, anyway. You are likely right, however. The three I work with seem to “speak” more when I’m doing, rather than thinking.”

Jahren listened closely and carefully, weathering her ire and holding fast against her retorts. But it was her assessment, so succinct and concise, that had both his chin and the walking stick dipping in regard. "You are clergy, then," He said as he stepped closer to the altar, far too close for his aura or the pleasantry of the guards who watched on. "The rabble see what they want. The devout see what they will. But, the clergy, those who lead both, see the truth." He looked over the dichotomies of the altar, the bowls of fresh life sitting upon the dried remnants of the fallen, of fading life seeping into dead stone. He saw hypocrisy, and he did not need to look at the woman to know that is what she saw as well. "But, I pose another question: if these temples are but tools, if this altar is for the followers and not the God Itself, who do we worship when we lay our sacrifices upon it? Who do we hear in our minds when the sacrifice brings sentience?"

Khitti || “Not quite clergy, but I have been on both sides between devoutness and not. I lead the Devout’s Guild. There are very few that seem to be able to see the full picture. They see black and white while all I see is grey. I suppose that sort of thing happens when you’re brought back from the dead by the gods,” Khitti said with a shrug. It was no secret she’d died and came back--the how was, however. She laughed somewhat at his questions, “I don’t think I need to tell you that plenty of devout folk are crazy. There’s some in this very temple. Why else do you think they’ve convinced themselves that they need to kill people nightly for Vakmathras? Why spill the blood of a person or animal when even the tiniest bit from your own body would do. They do it because they can. Because they’ve told themselves so many times that it’s right that that’s what they believe now. It’s much the same on the other end of things, albeit those that follow the “good” gods do so differently. I think most people--the ones that aren’t -entirely- nuts--hear their conscience, though. Whether or not they actually listen is a different story.”

Jahren put his hand upon the altar, as desecration by any other means. Living flesh upon black stone. But, the stone was black because of its kind, obsidian or basalt stained by blood for so long its color was as black as coal. A pump from his heart, the blood circulating where it should, his life reverberating through bone and body, held against the altar for the the space of a single one. he raised right hand up and looked at the dirtied palm. "The Devout's Guild," The half-drow returned lowly, softly. "I suppose not all of your Guild is as grey as you, or at least not to their congregants. Tell me more of this Guild."

Khitti finally replaced the skull in its former spot on the altar, her attention fixing on Jahren entirely once more. “No, not all dwell in the shadows like I do. There are some that flourish in the light, while others seek total darkness. The guild is a place for people of all paths to co-exist… as best as they can, anyway. It is not unlikely for a follower of one god to need the help of another and this allows them to find others more easily. There are those there that don’t even have a path yet and others who have been on theirs for decades. The Sanctum of the Divine in Kelay, the guild’s main headquarters, also gives aid to those that cannot help themselves. There’s no questions asked. If they need food, they are fed. If they need a bed, they are provided with one for the night. It matters not what they do or have done.” Khitti sighed, shaking her head, “There are those, however, that aren’t keen on my ways of running things as I do. My co-leader is one of them. But I put him in that position for a reason--to show that it is possible for those of the light and those of darkness to work together, regardless of their feelings toward one another’s religious beliefs. Sadly, to some, they think this means everything is rainbows and roses. It’s not. We work endlessly, whether for or with, the gods. We learn everything that we can, whether it be in books or physical training. The guild provides everything one would need to find their path, even if it doesn’t fully involve the gods.”

Jahren listened, though it was half heartedly. She spoke of kindness and understandings in a place where neither was in large supply. She spoke of aid and service in a place where none would -ever- be found. life, living, happiness and hard one harmony, her words plucking strings of horrible death, of pain and agony that came from every corner of the temple, as though it rose from the stones themselves. Her sentiments were believable, but her words, in this place, he deflected with a flippant gesture of his free right hand. But when she spoke of knowledge, that was when the former slave's eyes narrowed. He turned fully to her then, and he waited for her to end. "Before you can provide what someone needs for their path, you must know the path and what it requires. Gathering knowledge and using it, even pulling it from the Gods themselves, is what I do. Whether I have been successful or not will be determined when I meet Them."

