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“I will never turn to such heresy!”
Madeline Cookie stands in a vast Cathedral, as beautiful as it is eerie, as he amusedly ponders how best to dispatch the cult it seems to house.
The large chamber hosts rows and rows of pews, all facing the church’s altar upon which a cookie stands, preaching to the gathered flock. From his vantage point near the back of the room, the mysterious figure is backlit, but the vague silhouette of what seems to be a pair of wings sets him on edge.
Behind the bright altar, a huge curtain hangs elegantly, so large it almost looks like a wall. Eerily, the cloth seems to glow—or rather conceal something that glows. He stares at it hard, as though if he looks hard enough he’ll be able to see what lies on the other side. The rustling that accompanies the departure of the rows of followers depart in light chatter.
Menthol Cookie’s voice pierces the air sharply, as though it had been waiting for the sermon to end:
“Do not disgrace this sacred place with your ignorance. We have given you a most gracious opportunity to witness their eminence’s sermon, to redeem your soul, and yet you refuse. Since you have so adamantly rejected our offer, we cannot save you.”
A chill runs up Madeline Cookie’s spine at the conviction with which this cultist speaks, leaving no room for debate, certain that everything he says is perfect truth—the only truth.
“Take him to the dungeon,” Menthol Cookie beckons with his hand to a fellow practitioner, clad in white robes with golden detailing. A white hood and mask obscures her face, and the holes over her eyes are gaping voids of black. She grabs his shoulder roughly, then yanks both his arms behind his back. Despite her small stature, her grip is quite firm, and she holds him easily. He frowns, and a slight flicker of annoyance flits over him at the unexpected strength. This might be more challenging than he thought.
At a nod from the blue-haired cookie, she shoves him harshly towards a door near the exit of the large hall that he hadn’t noticed before.
“Wait.”
The new voice fills the room again with its syrupy resonance, sonorous and commanding. The three of them turn to see the sermonizer from before standing in the aisle. Madeline Cookie tenses, he hadn’t heard them approach.
Up close, there is something undeniably enthralling yet comforting in their presence. Their eyebrows twitch upwards in bemusement above the cloth concealing their eyes. Their lips press together, the corners twitching upwards ever so slightly. Yet they emanate a sense of calm, and despite his better judgement, he finds himself sinking into its quiet lull.
“Who might this be?” They incline their head towards him, but their words are for Menthol Cookie.
“A Paladin from the Crème Republic, Doughael. We found him sneaking around during the sermon. Sister Seltzer Cookie had the excellent idea to allow him to witness you speak, and yet he still abstains from following the Witches’ intended path.” He shakes his head sadly.
The angel’s face shifts—and though he cannot see their eyes, Madeline can feel the shift in their gaze, now full of pity.
“How regrettable. You poor soul,” they look back at Menthol Cookie, “It truly saddens me when cookies choose damnation,” they breathe a disappointed sigh, then turn, leveling their gaze back at the altar, and something close to determination smoothes over their visible features. “But I suppose it cannot be helped. If you are resolved to cast your insolence on the holy avatar, you must be dealt with.”
The cookie holding him shifts, no longer attempting to move him. Instead, she simply stands at attention, still clamping his hands forcefully behind his back. The longer the angel speaks, the more his unease grows. There is something scarily comforting in Doughael’s voice, a sort of way about them that entices those around them, that seems to say “I understand you, I know your pain and suffering. Let me help.” Their charismatic demeanor whispers to Madeline Cookie, making him want to just give in. Wait, no, he’s here to stop this cult, not join it!
Before him, Doughael begins to pace. They cock their head thoughtfully, facial expression shifting as though conversing with someone silently, though he couldn’t guess who.
Madeline Cookie’s eyes dart quickly around the room, his unease building.
This Cookie is insane—the threat they pose to the republic is much larger than he expected—perhaps reinforcements may be necessary.
“You are not worthy of joining the Whole Dough, even if it would show you the error of your ways, but we must show the witches we will not tolerate this poor treatment of the avatar…somehow you must repent.” The High Forkbearer bites their lip in thought.
“Your Eminence, we were in the middle of taking him to the dungeon, perhaps imprisonment would satisfy the Creators?” Menthol Cookie pushes his glasses back up his nose with practiced ease as he speaks.
