Book 1: Gospel: Blood Trail

Book of Roots, Chapter 5, Verse 14

“The body is not a gate to shame, but to revelation. In the joining of flesh, we open the hidden places of the soul. There, the Creator speaks—not in thunder or flame—But in breath, in trembling, in the mercy of being known.”

Book 1: Gospel

Chapter 2: Blood Trail

Hollow Port, Steelwilds, Fourth Age

The Funerary Office was everything the Marriage Office didn’t want to be. Black was the color of choice. Dirge seemed to be the staff’s favorite genre. The air reeked of embalming fluid and disappointment.

Behind the front desk—where a statuette of the Dour Saint Death mourned over a recently deceased and recently nude Saint Velessa—stood a wall.

Not just any wall.

A shrine.
It was lined from top to bottom with small beads—shaded deep black and bone white.

Legacy Beads. Specifically, Endlight Beads. Death beads.

Some were paired with Wound Beads—blood red, charcoal and smoky rose. A few even carried the scorched gray shimmer of Ash Beads, the result of a death that was nowhere near glorious or peaceful, but more nightmare and tragedy.

This was charge for those too poor to pay coin for funerals.

I breathed a silent prayer of thanks that, when I passed, everything had already been arranged in our Sanctuary Testament, a small benefit for being born of the Flame-Tail lineage.

All of mine and Itza’s beads—Legacy, Flame, even the stray Whisper—would be passed to our next of kin.

Burial would be back at the Tower.

Where we began.

Where it all began.

I stepped up to the counter, “Hello, Basil.”

The young Haint looked up from examining a pair of Death Beads. His narrow nose and eyes—set just a little too close together for my liking—were magnified by thick glasses that made him look like a beetle blessed by the Church.

“Hello to you too, Ezekiel,” he said, and then looked to Itza,“And to you as well, Mrs. Flame-Tail. Are you here to model my latest line of mourning apparel? We just received the newest in comfort pooch control from the Scarlet Atoll of the Vanishing Isles.”

She blinked. Looked down at her stomach. A mother’s stomach. Hips that had carried two children and survived more than one battle.

But a pooch? Her head snapped back up, eyes ablaze. I moved fast, stepping between them like a man who’d seen firestorms before.

“The obituaries, Basil,” I said quickly. “If you please. The Church has us on official business.”

Basil waved a thin hand toward a stack of parchment slips,“Help yourself.”

I took one and nodded politely, but Basil wasn’t done.

He peered around me and smiled at my wife again, utterly immune to his impending doom, “Are you sure you don’t wish to try the mourning undergarments? I hear the bra offers both emotional and physical support for those with drooping morales.”

He beamed like he’d just invented sacred lingerie.

I grabbed Itza gently by the collar, guiding her toward the exit, “Let’s leave before you murder someone.”

The door swung closed behind us. Then Basil’s voice floated out after us,“The essence pads are free.”

Itza fumed beside me as we made our way down Pasquale Street. The stretch was lined with storefronts and stalls—rosary shops, undergarment hawkers, a walk-in sanctification parlor, gloamling trainers and a dozen common bead crafters.

Most were journeymen. Mass-producers. They molded and sealed simple glass receptacles meant for essence and catalyst. They worked with more common metals such as copper, sterling, and brass.

But then we passed a more ornate storefront.

“The Oyster.”
Inside, a pair of gnomes sat hunched over delicate wires, polishing and etching strings of cycle beads with painstaking care. They worked and wove chains with the best metals: yellow, white and rose gold, mithril, and veinstone.
I watched as one pulled a wire of veinstone from a spool. The black metal was flecked with crimson, violet and indigo. This metal was the main reason the Church held a presence in the Steelwilds. This mineral resonated with beads in a way that allowed the missionary legions to wield their battle chaplets and the rarely seen bead pistols. Every crafter dreamed of ascending to Master Crafter—the rank where one didn’t just mold or etch, but was invited to witness the moment of creation itself. Most of those masters kept personal journals, tracking bloodlines, family histories, even genetic resonance—all in pursuit of the perfect bead.

