[Location] White Tree - The Temple of Faith

[Wildcard]

WHITE TREE - THE TEMPLE

DESCRIPTION: Bearing ancient site and function, the White Tree is founded on stone ruins yet also on living faith. Here are the meek exonerated while the chaff and remorseless cast down into subservience and unyielding justice. Lead by Mac Mered, longstanding father and pious firebrand the flock of Frigid River have bordered their bold beliefs on intolerance. Most citizens take his bedside manner with a grain of salt, others find kindness behind the eyes of Father Mac and the madness of wisdom. Frequently of late rumors have spread of Inquisition and Church Agents converging and infiltrating this remote cityscape beneath the Temple under passage. Something has the invincible white light of Truth up in arms, beyond simple cults and the inevitable cleansing purge that be carried out cycle after cycle. The will of the lost is weak and must be lifted by those of tempered inner strength and conviction.. The outer courtyard of the temple consists of white leafed deciduous trees that hold their color year round. Within the inner ring of broken pillars and strident foundation is a deep sacrificial pit, sealed by interlocking granite steps and hallowed musty chambers. It`s grounds hold a large variety of fruit bearing plants and gardens during the short spring, summer and fall seasons.. while the spellbinding circle of statues, hewn blocks, stainless iconography, cauldrons and tall mainstay act as means of guidance and endurance during these times of harsh reality and merciless facet.

Services and Rites: Set Price weighed in Crowns and measured in Charity Cost varies according to choices made of free will Birth, Death, Marriage, Festivities, Exorcism, Confessions. Healing: Traditional Price varies upon Injury Church Services: Held every early Brightening and Darkening without fail. Holy Water - 60 Religious Text, Effigies and Talismans - Unique Sliding Scale

NPCs:

Father Mac Mered (Head Priest)

Secrets : Name: Ramses Mac Mered Race & Gender: Human Age: Eighty Six Physical Description, History & behavior: Mac Mered is a lithe bag of bones with a shortly trimmed beard, long pure white mass of hair and a thick gown of alabaster. He has a variety of holy symbols inked onto his neck and skull with vacant eyes that haunt the ethereal planes. The Holy Father is of fair height and straddles a gnarled cane of rosewood which is capped by the chipped folly of a unicorn`s horn. Rigid set and divinely inspired, the man has a long list of iconographic tattoos lining his body, while his entire set of teeth are capped in characterized silver. With heavy rounded prayer beads falling from his neck and waist, the man`s temperament skyrockets from long winded, to passive and insanely passionate. Some say his crazed fits are simply a cover for the true intelligence of an avid strategist, others see him as a pawn of Inquisition Agents whom fits the political tempo of the time. Whatever the case, Mac Mered will hold services every single brightening regardless of attendance or conflict. He is resolute and devoted to the path of the Holy Triance without fear. Skills: Healing Lvl 2 Whip Lvl 2 Horticulture Lvl 2 Thaumaturgy Lvl 4 Religious Lore and Knowledge Madness - Able to Speak with and See the Dead Items or Property Of Note: Silver Capped set of Teeth, Religious Instruments and Holy Books, Cat O`Nine Tails, Scepter of Faith (Cane - Unicorn Horn) Can this NPC be used by players in self-moderation or training situations?: No

Facts: Secrets : Distrinct: Rook`s Row - The Court (Eastern Quarter) Type of Location: Church Notability of Location: Common Knowledge Training/Employment Opportunities: Y Priest - Healing Endurance Horticulture Whip Can This Location Be Self Moderated?: No Credits: Wildcard

[Nevemiél]

TS: Tenth Brightening, Ioannes, Summer, Era XV (pf)

Nevemiél walked with the penitent's bowed head and vacant gaze into the courtyard of the temple, scattered with ruined masonry and time-decayed walls. His gait seemed unsure and his step plodding, yet behind the ostensible mask of pious piety, the amethystine eyes of the half-elf sometimes flitted with circumspect discretion about the temple grounds. Upon finding a suitably spot that might save his knees some discomfort, Nevemiél fell dramatically upon his knees and promptly made a show of silent, fervent prayer, opening his eyes now and then as if to plead with some invisible deity.

With incisive scrutiny and etching relevant details upon the slate of his memory, the thiefling was making a note of everything that might seem to be a security arrangement or a valuable object. Yes, the thiefling was casing the temple for some nightwork. Temples made a good target; most thieves chose to aim for commercial shops but few would tempt the wrath of the gods by stealing from their very temples. Hence, often making a burglary a most unexpected and unforeseen event for their stewards. Hence, eminently suitable for the very irreligious and largely conscience-free Nevemiél. Furthermore, donations, fees from services and sometimes, the odd rare artifact made robbing a temple a rather lucrative proposition. Provided of course, that it was a viable proposition in the first place...hence, the casing.

Nevemiél finished 'praying' and stood up. He shuffled forward and fishing out some crowns from his pants, proclaimed "Father, if I may make a donation to the blessed Church that it may carry on it's good works!" Yes sir, for its good works and for my good work too. I daresay five crowns is a pretty cheap price to pay to see where you collect and store your donations.

[Stargrace]

As Nevemiél looked around the temple's interior he would find there was not as much as perhaps one could have expected there to be to steal. Perhaps the priest kept his most prized possessions hidden from sinful eyes. For everyone knew in this city, if one wanted to display temptations then one would have to bolt them down or put faith in man or God. And even the Gods worker himself was not foolish enough for the latter choice, though he did know the sinners had chosen their own fate, they would pay for their crimes, they would burn for their sins. It was Father Mac Mered's duty to remind them of this fact in his daily mass.

