System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 210
“Faith has no form, no substance, yet it bears weight, like a soul.” The Witcher had a vague sense that this filled ruby was an extremely valuable resource.
But there was no time to dwell on it. Princess Adda, clad in white ceremonial robes, arrived at last. The High Priestess showed a flicker of surprise at the sudden appearance of the Witchers, but she had no time to attend to them. With a faint smile and a brief greeting, she went straight to the place reserved before the statue and began to preside over the morning rites.
Left with no better role, the Witchers stood behind the High Priestess alongside the knights, serving as guards for the moment.
The newly founded Church of Virtue held a ritual every morning in the Temple Quarter. It resembled the daily mass the Witcher remembered, though the steps were far less elaborate.
High Priestess Adda held the holy text and, together with the two girls at her side, intoned sacred words, recounting the name of the Lady of the Lake. The faithful below remained silent, listening, praying.
The two Witchers were no exception. During their time at the Temple of Melitele, Mother Nenneke had often forced them to pray each evening. They knew the proper decorum.
Then the High Priestess began to recite the doctrines of the scripture and posed questions on the teachings. The believers answered in turn. Most were from the lowest stratum of Vizima, beggars, the crippled, along with a smaller number of wealthy folk drawn from the Trade Quarter, all kneeling below, nearer the statue.
Adda stood tall, her bearing dignified and sacred, a faint golden glow flickering across her face.
With each question she cast out, magic stirred. Light spread outward from the priestess, washing over every believer present.
It was a divine gift from the Lady of the Lake. It transformed Adda’s once husky, low voice into something resonant and compelling. The faithful answered until their throats grew hoarse. A fervent, rising emotion began to take shape, and the sounds in the square swelled into noise and clamor.
Next, led by the High Priestess, they began to chant a hymn in praise of Lady Vivienne of the Lake. By then, the believers’ fervor had reached its peak, bursting forth into a soaring, resounding song.
“Praise the goddess, you who were sent to guide the repentant!”
“We heed your will, show us mercy, show us mercy!”
“Grant us your divine grace!”
Even the knights maintaining order at the edge could not help but join in, their lips moving in rhythm with the hypnotic cadence.
The scene stirred a memory in Roy, the bonfire of the Harvest Festival. That night, the crowd had been just as mad, the frenzy spreading until it filled everything. Almost no one could escape such an atmosphere.
Except the Witchers. They were not believers, yet even as onlookers, their hearts tightened.
If the High Priestess gave a single command, the hundred people in the square could become a mob in an instant.
In that moment, Roy suddenly understood Foltest’s concern.
After the hymn, the believers poured out all their emotion, then gradually returned to calm, smiles settling upon their faces. They formed orderly lines. At the front, priests in white robes and knights opened prepared barrels and distributed the Lady of the Lake’s grace, oat and rye bread, and meat broth.
The food was simple, but it tasted good. Steam rose thick with a rich aroma. Compared to it, the thin, watery charity meals at St. Lebioda’s Hospital seemed pitiful indeed.
Roy continued to scry between the believers and the statue.
As the faithful ate, they would, from time to time, gaze gratefully at the great statue of the Lady of the Lake. From their bodies drifted faint motes of light, flowing into the statue, replenishing what had been drained.
The goddess gave food. The people returned faith.
The sight stirred a thought in Roy’s mind. Vivienne, revered as a goddess, was like a shepherd. The priests were her sheepdogs, and the believers were the flock she kept.
She fed them grass to fill their bellies. They gave her wool and milk in return.
“And when these believers die, where do their souls go? Is there truly some ‘divine realm’?”
...
“Masters, you have come to Vizima and did not send word ahead? You deny me the chance to play host.” Adda approached with a bright smile. “The Church has grown to what it is today thanks in no small part to you.”
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