I glanced at Itza, still smoldering from the Funeral Office.

“One of these,” I said, nodding toward the vendors, “is gonna be our springboard.”

I leaned in, voice low, “And Izzy, if you don’t smile, you’re gonna be in time out tonight.”

She shot me a half-hearted glare… then relented, giving me a tight, reluctant grin.

“So how do we know which one has our answers, Zeke?” she asked. “There must be thousands of parishioners funneling through here daily.”

I scanned the storefronts. Let my eyes drift past the gleaming glass, the overly blessed smiles, the chant-casters and hawkers.

Then I saw it.

A tent.

Tucked beneath the shadow of a moonlight willow, its sign crooked and half-hanging.

“The Rear Gate.”

I nodded toward it,“Look for the shortest line.”

We walked up to the tent but didn’t enter. Instead, I gently pulled Itza in front of me, facing me, close.

“Pretend you’re kissing me,” I whispered in her ear, “and helping me pray. I want to watch, see what kind of clientele this shop draws.”

“Gladly, my love,” she purred, her breath warm against my skin as she slid into place, “Just let me know when you’re about to speak in tongues. I’d hate to blow your cover.”

She leaned in close, lips just off mine, her hands reverently on my shoulders. To any outsider, we were either lost in love or deep in communion.

From behind her, I watched the tent.

First came a young woman—heavier set, adjusting her hair as she stepped out from beneath the curtain. No signs of bond rites on her. No flame beads. No chaplet rings. Just a subtle flush on her cheeks.

Next came a gaggle of youth-age girls, giggling and gossiping, energy bouncing between them like loose lightning. One hung back, uncertain. Nervous. Her friends dragged her in. One by one, they exited—giggly, flustered, whispering behind cupped hands. Then the last girl emerged, the reluctant one. She looked down. Ashamed. Embarrassed. A thin black chain draped around her neck. The Church’s sign of a woman who could not bead.

I frowned.

“Hmmmmm,” I muttered. “That’s odd.”

I hung back a little longer. More men came and went—some alone, some in pairs. Most walked out shortly after entering, the jingle of coin in their pockets the only sign of transaction.

An elderly woman wandered in next. She stayed longer.

Then came more young adults—the kind who wouldn’t win a beauty contest in Hollow Port, but were clearly searching for something.

Shady men. Wandering teens. This place didn’t serve the devout. It catered to the forgotten. The curious. The unworthy. Those with a taste for the easy. And the seedy.

I nodded to Itza,“Let’s go see what’s going on, but first… we can’t walk in looking like sanctioned missionaries.”

Her eyes lit up,“Disguises? You mean we get to use… Kitsune?”

I grinned, tugging her behind a tall hedge near the willow,“Yes, we get to use Kitsune.”

We stripped out of our battle vestments, stashing them carefully in a tight roll beneath a root. Our rosaries and battle chaplets stayed on—hidden beneath waistbands, under sleeves.

Itza slipped into a split-front top, revealing the graceful arc of her ribs and the soft swell of her stomach. Her skirt was high-cut, parting just enough to show glimpses of prayer garments beneath—teasing the faithful into distraction. I unbuttoned my shirt, let it hang open, and slid on a worn pair of bonding pants—tight across the hips, loose where it counted.

I turned to her,“Ready?”

Itza smirked, tail flicking behind her, “Lead on,love.”

We stepped inside The Rear Gate.

The interior canvas was soaked in deep tones—black, wine-red, and sacramental purple. Furs lined the floor, worn smooth in places, stained in others. Above, a central chandelier struggled to elevate the atmosphere of the room, its glow an ambitious attempt to make this second-rate sanctum feel upscale. Lining both sides were six small altar booths. From each came a symphony of sound:

Grunts.