They pause, musing, “No…imprisonment will not do, they require more…” with a decisive nod, their voice echoes in a resonant announcement to the empty church: “Tomorrow we will offer him to the Witches.”
They mean to kill him.
His heart drops.
Shit.
They really are insane!
He needs to get out. This is too big for him to take on by himself.
Doughael steps closer to Madeline Cookie, and he can feel the warm caress of their breath on his face. In a soft voice, they speak, “Don’t look so frightened, little Paladin. Truly, it’s much more merciful to go out this way. The real cruelty would be letting you suffer through a life that goes against what the Creators wanted.”
Their wing brushes his arm, feathery and light, and then they’re gone.
——————————
A warm cloth dabbing gently at his now bare arms draws Madeline Cookie to the waking world. As his eyes flutter open, he sees yet another disciple sitting beside him, also bearing a white mask. Long hair the color of dark cacao spills from her head, and she leans over him, carefully washing his bare skin, sweeping the cloth in an intricate pattern only she seems to know. If she sees him wake, she doesn’t show it, simply continues in a dutiful manner.
Blearily, his eyes dart around, searching for his blade—surely they would have taken it, but perhaps it is nearby. As his gaze sweeps quickly over his chest, he realizes something. His armor is gone, his cape no longer tied around his neck. Now he wears a plain, knee-length white robe, which loops over one shoulder.
A circlet is placed on his head, pulling his long blond hair back against his scalp. From it, an intricately carved charm in the shape of a star dangles, its four points stretching prominently across his forehead.
As his vision finally sharpens, he sees the thick ropes binding his feet. Another pile coils nearby, presumably for his arms.
He goes to lift his hand, to shove the Cultist away from him, to get up and find his sword, to escape—but the second his hand moves, she presses it back to the ground with ease. Her movements are graceful and almost reverential, and even restraining him, she shifts her grip carefully so as not to bruise his wrists.
He furrows his brow in confusion at her gentleness, why was she taking such care not to hurt him? Wasn’t he a prisoner? As though he’d posed the question aloud, she answers.
“You are an offering for the Witches. It is not my place to injure you, despite what I may wish. It would be disrespectful to the Witches to injure a gift for them.”
Before he can comment on that, several sets of footsteps draw closer, followed by a familiar voice.
“Sister Black Forest Cookie—is he ready?” Menthol Cookie looks on, mouth set in a hard line, foot tapping impatiently against the marbled floor.
“Yes, Brother Menthol Cookie,” she nods her head in deference, “Though he must be bound once again.” She slices the ropes around his feet.
Two more white robed practitioners step forward, heaving him to his feet, and one winds the rope around his midsection, securing his arms to his sides. Still, there is an air of caution, special care taken to prevent injuring him.
Then it sinks in:
He’s going to die.
He’s virtually defenseless against a throng of disciples, who clearly can match his own strength. And that’s not even to mention their leader.
There is no escaping this—one way or another, he will leave this church as a corpse.
The realization simply floats there, unwavering, and he finds himself feeling as though his consciousness might just float away. Untethered like a balloon, he walks between hooded figures down what he vaguely remembers to be the path back to the sanctuary, moving closer and closer to his looming demise.
——————————
The filtered rays of morning sunlight bear down on the altar, enveloping it in an eerie shroud. Upon it now sits a large pastry tray, intricate and beautiful, and perfectly sized to hold a cookie. Despite the early hour, the pews are filled with worshipers. The air is filled with the thrumming pulse of an ominous hymn that seems to resonate from the very room itself, not just its devoted inhabitants, though it streams from them too. Melodic notes float eerily from their mouths in a sung prayer.
The curtains behind the altar ripple slightly, in time with the chant, though there is something heavy and dreadful about the cloth’s movement now, as though whatever is concealed behind it is growing restless. The star that dangles over his forehead glints weakly in response.
A robed cookie firmly nudges him forward.
His unease grows with every step he takes down the pristine aisle, feet sinking ever so slightly into the intricacies of the detailed carpet. Behind him, he feels the presence of Menthol Cookie and several other practitioners. Their position behind makes it perfectly clear he will not be able to run. His mind whirls, flailing around in an attempt to make a plan, to find an escape. It jumps from one thing to the next, restless. About halfway to the altar it settles heavily, coming to the deafening realization that this is it. This will be the end to the short, brilliant, flame that has been his life.