What could be seen from inside the temples were many silver vases, though they looked like they would weigh more than they were truly worth. Silver candleholders with a beautiful yet unintelligible inscriptions could be viewed in every direction at the front of the temple. Paintings hung on the temple walls, each artwork was set in golden frames depicting either a pure scene as one would expect to see in the house of the Gods, to one of disturbing proportions as though drawn by judgement's hand itself. It would be hard to imagine anyone wanting to pay crown for these images, however, except for the religious or eccentrically mad fanatics of course. A religious text lay open on the stand where one could imagine the father standing during his time of preaching whilst his god-fearing followers gave him their undivided attention, if not for anything else, than for fear of their souls.

Was not Nevemiél worried for his soul? Did he not believe in the wrath of the Gods? Did he not think they would be watching him? And especially here in the holiest of the holy and the most sacred of all sacred places Rook's Row had to offer their civilians?

Dressed in his pristine white robe, Father Mac Mered turned his vacant eyes to the speaker and shuffled closer, with his cane in hand tapping its way across the floor, until he arrived at the half breed's side. His frail hand reached for his neatly trimmed beard that his withered and aged fingers combed through whilst his eyes contemplated the half Elf that seemed to see well beyond the mere physicality of the temple and the material form of his guest. He motioned with his hand and then took a seat in the pew beside him. It was at that moment an exquisite obsidian amulet came out of the clothes, spun on its fine gold chain to reveal itself to Nevemiél's sight.

"Serale my child. Yes donations are gratefully accepted. You will find the sealed box bolted down onto the table at the entrance. You can place your crowns in there, away from those prying eyes..." He gave a humourless smile. "What god you be praying to? What God holds the most grace in your youthful heart of hearts?" He paused, silver capped teeth flashed. "Is there anything I can do for you my child? The world is a place of heathens and sin. Do you wish to be given a merciful ear to cast out your wrongs to?" His milky eyes opened wide.

[S'Lon]

Imperos 15, Summer, Era XV

It was perhaps inevitable that his explorations of the town would lead him to this place in the end. Temples were places which he had avoided since his arrival on the Medonian continent, he'd never had any time for them and not needed their advice. This place though seemed unlike the temples that he'd found in the cities and like a moth to a flame he came there.

The gardens and trees, all seemed to reflect a truth which was closer to his own, something undefined as yet. He worshipped Her, surely this was a place where he could do so? A strange place, he spent time wandering the gardens and marvelling at the white leaved trees before sitting in their shade, closing his eyes and meditating on Her and why She had brought him to this place.

[Nevemiél]

Nevemiél fervently hoped his face did not sour perceptibly in faithful concord with his thoughts. Such awful, terrible words that he never expected to lapse from the sacred lips of a bound priest of the holy orders. "Sealed"! "Bolted down"! Truly. Awful. His slit-eyed survey of his surroundings had already revealed nothing that he cared to take; either the prospective loot was too easily identifiable with the temple or simply too heavy to swiftly evacuate. Risky loot which he would not care to chance in a strange city where the rogue had no reliable fence contacts. Though he supposed he might take a few candleholders for his trouble if it came down to it, those archaic inscriptions might make them worth a little more coin. But right now the best form of thieves' currency, cash, is kept in a sealed and immovable box with no easy access. Bah.

Truly, the half-elf cared not one whit for offending the gods. Ofttimes, he could scarcely swallow his disgust as he watched his Zinn'Sunn kin wallow in their mindless worship of Torek/Aslan. What did Torek care for their prayers, when had he ever answered a single one? And even if he should actually answer, Nevemiél had no respect for a god who would concern himself with the petty, mundane complaints of his seething masses. The likeliest deity that the rogue might be said to favor was Kalendryas and even that was more of an amused affinity with the mischievious ways of the Planetar than outright worship.

Still, it probably wouldn't do to tell this zealotish priest that he, Nevemiél preferred a heathen demi-god in his heart and the Aetherian Pantheon can feth themselves with a doggy poo stick. A conjured excuse was about to breach his guarded lips, the better to hurry himself away from this poor church, when his eyes espied the dangling amulet and the chain of rich, worked gold. Yes, YES. Now that is something like. The almost-said excuse promptly transmuted into a fit of coughing as the thiefling speedily but deliberately spun his next words in his mind. Study his words, he is trying to lure something out of me...somebody, something to persecute. Play on his unconscious suspicions, his biases, his blind fanaticism. Like all priests, he thrives on...yes, misery!

"Oh, Father! I am the most miserable of men! I humbly petition Ioannes in all his might for mercy and justice. Unholy reavers in the dress of soldiers, they razed my home, raped my sister, then killed her and my father. I escaped more dead than alive to Frigid River to beg the Emperor's justice. But the authorities, they said Black Shields uphold the realm and they would never harm the commonfolk. They said I must be a liar and chased me out with sticks. Turning around and chancing upon this sacred place, I came to pray for whatever the gods will avail me, justice or death in this cruel, cruel world." Nevemiél affected a heaving sob, studied Father Mac's neck with the hanging posture of a wretch who dared not look in his confessor's eyes. Actually, he was examining the priest's wrinkled neck for signs that the amulet was constantly worn; such a heavy chain must leave their impression on the flesh if worn day and night.