The Beginning of the Story that wouldn't End

Prologue

                The warnings had long since been prophesied from the trembling, pale lips  of sweat soaked prophets with glazed eyes, and harrowing shrieks as if their shocking words needed to be further punctuated with terror. These drug induced visions told of a great falling away, the turning of the minds and hearts of the people against the all powerful gods of the pantheon.  For a time, these prophesies were heeded, stirring up great revival among the people, drawing them to the gods by enticing them with pleasures far removed from the struggles of daily life.  The ears of the people had grown tired, leaving these warnings aside like work to be finished later, but now, time was short and the attention of the priests were being called back. 

                The truth was slowly being revealed, even now it was slowly pushing, pressing its way into the minds and hearts of those disillusioned by the absence of their gods.  The truth was gaining power, momentum, and something had to be done about the devout followers, worship-fully bowed at the feet, and petitioning the ears  of the cold gods and goddesses.  These patrons supplied the offerings that made the gods rich, and if their hearts were turned, the golden halls of the magnificent temples would stand empty and barren.

                For that very reason she stood, waiting to hear an answer from the stone lips of her mother goddess.  Something had to be done, the falling away had to be stopped. It was up to her to petition the mother goddess, she was the high priestess after all, and if the marble ears would hear nothing else, the goddess had to listen to her voice.  Daphne, high priestess of the temple of Corisande, she held the sharp blade close to the palm of her hand.  Her heart pounded as adrenaline and anticipation clashed in her system.  She stifled the scream that beat against her lips as she pressed the blade into the soft blade of her hand.  Hot pain climbed her arm, stretching its sharp fingers into her chest.  The knife clattered to the cobblestones at her feet.  She clasped her hands together and thrust them above her head.  Long, crimson rivers  snaked over her ivory skin.  She threw her head back and called on the goddess.  Her voice was shrill in the air.

                “My Lady, Corisande, mother goddess of the heavens!  I am your most faithful servant, Daphne of the Corisi.  I entreat you to hear my prayer, your name is being threatened, your power questioned, and this will not stand! Send us a sign, my Mother.  Show us the clear path that we may protect you.  Send me a sign!” Silence closed around her.  The snake trails of blood, twining their way down her arms had begun to dry and crack.  A gust of cold wind blew up around her.  Daphne opened her eyes, as if she expected to hear audible words from the goddess' stone lips.  They were quiet, closed.  Daphne bit hard on her bottom lip, and turned from the statue.  She held her head high, as if to speak to anyone who might be watching that she had heard the voice of the goddess.  Passing through a marble arch leading away from the pavilion, she paused at a shallow cleansing bowl to clean the blood from her arms.  The cut on the palm of her hand had been superficial, much to shallow for a sacrifice of any meaning. It was then the answer came to her carried on the sound of the waves beating the shore.  The cry came again squalling and desperate, a baby.  As the cry echoed through the pavilion, Daphne knelt again at Corisande's feet.

                “Forgive my unbelief.” She whispered to the silence.