Groans.

Tears.

Sighs.

All layered beneath the distant echo of Church-issued chants, sung low and steady by two veiled sisters in a corner. Attendants flitted in and out, carrying vessels—some polished, some steaming. A few lingered longer inside the booths, emerging with cleaning cloths draped over chalices, followed by sheepish clients adjusting their garments and avoiding eye contact. The air smelled of oil, wax, and perfumed guilt.

We walked up to the central desk. A small brass bell rested atop it. I reached out and gave it a sharp ring.

The shopkeeper entered through a curtain made of clinking beads, each one carved with faded sigils. Through the parting fabric, I caught a glimpse of what was beyond.

One woman.

And too many men for her body to accomadate naturally.

A technically illegal act under Church doctrine—polyamorous communion wasn’t sanctioned—but it wasn’t exactly unheard of, either. If the coin or bead tithe was right, the clergy would allow most anything to slip, citing a widely misused passage from the Book of Ember, Chapter 17, Verse 83:

“But if the person’s heart doth to one return, it does not matter how many streams flow into the delta.”

The original scripture referred to spiritual and emotional resilience: if a person’s soul remained bound to their true partner, then no external influence—no temptation, no distraction—could sever that tie.

But modern interpretation?

As long as you had someone to go home to… you could do whatever—or whoever—you pleased.

I glanced at Itza.

She met my look, unimpressed, and flashed a quick gesture in ClergySign,“Hell no. One is enough.”

The woman who entered was a Tiefling—skin a smooth, polished amethyst, hair white as spilled milk cascading down her shoulders. Twin golden horns swept back from her brow, polished to a mirror sheen. She wore nothing but a pair of gilded cups and what could barely pass for a pair of underwear, both adorned with holy script and strategic modesty. Prayer script traced her skin in looping strokes, with the sigils of Saint Velessa and Erthruim the Engorged tastefully placed at the temples of pleasure.

I sighed aloud,“Yeah… we’re in one of those sects.”

Izzy raised an eyebrow.

I muttered, “I bet the librarian comes here.”

Then I slapped on a charming smile,“Hello! What do you have available for today? My wife and I are looking to make a little side money—we’ve got a trip to Riverspire in a couple of months. What are you short on?”

The Tiefling beamed,“Excellent! First, I’ll need your names and lineages for legal records. Church doctrine also requires a brief inspection—to ensure no transmission of corruption. We pride ourselves on maintaining the cleanest establishment possible.”

A pair of attendants stepped out. They were gentle, respectful, and disturbingly efficient.

One gave a nod. “All seems good.”

The shopkeep nodded in approval,“Wonderful. Now, let’s see… Whisper and Prayer Beads are always in demand, though the return is sorrowfully low. We could always use some mid-grade Blood or Cycle, if both parties are inclined.”

“Oh!” the shopkeep clapped her hands gently, smile gleaming. “I almost forgot—names and lineages, please?”

“Of course,” I said smoothly, turning slightly as if fluffing my wife’s hair, “My name is Markus, from Wither Hollow, of the Gladstone Lineage.”

“And my wife,” I added, gesturing with reverence, “is Veneria, from Ember Hollow, of the Roarthank Lineage.”

The Tiefling’s golden eyes lit up,“Oh… really?”

Her smile curled with reverence, and hunger, “This way. No questions asked. I’ll take you to the back suites.”

She beckoned us through the curtain—past a scene that could’ve been a saint’s downfall. A woman, currently engaged on all fronts, lay tangled in flesh and ceremony. The smell hit like a wave—powerful enough to beat the incense into submission, curling around the senses with heated dominance.

I grabbed Itza’s wrist and pulled her through before she could get a single word out.

We passed into a quieter hallway—walls draped in curtains and tapestries, floor padded in thick carpet muffling the sound of feet and more.

Soft sighs, pleasured moans, and murmured prayers filtered through closed doors.

