Book 1: Gospel: Coffin Tips

Book 1: Gospel

Chapter 3: Coffin Tips

Hollow Port, Steelwilds, Fourth Age

Book of Roots, Chapter 6, Verse 2

“The body is not shameful for its changes, nor the soul for its aching. What bleeds is not broken. What blooms too early is not lost. The Maker dances in the flux—In growth, in hunger, in the weight of new hips and quiet yearning.”

We adjusted ourselves and slipped quietly out of the establishment, leaving Nefaria tangled in her own stupor, limbs relaxed like melted candle wax on the altar.

Itza grabbed a glass of sacramental wine from a passing tray near the threshold, swished it through her mouth, then spat it into a potted Blessing Tree as we crossed into the daylight.

“I hate places like that, Ezekiel,” she muttered, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “I get the Church. I love the Creator. Even the art—tits and all. But places like that? They feel wrong. Why can’t we just go to service, go home, pray, maybe make a bead or two, then come back for the next sermon?”

I nodded, taking her arm,“I agree. I’ve never been a fan of the mega-church business side of the Gospel. It feels too… false.”

She kissed my cheek, slow and dangerous.

“I love you,” she said sweetly. “But if you ever, EVER put me in a position where I have to do that with another woman again.”

Her smile was sugar,“I’ll castrate you and wear it around my neck as a trophy.”

I blanched, feigning mock fear,“Of course, my dear. How might I atone for my grievous misdeeds?”

She beamed. Grabbed my hand,a nd pulled me straight into Boussom’s Blessed Boutique—a sparkling storefront of pastel rosaries and enchanted perfume.

“I want my nails done,” she declared. “Coffin Tips, please.”

Boussom was a plump halfling woman of middling years, with a bosom so generous she nearly had to set it on its own stool when she stopped to talk.

A fortunate—or unfortunate—genetic consequence of her race, depending on the stitching of the blouse.

“Well, bless my soul,” she beamed as she waddled over, curls bouncing. “Creator’s light shine upon me! Izzy, my sweetheart—how’re you doin’? Still toting this fine piece of man ‘round with ya, I see.”

Itza squatted down and wrapped her in a warm hug,“Aunt Boussom—it’s been a minute. How’s Unc Bangum?”

“Oh, darlin’,” Boussom chuckled, flipping a curl back with pride. “As long as he’s got this to crawl onto the altar with?”

She grinned, “He’s finer than frog hair split four ways.”

She climbed two little padded steps to settle into her nail seat across from Itza, everything bouncing and jingling with grace.

“Now, honey,” she said, “what are you lookin’ for today?”

My wife sat, stretched her fingers out over the table,“Coffin tips.”

Aunt Boussom paused, eyes narrowing just a bit as she inspected her hands, “Oh… really?”

I settled into a chair on the other side of the booth.

A female orc with tusks polished and sharp as a priest’s dagger approached, draping a salon apron around my neck.

Her nametag said Blossom.

“And what’ll you have today?” she asked, already flipping a comb between her fingers.

“How about the classic Boreal undercut,” I said, settling in. “Braid the top. Trim the beard.”

She grunted in approval and got to work, her fingers deft and confident.

I closed my eyes—just enough to relax—but kept one ear tuned toward Kate and Boussom.

The salon buzzed soft around us, but their booth felt like a confessional.

“Wildblood…”

“Yes… Church collections…”

“Five fingers?”

“He made the biggest bead…”

“I know of Archbishop Famora. Seems decent. Gets her… waxed…”

“Gnome tips.”

“Dark Hollow Chapel. Why keeping Legacy beads?”

“She’s a big woman, Izzy. Reminds me of the bloodlines my great-great-great-grandma Clara Longroot helped start…”

“At the end of the Second Age.”

There was a pause.

Itza leaned forward,“What do you mean, Aunty?”

I tried to tune in more to my wife and Aunt Boussom, but Blossom had other plans. She was elbow-deep in braid prep, chatting away like we were lifelong friends. Her voice was deep, warm, and filled with post-honeymoon glow.