Khitti sighed. She was very bad at this whole pitching the guild to others sort of thing. It would be much simpler if she was doing this for the Warrior’s Guild. ‘We stab things and they die’ is what she’d say. It was straight to the point and easy to understand. Things were not so with the Devout’s Guild… or religion in general. Khitti was not the easygoing, go with the flow sort of person. She cared not what others did for their gods, so long as harm did not come to those she cared about. And yet, her words still made it sound like everyone, regardless of which god they followed, sat around a campfire nightly, singing gross feel-good songs. “I would argue with you, about providing for others, but I don’t particularly have the energy for it at the present moment. However, if you’re actually interested in joining, you would not be the first to join solely for the gathering of knowledge. There have been others and it might actually work in your favor if there’s not a particular god that you favor out of others. It would mean less in-fighting that I have to deal with,” she said, giving a very obviously forced smile after replying. “There is a sizeable library at the Sanctum. One that I have endeavoured to fill with as many texts on religion--past and present--amongst other things. I’ve even included the Ascendi, if that tickles your fancy.” Khitti smirked, offering up a bit of snark. In a way, the half-drow reminded her of Bradyn and those interactions were full of nothing but snark.

Jahren noted her consternation in her words more than her sigh, though it was not a thread he desired to pull. He only leaned on his carved stick, and the aura that had surrounded him before surrounded him once more, its head low and its snout to the stone floor. "Texts...Histories, I suppose? Perhaps a few treatises cults and the splinterings. First hand accounts of second or third hand sources? I would like to see these texts, and speak with their curator."

Khitti || The word curator threatened to pull a frown from Khitti, but she resisted. “There’s many different subjects. I do a fair bit of my own research for things, so I am on somewhat friendly terms with the curators of Lithrydel’s various libraries. If there is a book you need, we can almost certainly acquire it for you. As for the guild’s curator... he died a few months ago. I’ve yet to find a replacement.” She chewed over a thought for a moment, adding soon after, “Though, if you did join, perhaps in time -you- could take over. You seem to be dedicated enough to the cause of finding and keeping knowledge. I have other business I usually attend to or else I likely would’ve taken the job for myself some time ago.”

Jahren huffed a light chuckle at the flattery-cum-compliment, though it was quickly ended with a strike of his stick against stone and the sharp crack that followed. "You do not need to dangle more things on your hook to get me to bite. Finding knowledge and its uses is enough." He took a step closer to Khitti, his weight and its nigh unbearable stench becoming ever more present as he came near. It was only when he extended his right hand, and the grip of his left upon the stick eased, that the aura that engulfed him eased. "I am Jahren."

Khitti merely shrugged, offering the half-elf another smirk, “Giving you that job just means one less thing I have to worry about. I’m a busy person and I expect my assistant Camina would appreciate it as well--whatever I don’t get done, she takes care of… and that doesn’t always work in her favor.” Her own right hand met his, giving it a shake. “Khitti. The headquarters is off limits to non-guild members, so you’ll need this...” She did not release her grip on his appendage, her left used to draw a rune in the likeness of the guild’s sigil. The shadow magic used to create the rune flicker to life on his hand, glowing a dark silver before vanishing entirely. “Welcome to the guild, Jahren,” Khitti said, finally releasing his hand and taking a step away. “If you cannot find the headquarters in Kelay, simply go through to the one here, below Vailkrin. There is a door that connects the two together. With that said, I need to return to Cenril.”

Jahren returned the shake as it was given, but when his hand wasn't released, he quirked his brow. It was a brief moment of terror that took his features, that had him nearly tighten his grip on his stick, but he neither fought nor flew. Shadow magic and rune, the marking bore into his mind as much as it did his skin, and in only one did it vanish so soon. "I will find the one in Kelay. I have attended to my duties in this temple. I will not return until I must pay homage to Death once more." Even as he spoke, he let his stick point to the truth to his words. The guards, those who had both the authority and the duty to find friend within foes, to let locals pass unimpeded while foreigners got a second, third, or an entire evening's worth of looks. "I will be with the texts."