He gulps, fingers twitching at his waist, reaching for a sword that isn’t there. The pristine tile of the altar greets his feet, and suddenly his mind descends into pure survival instinct.
He spins quickly to the left, his burly form knocking brazenly into one of his wardens, who gives a slight yelp of surprise as he starts back up the aisle. A grabbing hand sends him leaping to the left, nearly tripping into the pews in his attempt to dodge it. He barely has time to notice the lack of response in the seated devotees’ faces.
He spins out of the way of another grasping hand—
And right into another robed pair of waiting arms.
Menthol Cookie holds him tightly, but not quite hard enough to bruise. Madeline Cookie sucks in a breath as the flash of metal appears in his peripheral view. The weapon hovers there, the threat clear: Make this difficult, and you’ll only die sooner.
The procession continues forward, and somehow the most terrifying aspect of the situation is not his own impending death, but the air of calm in the room. Somehow, he thinks, it’s worse than if they’d grinned and roared in excitement. At least then he’d go out in a fiery blaze. But this? These cookies seem indifferent. They probably won’t even remember his death, or for that matter, him. To them, he is simply another sacrifice to please whatever demonic being they worship.
A flutter of wings signals Doughael’s descent to the altar, on which they land as gently as a feather. A tight lipped smile is all they offer him, its corners curling upward cruelly. He finds himself forced into a kneeling position before them, head bent in submission, and he feels the light pressure of their finger trace something across his forehead in a sticky substance, though he can only guess what.
His eyes flit once again to the large tray, and it dawns on him that perhaps it might be part of the ceremony.
His guess is confirmed by the flick of their wrist in its direction. At their command, he’s guided towards it. Doughael appears beside him.
“I truly wish that there was another way, but you’ve proven too difficult. At least this way your soul shall be at rest. Lie down, great Paladin, and greet your fate with open arms.”
At their voice, a sluggish feeling of calmness spreads through him, his mind finds itself wanting to please them, wanting to do exactly as they say, and so he lays down. He remains motionless as his escorts bind his legs once again, rendering him immobile. He doesn’t struggle as they retreat back down the aisle in a single file line to join the mass of onlookers. Doughael raises their pale wrists high above their head stretching outward in some sort of welcome, and it begins.
“Oh Godly Creators, oh Holy Avatar, we offer you this sacrifice!”
The curtains darken somehow, as though all the light and color has seeped out of them. A small part of Madeline Cookie reels in terror, but his befuddled mind presses out his worries with ease.
“Oh Almighty! We offer you this feast of dough! Come feed on the tainted jam of disbelievers and regain your strength and glory!”
The curtains move aside on its own accord, and therein waits a beautiful, wretched creature.
A massive form of feathers frames the pitch black face of the Avatar. Its eyes are closed, yet still he gets the feeling that it can see him as clearly as he can see it. The crown on its head resembles a five pronged fork, mirroring the smaller one held in Doughael’s hand. A star sits prominently on its forehead, and he sees his own star begin to gleam brightly in reaction to the creature's presence. At its arrival, the rows of practitioners breath out in wonder. Madeline Cookie shudders ever so slightly.
“May the Almighty decide his fate Beyond—”
From the avatar’s very dough sprouts white tendrils that he can’t help but think seem very similar to the limbs of a jellyfish, yet perfectly smooth, as though sculpted by the very Witches themselves. They reach towards him, gently wrap around him and lift him gloriously into the air, bringing his restrained form eye level with the ethereal being’s face.
“And may our beloved Holy Avatar satisfy its great hunger—”
Then the being’s face morphs, and terror lights his skin on fire. Its eyes open, murderous crescent moons that bore into him with hunger. Its mouth…it’s mouth is a nightmare. Its lips twist across its face in a blood chilling smile, but stringy bits of dough connect across the chasm that should be it’s mouth as it gazes down at the sacrifice. Despite the waves of calm still washing over him, Madeline Cookie begins to tremble under its malignant gaze.
“My flock, behold this beautiful sight, the tainted dough will be purified!”
And then he’s moving, so fast he barely realizes it. The Avatar’s sickening face looms closer and closer. His eyes slam shut in horror as he’s hurled headfirst towards the creature’s waiting mouth.
“Glory to the Godly Creators!”