Sailor's Hope
Midnight, June 22nd
Pieter Anzalli had never seen anything like this in his life. Minor acts of vandalism were uncommon but not unheard of. They were something every temple had to deal with from time to time. A random tragedy provoked rage in those touched by the event, and they in turn went looking for a scapegoat to blame.
The gods, representing the many facets of life as they did, were often the ultimate targets of this blind rage. A father, maddened by grief at the loss of his toddler son to a wasting illness, threw a rock at the shrine of the Raven Queen while cursing her name. A daughter, the one to cut down her elderly father after he hung himself over unpayable gambling debts, tries to smash Avandra's Lamp with her dead father's walking stick.
Pieter sometimes wondered if the sole purpose served by the gods was to function as lightening rods for the inconsolable wrath of mortal kin. To be the thing that took the blame when life went wrong. He couldn't deny their power, but sometimes their control over the fate and destiny of the world seemed so . . . precarious.
But this was. This was something else. This was . . . blasphemous.
Whoever did this, and by all accounts it sounded like nothing more than a petty street gang, either had no fear of the Sea Witch and her followers or had no conscience at all.
The inner sanctum of Melora's temple had once been an indescribably beautiful place. Artisans had spent countless lifetimes carving intricate designs into every square inch of the rock of the natural sea grotto over which the lighthouse had been built. A fortune had been spent on covering every surface with gilt, paint and mother-of-pearl. The central focus of the temple had been a miraculous statue of the Sea Witch carved by a grand master of the old empire from a bizarre form of marble the color of turquoise.
And now? It was ruined. All of it. Pieter doubted it could ever recover its original beauty. He did not think there was an artisan left alive in the world that could sculpt something with one-tenth the grace the previous statue had possessed. The statue that was now nothing more than rubble at the bottom of pool of salt water that had once surrounded it.
Stepping carefully over a pile of wood that only hours ago had been a pew carved from a solid block of mahogany, he silently paced past Petra Shellendo. The High Priest of Sailor's Hope had passed swiftly through denial, bewilderment, rage and was now solidly in the arms of grief. He wept openly, caressing the left half of what had been the Sea Witch's face. Little Tatiana, the temple's candlekeep and the only witness to this atrocity, stood silently behind him. A single hand on his shoulder to provide comfort was the only emotion she displayed.
Pieter often found the candlekeep's distinct lack of any emotion but rapt adoration for Melora rather unnerving. Turning away from the depressing scene, he began to study the walls of the grotto again, hoping to discern some motivation for this act beyond pure hatred for what faith in the divine can inspire in all mortal kin.
The vandals had not destroyed the carvings entirely, but they had certainly done their work well. Every single depiction of the Sea Witch was gone. Obliterated by the same rain of blows that had smashed the statue. In the same vein, every depiction of the other gods, civilized and uncivilized alike, had been smashed or at the very least marred. As near as Pieter could tell, the only parts of the carvings that had not been damaged were those that depicted the raging storms of Melora's wrath.
And then, as if the destruction of this priceless treasure weren't enough, the vandals had painted "MELORA IS A WHORE" in big black three-foot tall letters. Even now, having refused to be washed away by the bucket of water Pieter had thrown on it, the greasy and apparently caustic substance was sizzling and smoking as it burned its message deeper into the stone.
"Where are they? Where are these friends you sent for, Pieter?" The shrill voice, piercing in its volume and tone startled the High Priest out of his thoughts.
He walked over to the candlekeep, weaving through the broken pews. "I called them, Little Tatiana. They will come. You must be patient. They will be here soon." He began to reach out. To put a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she was still doing with Petra.
"I will NOT be patient!!", wrath overflowed from the little girl's eyes and Pieter's hand stopped. He considered it oddly for a moment and then withdrew it into his robes.
She was nearly quivering now. "The men that did this WILL be punished. I KNOW where they are and if your friends don't come soon I will SMITE them MYSELF!"
Pieter had never known a child to be so capable of such an adult quality of rage. This was no mere tantrum. The way she spoke, he was quite sure her faith was capable of delivering the promised smiting, even if her body and her skill were not equal to the task. The rumors were true, then. This orphan really was meant to be Petra's replacement when he died, sent to us by the Sea Witch herself.
"Let us hope it does not come to that, young one. You are a vessel and your goddess has not yet finished filling you with her waters. I have no doubt your faith is ready, but your body and mind are not and you will get yourself killed in the process." She scowled at his words but her silence told him that she knew he was correct.
He turned to the old man. The smell of fish was strong on him tonight; no doubt he had been deep in the auguries when the candlekeep had brought word of the defilement, "You must pull yourself together, Petra. My friends will be here soon and it should be you that tasks them, not I."
For a minute, the old man did not answer. At last though, he mumbled a reply, "What if it does not matter?"
Pieter was taken aback. The old man's voice grew in strength, growing harsh, "What if I no longer care? I have dedicated my whole life to protecting this town and the other towns of the Middle Reaches and the reaches beyond. And this is how I am repaid? By the destruction of the one thing in this miserable, sodden world that brings me true joy?"
Now his voice was dead flat, like the calm at the center of an October Storm. "What if I want her to destroy us? What if I wish her to scour the islands to the water line with a single titanic wave? What if I want her to wash this disgusting town and all its filth loving folk into the maelstrom?"
And then very quietly, a smile quivering on his lips and his eyes staring into an unseen world where Helen's Reach drowned under a succession of ever higher waves, "What then?"
Tatiana's imperious gaze fixed Pieter, as if daring him to pierce the veil of the old man's grief with the well worn platitudes of Erathis he was known to deliver. Pieter silently regarded Petra for a moment, trying to fix in his mind what the old man had looked like when he was young, happy and filled with love for his goddess. Then he slapped him hard across the face with the palm of his hand. "You MUST pull yourself together, friend."
Tatiana gasped and snatched her hand away from Petra's shoulder. The old man's eyes met Pieter's and for a moment they were filled with the same bottomless rage he'd seen in the candlekeep. Then, the rage drained away but wasn't replaced by that queer far-off look. Instead, the old man seemed alert again and he chuckled like a bucket of rusty nails.
"I'm sorry about that, Pieter old friend. This has been a lot for an old man near the end of his life to take in. I think I got lost in Melora's Reach for minute there." He held out his hand, which very clearly stank of fish, "Now help me up."
