Chapter Text
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BEAUREGARD LIONETT
Statement of Reverend Draco Kumas, regarding… uh, an unusual churchgoer. Audio recording by Beauregard Lionett, head archivist of the Cobalt Institute, Zadash. Statement begins.
BEAUREGARD LIONETT (STATEMENT)
I have always considered myself a non-judgemental person. I know leading with that might give the wrong impression, but I just want to give context because I know there are some priests of my religion who give the Platinum Dragon a… sub-optimal reputation, and I just don’t want to contribute to that. I really do try my best to keep an open mind and be there for my people! But this… woman, she just…
I digress. I suppose I’m not used to being on this side of the confession panel, ha ha.
It’s difficult for me to start from the beginning of this story. Every time I try to trace the incidents back, I remember another one, and I wonder, “Was that her? Was that when it started?”. The more time passes, the more I think that maybe she’s been following me all my life. It’s hard to tell who’s real anymore.
I think it started with the old woman. I had seen her in the pews before, though I think she was a relatively new attendee to my church. By all accounts, she seemed normal; I didn’t even notice when she started attending, I just realised one day that she was there, and that I didn’t know her name. It wasn’t a small town, but it was small enough that I recognised the faces of all my regulars.
I only spoke to her once. It was after a sermon, as everyone was leaving, and I noticed her lingering in her seat. I decided now was a good opportunity to introduce myself, to get her name and ask about what brought her to the church. It’s part of my job, being friendly. As I approached, I noticed she seemed to be talking to someone. That’s the first time I thought there was anything odd about her, because by now the two of us were definitely alone in the temple. I told myself that it wasn’t unusual for someone of her age to be a bit odd, and I’d certainly met stranger individuals during my long career as a member of the clergy. Indeed, for the entire interaction she really didn’t strike me as too bizarre.
Her eyes were odd, I remember noticing. They were such a deep, rich blue that they were nearly purple, and I wondered privately if she wore contact lenses. When she introduced herself as “Sapphire”, I made a joke about how much it suited her, and she smiled so widely that her face seemed to change shape, like putty. She said thank you, and that her “mama” had chosen it for that very reason. That was the other odd thing: her accent. I have nothing against foreigners, of course; it just stood out to me. It was very thick, and sounded Slavic, though I’ve never been an expert at accents. It just sounded… I can’t explain it, but it somehow seemed like it wasn’t her voice. It was as though her accent was too thick to belong to a real person, rather than a cartoon character. That’s the only way I can explain it.
I thought nothing of it at the time, of course. What reason did she have to fake her voice?
The interaction was short, and I can’t remember much of it—I had no reason to commit it to memory, after all. One part that does stand out to me, though, is the end.
“May the Platinum Dragon be with you, my child,” I told her. It was polite. I said it to everyone.
She giggled, and said in return, “Blessings be with you, my child.”
It was a small thing, but I still remember it. It seemed deliberate, the omission of the Platinum Dragon’s name, but why would she attend my sermons if she didn’t believe? And why would she refer to me as her child, when I was the priest? I dismissed it as a poor attempt at a joke, and simply waved goodbye as she left.
Things started changing soon after. Or maybe it had already been happening, and it was only then that I started noticing. It wasn’t anything big, not at first. I think it started with the kneelers. That’s what they’re called, those little rectangular cushions you sometimes see in front of the pews, with the beautiful embroidered designs. Many of ours were made locally, by talented members of our church, so the designs varied a lot: most were of the Platinum Dragon and variations of our symbol, but some were depictions of the temple itself, or the town crest, or simple patterns. Many weren’t related to religion at all. Even so, I thought the doorways were strange.
They were in a variety of styles and colours, but the design was consistent: an arch or open doorway, with a path passing through it, stretching out into the distance until it faded to a single point. Some of them were quite beautiful, I will admit, and the symbol had an inexplicable way of drawing the eye. It was just the fact that there were so many of them that was bizarre. The only time I brought it up to my assistant, though, all I got in return was a look of confusion. At the time, I saw no reason to press the subject, and dismissed it as a strange but harmless joke.
Soon enough, the second woman came.
She was a younger lady, perhaps in her twenties or thirties, with dark hair and deep blue eyes. She introduced herself as Skye, and told me how excited she was to be attending my church. I asked her what had brought her here, and she smiled and said,
“Your statue.”
I chuckled politely. There was indeed a marble statue of the Platinum Dragon in our churchyard, and it drew compliments from the religious and non-religious alike. I thanked her, and said that I hoped her continued attendance meant that our speeches had struck a chord with her. She said that yes! the church was a wonderful place, and she wanted to “make it her own”. I thought it was odd phrasing, but I could tell English wasn’t her first language, so I dismissed it. She had a thick accent, something Eastern European.
I’m sure that you’re starting to see the pattern, but you have to understand that when I was experiencing this, there was no reason to think there was anything that connected these two women or the patterns on the kneelers. It was just a series of odd, unconnected events, not consequential enough to draw scrutiny. It wasn’t until after this that things became impossible to ignore.
It was the windows next. They were stained glass, and used to show depictions of the Platinum Dragon and scenes from our holy scriptures. Until one day, I turned up and every single one had been replaced. Now, each window showed a lone figure in a green cloak. The hood was pulled low over their face, so that everything beneath was cast in opaque shadow. I can’t explain it, but somehow I could tell they were smiling.