“My husband—Rowan Eveready—and I just got back from our honeymoon,” she said with a proud grin. “And now I gotta work double shifts for the next month.”

She leaned in conspiratorially,“Broke the bed, the wall, and the coffee table. We’re payin’ back the damage deposit in installments.”

She flipped a sketchbook open to a tasteful charcoal drawing—Rowan sprawled across a couch, muscular, naked, and enhanced in polite but very noticeable ways.

I blinked.

“Impressive,” I murmured.

Meanwhile, across the way, Boussom kept filing Itza’s nails, her voice shifting from casual to sermon-soft.

“Darlin’,” she said, “those Wildbornes were the unfortunate accident of new freedom and communion with the raw essence of the Creator through nature. They were also a damn overcorrection.”

Itza leaned in. “Like how, Aunty?”

Boussom swapped files.

“Child, it was a terrible sight,” she muttered. “And I’ve only seen the old journals. Think:

•Hair.

•More hair.

•Pendulous breasts.

•Huge bellies.

•Mustaches.

•Even more hair.

•Hips for days.

•And forever invaded and locked in with your mate—eternally bound, in every way.”

Itza’s eyes widened, horror dawning,“That sounds… horrible.”

Aunt Boussom held up my wife’s hands, inspecting each nail to ensure they were even before brushing on the final coat of holy shine.

“If you look around,” she said casually, “you can always tell who comes from those old Wildborn couplings.”

She glanced meaningfully at her niece’s hips,“Larger hips. Breasts. Built for birthin’.”

Then she looked down at her own overflowing chest with a proud little bounce,“And no—I’m not Wildborn. Just blessed.”

Across the salon, Blossom spun my chair around to face the mirror. She clapped her hands and beamed,“Well? What do you think? I think you look very dashing. Would you like some attention to the lawn today?”

I blushed, rubbing the back of my neck,“No thank you, Blossom.”

I reached for my pouch,“How much do I owe you?”

Before she could answer, Aunt Boussom called out,“It’s on the house, dear.”

Still, I turned to Blossom with a wink and slipped her a Flame bead She held it like it was a prayer whispered directly from the Creator. Then I walked over to my wife, her nails still glistening in the light.

I took her hands in mine, kissed her knuckles gently, “Those look beautiful, darling. I love your hands.”

I leaned down and gave Aunt Boussom a kiss on the forehead. Her skin smelled like rose oil and hot honey.

“Thank you so much for your help, Aunty,” I said softly, “You wouldn’t happen to know where Dark Hollow Chapel is located?”

She chuckled, already reaching for a pen and a floral notepad,“Of course, dear.”

She scribbled with the fluid motion of someone who knew the roads like family trees, “You’ll find it just this side of Dark Hollow’s town limits. Oh, and make sure you stop in at Wither Hollow and say hello to Aunty Tulip at the Lady’s Garden Inn.”

“We will,” I promised, tucking the note into my pouch.

I offered Itza my arm and together we stepped out into the sunlight, her new nails gleaming like armor.

“Well,” I said, guiding her down the walk, “let’s stop by the Cloister and return this book.”

I squeezed her hand,“We’ve got our lead. Then we go home, say hey to our girls… and pack.”

We arrived at the house only to be mobbed by our two girls.

Our youngest, Hayelle, came running up a large bug in a jar, “Deddy! Deddy! I caught a friend! I’m naming him, Buggy.”

“Hey my loves,” I laughed snatching her up and carted her inside. Parla grabbed our work satchels and carried them inside for us.

“School was good,” Parla said as she set our bags down and stepped over to the stove to give supper a gentle stir, “The Sisters said we’ll be having our Whisper and Prayer exams in the next few days.”

Across the floor, Hayelle grunted as she dragged over her battered bug identification book—“Crawly Creatures of the Grove” by Elden the Druid.

She plopped it in my lap and pointed to a beetle with cartoonishly large horns.

“That’s the one!” she beamed.

Soon, the older girls set the table: a steaming meat pie, mashed potatoes whipped just right, and a pitcher of sweet tea still sweating from the chill.

We gathered around. I took Itza’s right hand in my left and reached across the table for Parla’s.

