The Taint
The Initiate’s Warning: A Primer for the Aspiring Priest
The chapel is silent, save for the distant hum of a wind slipping through the old stone cracks. Faint light filters through stained glass, painting the floor with fractured scenes of saints and angels. High Priest Vallis stands before you, his hands resting on the carved oak lectern. His expression is neither warm nor kind, but solemn, as though he bears the weight of centuries on his shoulders.
He begins, his voice steady and deep, as if carrying a truth etched in the very bones of the world:
“Blessed are we, who call upon the divine. Who carry the whispers of gods on our tongues, the grace of the heavens in our hands. But let me be clear: to walk this path is not a privilege. It is a burden. A fire that burns within us. And if you are not careful, child, that fire will consume you.”
He steps closer, his heavy robes swaying with his movements.
“You believe that prayer is pure. That blessings flow without cost. That the gods look down upon us with infinite favor. But no favor is infinite. No grace comes freely. The divine is not without its limits, nor without its mysteries. There is a weight to what we do—a strain on the soul.”
He folds his hands, gazing down at you.
“Let me tell you what they do not write in the holy texts. The gods are watchful, yes. Merciful, yes. But they are not unyielding. Every prayer you offer, every miracle you invoke, every curse you hurl in the name of righteousness... it leaves its mark. Not just on the world. On you.”
He pauses, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“At first, you will feel it as a heaviness in your chest, a shadow lingering at the edge of your thoughts. Your hands will tremble after invoking their power, your dreams will grow... strange. You will wonder if it is fatigue, the toil of devotion. But no. It is something else.”
Vallis straightens, his tone sharpening.
“The divine does not dwell solely in light. It touches the edges of darkness. It reaches into the unknown. And when you call upon it, you open a door. Not every door closes cleanly. Not every door should have been opened in the first place.”
He steps closer, his eyes boring into yours.
“I knew a priest once. A good man. Devout. He spent his days healing the sick, guiding the lost, casting out those things that have no place in the sight of the gods. But he grew bold. He called upon the heavens too often, too deeply. He thought himself invincible, so certain was he in his faith. And then one day, he collapsed in the middle of a sermon.”
Vallis’s voice lowers, carrying a weight that chills the room.
“We tried to rouse him. But he screamed. Not words, not pleas, but a sound that echoed through the very stones of the temple. And then he was gone. Not dead. Gone. His robes lay empty on the floor, the air thick with a presence I will never forget. It is as though the gods had plucked him from existence, like a stone cast into a bottomless well.”
He lets the silence hang, his expression unreadable.
“You may call it a test of faith. You may call it the cost of arrogance. But I call it... the burden of power. The divine, child, is not a tool. It is not a gift. It is a weight. Every prayer, every blessing, every miracle you invoke carries a toll. And if you are not careful, that toll will outstrip even the strongest faith.”
He turns back to the lectern, resting his hands on its edges.
“Understand this: the gods listen. Always. But they are not indulgent parents. They are not kind. And they will not save you from your own folly. Use their power sparingly, reverently. For the day may come when you invoke their name... and find only silence.”
He looks at you one final time, his voice now a quiet murmur.
“Now, prepare your ritual candles. We will begin the rites. And may you never learn the truth of my words firsthand.”