Of course, I was shaken. I demanded to know who had done this, and what had happened to the other windows. They all said, confused and concerned, that they had always looked like this, and was I feeling okay? I told them no, that I remembered what had been there before and that this certainly wasn’t it! Then someone asked me to describe what they were supposed to look like, and I… I couldn’t. I knew this was a temple to the Platinum Dragon, and that it must’ve been decorated accordingly, but when pressed for details, my mind went blank. When I tried to picture the stained glass, all that came up was that faceless figure in the green cloak.
I knew it had changed. I know it did. But my memory is telling me something different.
What could I have done? Everyone around me was so calm, so certain that everything was as it should be, that I just… allowed it to happen. I tried my best to continue about my duties as normal, under the gaze of that invisible, grinning face . I didn’t want them to think my age was getting to me. That job was all I had.
Things began to happen more quickly after that. I began to see those violet eyes in the audience, even in the faces of people I’d known for years. People I thought I’d known for years. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember their names.
I don’t remember what the temple looked like before. I know, though, I know that the walls aren’t supposed to be painted in swirls of neon, that the path to the door didn’t always wind in patterns that writhed beneath your feet, that the altar didn’t bear the shape of that damned archway. It couldn’t have. Could it? But nobody else seemed to notice, and all attempts to convince them were met with that same… confused concern.
Last week, the statue changed. I came to the temple for my morning sermon, and on that pedestal stood the stone likeness of the cloaked figure. It was painted in bright colours, and locks of orange hair stuck out of its hood, obscuring the face from all angles. One hand was held up as if beckoning, and the other swept to the side, showing me into the temple. I didn’t know what to do. I followed the path.
The pews were already full for the morning sermon, even though I knew it didn’t start for at least an hour yet. I felt their gazes on me as I walked up the aisle. Their faces were all familiar, but I couldn’t recognise any of them.
Someone else was stood at my lectern. This one was a young woman with freckles and blue hair, and those same eyes. She wore green priest’s robes. I asked her why she was here. She said she was here to give a sermon. I told her, hesitantly, that I usually gave the morning sermon. She tilted her head, eyebrows furrowed in concern, and asked who I was.
“I’m the priest,” I told her.
She seemed surprised. So genuinely surprised. “Are you sure?” she asked me, in the same way you’d speak to a grandparent who isn’t all there anymore.
I looked back at my audience, and was met with a sea of magenta eyes. Some were muttering to each other, confused and disgruntled. I couldn’t hear the words, but I knew what they were saying.
I turned back to the woman, and she gave me a sympathetic smile. She asked me if I’d like to sit down. I told her that I’d like to go home. She nodded understandingly and bowed to me, touching the symbol of the archway at her hip.
“May the Traveller guide you,” she said.
I couldn’t bring myself to say anything in return. Some of the people watched me as I left, but most payed me no attention at all; the woman had started speaking now. I didn’t dare listen.
I haven’t been back to the temple since. What would I say? What could I say, without seeming like I’d lost my senses?
I’m sorry, I’m rambling again. I know that this is just an archive and you’re probably not equipped to help in matters like this, but please, if there’s anything you can do…
I’m going to go back there, I think. I don’t know what I’ll do when I get there, but I can’t just stay away. I don’t know what happened to the people I knew, and I don’t think I can live the rest of my life not knowing. I suppose I’ll get back to you if I learn anything.
BEAUREGARD LIONETT
Statement ends.
Okay, um. Wow. I, uhh…
[SIGH]
[PAPERS SHUFFLING]
Uh, looks like there’s a couple things here. This statement was given like a year ago, so there’s already been some follow-up done. We lost contact with Mr. Kumas after he gave his statement, but he did give us an address to visit. Apparently someone checked it out after his statement was first filed, and found that the only temple in the area was pretty old, and according to locals had been abandoned for years. They asked about Draco Kumas, but apparently nobody recognised the name.
[CHAIR CREAKING]
I did some digging myself. No relevant newspaper headlines about the town, still nobody who knew the statement-giver… but! I did check out the temple. It looked like a pretty normal church of the Platinum Dragon from what I could tell, just rundown and a little overgrown. Not ancient, but it looked like it hadn’t been used in a year or two. There was a statue, like the guy said, except completely plastered in graffiti. Lotta dicks. Probably not supernatural, though they were pretty realistic. Maybe I should get Astrid to look into that.
[CHAIR LEGS HIT THE FLOOR]
I hate to say it, but this story really just sounds like delusions of a sad, lonely old man. I wouldn’t even bother recording it, if I didn’t find this under one of the church pews.
[FABRIC RUSTLING]
[METAL CLATTERS AGAINST THE TABLE]
I haven’t turned it in to artefact storage yet. It’s not supernatural, but they’ll probably want to keep it anyway. Looks like it was handmade out of bent bits of metal and wire. It’s kinda crude, but if you know what it’s supposed to be you can see it: an archway with a path going through the middle. About the size of my hand.
Conclusions? I don’t know. Either this guy’s temple got taken over by a weird cult, or he made some shit up to cope with no one coming to church anymore, or he just got old and snapped, or… I don’t know. It’s weird, either way, so I guess it belongs here. He’s probably dead now anyway, so it’s not like he needs closure.
…I hope it’s real, though. Poor guy was so scared of people thinking he’s crazy.
End recording.
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