We made a circle with joined hands—the tradition passed down from the Old Missionaries, a symbol of being united in the desire to serve the Creator. Hayelle, trying her best to copy us, bowed her head instead—her fingers still stained with garden dirt.

I closed my eyes and spoke the words that had lit our home for generations, “Creator, thank you for the bounty of your blessings. May this food become the light inside us That allows us to be the light for the world. Amen.”

After supper, I sat with Hayelle by the hearth. She set the jar carefully between us, her captured bug nestled in a few twigs and a piece of lettuce.

“I need to find him a wife,” she said staring at the insect.

I smiled, flipping pages in the bug book beside her,“Do you think they’d like living in a jar with babies?”

We searched for matching horns and wing marks while across the room, Itza and Parla stood at the sink washing dishes together.

Izzy’s eyes drifted to the kitchen calendar, pinned just above the bread shelf. She noticed the row of red X’s marked in ink. Quiet days of self-tracking. A mother notices.

“Your days going good, darling?” Izzy asked softly, rinsing a plate,“How’re you feeling?”

Parla shifted, face flushing just a little. She huffed,“Good… I guess. I’m tender. I had a bead but…”

She looked down,“It didn’t glow or anything.”

Izzy turned off the tap and reached over, wrapping Parla in a warm towel-damp hug.

“That’s good, love,” she whispered. “That shows how strong of a young woman you are.”

Parla frowned,“But it wasn’t glowing. And it HURT coming out.”

Izzy nodded, voice full of soft understanding,“I know. It does, the first few years. It’s new. Raw.”

She brushed a curl from Parla’s cheek,“And the glow will come. Especially after you’re bonded.”

Izzy kissed her temple gently,“Maybe after everyone’s in bed… you can show me the bead. We’ll talk. Just us, okay?”

Parla nodded, quiet and comforted,“Okay, Mama.”

The lights were dimmed. Hayelle lay asleep in her little bed down the hall, murmuring softly about beetles and bark and wings.

I sat in my old leather chair, sorting through a stack of bills and tithe slips, pretending the numbers didn’t bother me.

Across the room, Izzy and Parla curled together on the couch, the lamplight casting soft golden hues on their cheeks.

Parla opened a small pouch and spilled six beads into her hand—colors shifting from clear to cloudy to bright red.

She frowned a little.

“Why do they change?” she asked. “From day to day… or month to month?”

Izzy took a sip of her tea, then reached for a pale one, holding it up to the light and smiled.

“They change,” she said gently, “because you change.”
She placed the bead back into Parla’s hand,“Are you yearning? Are you lonely? Do you feel whole, or restless, or like your skin doesn’t quite fit that day?”

Izzy picked up a dull red one, heavier than the rest,“And they also—ugly truth and all—reflect the flow.”

She gave Parla a sideways glance, half-smile, full of knowing,“Our essence is in our blood, after all.”

She sipped again,“How are your new cycle wear doing?”

Parla shifted, tucking her legs under her, eyes down at the beads.

“They’re… a little thick,” she muttered,“And I don’t feel pretty in them. At all.”

She glanced up, hopeful,“Mama, when are you gonna get me that Velessa Shadow Maiden set with the lace essence catcher?

I’ve really been wanting it. All the other girls have it.”

From my chair, I choked. Itza burst into laughter, leaned in and kissed Parla’s temple while gathering the beads back into her pouch,“We’ll see, baby. Take care of your sister while we’re gone… and then we’ll see.”

Parla rolled her eyes, but she smiled—content, loved, and heard. She rose from the couch and headed toward her room, already humming softly under her breath. The door clicked shut behind Parla.

Izzy waited a beat. Then she turned, sauntered toward me with that familiar fire in her step. She brushed my papers aside like they were leaves in the wind and straddled my lap, eyes locked to mine. Her voice dropped to a low, teasing murmur.

“Now… are you going to pray with me before this journey or what?”

Book of Saint Fernweh, Domestic Codex 5:9
“A woman’s blood must be hidden, her bead tithed in silence. Let not her longing lead her into vanity. A true daughter is known by her modesty, And by her trust in the Church to name her beauty in time.”