A single lamppost with a yellowed flickering bulb illuminated the Churchyard sign against the bleak nightscape of Torn. Away from the clash and din of the market and the cries of commerce of the booths of the bazaars Bronne found himself weary and uncharacteristically contemplative in the relative quiet of the Northside churchyard.
"Church," Bronne nearly snorted the word, muttering to himself as the aged bulb feebly clawed at the darkness. "All sinners welcome" Bronne read the sign aloud in a derisive tone, but unknowingly took a step closer toward the enterence feeling a curiosity of what was behind those closed double doors. Absolution? Bronne doubted it--detested it actually. "Why should shit-stains who cause so much grief be absoluted?" His mind raced to put distance between those shit-stains and the memory of the man he bludgeoned nearly to death today because George slipped him a few bills and gave him the moral authority. He took another step toward the doors, and another; the impact of the ground on his heels reminiscent of the shocks that reverberated up his arm as his hammer fell across his victim's body. Thud. Thud...
The church looked no more impressive from within than it did from the outside. The preacher looked up with interest upon the new-comer's arrival and hastened through his invisible congregation to retrieve a battered stainless steel box before regaining his poise and turning with a practiced smile. "Welcome to Tarn's only officially recognized church. We're non-denominational, but believe there are some universal languages... And truths." He smiled that practiced smile again and presented the box he was holding. The lid looked to have been pried open and bent back into shape along with scratches, dents, and sundry other abuses. Along the top was a thin slot. Bronne fingered through his pants pocket for the blood money George gave him. The small denominations were on the outside of his modest bankroll, but he had to work to separate it from the rest without taking it out of his pocket and flashing the preacher all his cash.
As Bronne rifled through his pocket the excitement in the Preacher's eyes mounted and his smile became more genuine in anticipation of the donation, but the look plastered once Bronne produced a lowly $100 note crumpling it awkwardly into the slot. "You're welcome here." the preacher said flatly turning to replace the donation box across the room away from the door where thieves might be tempted to poach it. Bronne's mind read the preacher's disappointment and began wondering what an average donation looked like... Just how much was in that box? The preacher, seeming to guess his thoughts, continued "We don't have a lot to offer. Most of my congregation is from the same... Denomination" He upraised and rattled the donation box matter-of-factly "that you are." The preacher, seeing Bronne had not come to redeem him, redirected his attention to tomorrow's sermon. Maybe someone will hear it this time. Maybe if he says it enough he'll come to believe it himself.
Bronne, left to himself finely, kneels down to Pray to the one being who could forgive him all the bad he's done and in whose light and embrace he once knew happiness... With a few nasty words to God on the side he begins confession to his mother.
A single lamppost with a yellowed flickering bulb illuminated the Churchyard sign against the bleak nightscape of Torn. Away from the clash and din of the market and the cries of commerce of the booths of the bazaars Bronne found himself weary and uncharacteristically contemplative in the relative quiet of the Northside churchyard.
"Church," Bronne nearly snorted the word, muttering to himself as the aged bulb feebly clawed at the darkness. "All sinners welcome" Bronne read the sign aloud in a derisive tone, but unknowingly took a step closer toward the enterence feeling a curiosity of what was behind those closed double doors. Absolution? Bronne doubted it--detested it actually. "Why should shit-stains who cause so much grief be absoluted?" His mind raced to put distance between those shit-stains and the memory of the man he bludgeoned nearly to death today because George slipped him a few bills and gave him the moral authority. He took another step toward the doors, and another; the impact of the ground on his heels reminiscent of the shocks that reverberated up his arm as his hammer fell across his victim's body. Thud. Thud...
The church looked no more impressive from within than it did from the outside. The preacher looked up with interest upon the new-comer's arrival and hastened through his invisible congregation to retrieve a battered stainless steel box before regaining his poise and turning with a practiced smile. "Welcome to Tarn's only officially recognized church. We're non-denominational, but believe there are some universal languages... And truths." He smiled that practiced smile again and presented the box he was holding. The lid looked to have been pried open and bent back into shape along with scratches, dents, and sundry other abuses. Along the top was a thin slot. Bronne fingered through his pants pocket for the blood money George gave him. The small denominations were on the outside of his modest bankroll, but he had to work to separate it from the rest without taking it out of his pocket and flashing the preacher all his cash.
As Bronne rifled through his pocket the excitement in the Preacher's eyes mounted and his smile became more genuine in anticipation of the donation, but the look plastered once Bronne produced a lowly $100 note crumpling it awkwardly into the slot. "You're welcome here." the preacher said flatly turning to replace the donation box across the room away from the door where thieves might be tempted to poach it. Bronne's mind read the preacher's disappointment and began wondering what an average donation looked like... Just how much was in that box? The preacher, seeming to guess his thoughts, continued "We don't have a lot to offer. Most of my congregation is from the same... Denomination" He upraised and rattled the donation box matter-of-factly "that you are." The preacher, seeing Bronne had not come to redeem him, redirected his attention to tomorrow's sermon. Maybe someone will hear it this time. Maybe if he says it enough he'll come to believe it himself.
Bronne, left to himself finely, kneels down to Pray to the one being who could forgive him all the bad he's done and in whose light and embrace he once knew happiness... With a few nasty words to God on the side he begins confession to his mother.