At last, the shopkeep stopped before Room 89. She opened it with a dramatic sweep.

“Here is our Lineage Suite, my loves,” she said, voice purring like well-tuned chantwork, “Please—take all the time you need. Bloodlines as prestigious as yours are always valuab… welcome here.”

“Play along,” I whispered, sweeping Itza up into my arms and laying her gently on the altar.

The velvet beneath her shimmered with candlelight and the scent of incense-soaked sweat.

I turned and reached back, taking the Tiefling’s hand.

“Please,” I said solemnly, “bear witness to our devotion to the Creator.”

As I pulled her closer, I crushed a bead on my concealed battle chaplet—one of the offensive whispers. A fog hissed out, thick and slow, curling through the room like a blessing gone sideways. The gas was laced with concentrated euphorics—a fog meant to induce a hazy, compliant stupor.

The Tiefling swayed immediately, her golden eyes glazing slightly, a warm giggle escaping her lips.

“Y’all are… indeed the most beautiful couple,” she murmured. “I’d be honored to make a who-whole… shhh… rosary with you…”

We guided the Tiefling gently onto the altar’s edge, her limbs loose, compliant.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Itza asked, stroking her hair with practiced ease. With one smooth motion, the gilded cups dropped to the floor, forgotten.

My eyebrows lifted.

Itza looked over her shoulder, gave a subtle arch of her hips, and signed, “Just relax. I’ve got this.”

The Tiefling smiled, her arms lazily draping around Itza’s shoulders.

“My name is Nefaria,” she whispered. “I’m… interning for the month.”

“It must feel so good,” my wife murmured, “to be with a woman of lineage like mine…”

Her hand slid lower, breath matching rhythm, “Tell me… what makes us so desirable… so honored?”

Nefaria groaned.

“You and your husband should know,” she moaned. “You’re… Wildborn.”

Itza paused, lips at her ear as Nefaria continued,“You two are the essence of the Creator… made manifest… “

She arched under Itza’s touch, trembling, “Any bead made by you… it’d be worth the weight of this entire place…”

My pulse hammered. I tried to step forward. Itza slid a hand across my chest and gently pushed me back, her grin sharp and full of fire.

“Mmm… and you just keep them on the shelf?” Itza purred as she stroked the woman’s thigh.

I leaned in again, hopeful. My wife exhaled, rolled her eyes playfully.

Nefaria’s mind was now entirely caught in the fog of stupor. Her voice was reverent. Slurred. Dripping with pleasure, “No, my dear… your essence is much too valuable. Yours would be taken by the Archbishop… to Dark Hollow Chapel…”

Itza’s voice was silk and steel as she whispered, “And what is this Archbishop’s name… my love?”

Nefaria shuddered.

“Fffff—fa… Famora Endergale,” she gasped,“Creator shine on us! For you have blessed me with this union, as you did in the Book of Ember—let me return the blessing!”

Itza looked up, a glorious predator in ritual rapture, her lips curved into a grin that could crack stone,“Told you I had it handled.”

“Sorry about that, dear,” I said sheepishly. “I’ll submit and atone tonight.”

She walked over and kissed me softly on the lips,“Don’t worry about it, love.”

Then, calm as holy retribution, she turned back to where Nefaria lay in post-bead stupor. Itza knelt beside her, fingers gentle but firm as she slid two into the Tiefling’s mouth. She fished around for a moment… then withdrew her hand.

Between her fingers sat a small, pearl-colored bead—freshly formed, soft-glowing, laced with powerful essence.

Her expression twisted into a curl of divine disdain,“Mine, bitch.”

Book of Saint Fernweh, Sanctified Excerpt 8:3

“Let no desire rise unblessed by the Church. For flesh unbound breeds discord, and the soul may slip through open doors. Where union is not sanctioned, corruption waits. All offerings must be declared, and all beads tithed to the Flame.”