Post by Synn on Nov 3, 2024 22:36:55 GMT -5
The air inside the church was thick with the sweet scent of incense and the soft flickering glow of candlelight. Shadows danced across the polished wooden pews as the sun filtered through the elaborate stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns onto the stone floor. Each figure immortalized in glass—the saints, angels, and holy paraphernalia—stood sentinel, watching over the sanctuary with an almost ethereal grace.
Mistress Synn strode confidently through the heavy oak doors, the sound echoing slightly in the grand space. Her short uniform skirt swayed as she walked, a shocking contrast to the sacred surroundings. With her hair tied up into playful pigtails, she appeared almost innocent— yet underneath the facade lay intentions that were anything but pure.
She wandered past the ornate statues of saints, her fingers brushing against their cool stone surfaces, and approached the altar. With a flourish, she lit several candles, their flames quivering like the souls of the lost. The light flickered across her face, revealing a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Mistress Synn then sashayed towards a nearby confession booth, the dimness inside beckoning her like a shadow. The wooden box held secrets, sins, and the weight of confessions. She slid into the booth, the scent of old wood and faint incense wrapping around her like an old cloak.
The priest, an elderly man with a gentle demeanor and wise eyes, opened the tiny window. His gaze softened as he saw the figure before him, perhaps remembering a time when faith was intertwined with innocence. He offered a silent prayer—for her soul, or perhaps for herself—not yet realizing the storm about to unfold.
Mistress Synn leaned forward, her voice a sultry whisper laced with venom. "Father, I seek your blessing," she said, a wry smile playing at the edges of her lips. "For the sins I am about to commit."
The priest furrowed his brow, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “My child, actions such as these can lead to darkness. Think over what you intend to do.”
Her laughter rang out like chimes, an unsettling melody that resonated within the sacred walls. “Oh, but Father, it’s already too late for that. Twilight and Thomas Deacon Hall…their fate’s have been sealed. And I fully intend to make good on my promise.”
His heart raced at her audacity. “My child, I implore you. Violence begets violence. You must reconsider—”
But she had already waved him off dismissively, annoyance flashing across her features. “Your prayers won’t save them. I fear this isn’t the time for your pious counsel,” she mocked, her voice dripping with disdain.“You’re a relic of the past, clinging to ideologies that have no place in the fervor of competition. I am a force of nature—no blessings can withstand me. I will have my crown.”
The priest felt a shiver run down his spine. He had seen many souls teeter on the edge of moral decay, but none bore the wicked delight that radiated from the confident young woman before him. With a heavy heart, he pushed open the booth door, steeling himself to confront her, to perhaps guide her back to the light.
Yet when he emerged, the fold of the curtain swayed in the absence of her presence. The wooden bench lay empty. There was no trace of the impish figure who had ensnared him in her dark allure. He looked around, confusion merging with a quiet panic. The flickering candles cast wavering shadows, and the air felt colder now, as if she had swept away the warmth of the church with her departure.
The priest knelt briefly, whispering another silent prayer, but Mistress Synn was already far away, her laughter echoing in his mind as she embraced the wrathful spirit that would drive her toward the impending chaos. She was a tempest unleashed, and in the quiet chambers of the cathedral, only her wicked promise lingered—a herald of the storms to come.
Mistress Synn strode confidently through the heavy oak doors, the sound echoing slightly in the grand space. Her short uniform skirt swayed as she walked, a shocking contrast to the sacred surroundings. With her hair tied up into playful pigtails, she appeared almost innocent— yet underneath the facade lay intentions that were anything but pure.
She wandered past the ornate statues of saints, her fingers brushing against their cool stone surfaces, and approached the altar. With a flourish, she lit several candles, their flames quivering like the souls of the lost. The light flickered across her face, revealing a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Mistress Synn then sashayed towards a nearby confession booth, the dimness inside beckoning her like a shadow. The wooden box held secrets, sins, and the weight of confessions. She slid into the booth, the scent of old wood and faint incense wrapping around her like an old cloak.
The priest, an elderly man with a gentle demeanor and wise eyes, opened the tiny window. His gaze softened as he saw the figure before him, perhaps remembering a time when faith was intertwined with innocence. He offered a silent prayer—for her soul, or perhaps for herself—not yet realizing the storm about to unfold.
Mistress Synn leaned forward, her voice a sultry whisper laced with venom. "Father, I seek your blessing," she said, a wry smile playing at the edges of her lips. "For the sins I am about to commit."
The priest furrowed his brow, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “My child, actions such as these can lead to darkness. Think over what you intend to do.”
Her laughter rang out like chimes, an unsettling melody that resonated within the sacred walls. “Oh, but Father, it’s already too late for that. Twilight and Thomas Deacon Hall…their fate’s have been sealed. And I fully intend to make good on my promise.”
His heart raced at her audacity. “My child, I implore you. Violence begets violence. You must reconsider—”
But she had already waved him off dismissively, annoyance flashing across her features. “Your prayers won’t save them. I fear this isn’t the time for your pious counsel,” she mocked, her voice dripping with disdain.“You’re a relic of the past, clinging to ideologies that have no place in the fervor of competition. I am a force of nature—no blessings can withstand me. I will have my crown.”
The priest felt a shiver run down his spine. He had seen many souls teeter on the edge of moral decay, but none bore the wicked delight that radiated from the confident young woman before him. With a heavy heart, he pushed open the booth door, steeling himself to confront her, to perhaps guide her back to the light.
Yet when he emerged, the fold of the curtain swayed in the absence of her presence. The wooden bench lay empty. There was no trace of the impish figure who had ensnared him in her dark allure. He looked around, confusion merging with a quiet panic. The flickering candles cast wavering shadows, and the air felt colder now, as if she had swept away the warmth of the church with her departure.
The priest knelt briefly, whispering another silent prayer, but Mistress Synn was already far away, her laughter echoing in his mind as she embraced the wrathful spirit that would drive her toward the impending chaos. She was a tempest unleashed, and in the quiet chambers of the cathedral, only her wicked promise lingered—a herald of the storms to come.
