Post by snapper on Oct 30, 2009 11:35:05 GMT -5
From the doorway of the old cathedral one might here his whispers. Kneeling before the image of Christ, prayer beads in his hand, rotating around around, latin words graced the hall of God.
Over and over again he repeated the prayers. For minutes, for hours. Then finally he ended with a single "Amen," his hands forming the sign of the cross just before he stood upright. Slowly he turned, grasping his weapons in each hand. "Lor'd I thank ye." So it was that the old man unsheathed his weapons and placed the blades into the holy waters that filtered into the fine basins nearest the alter. "I by the power of thine lord bless these weapons, that they may cut down the fallen, and send them to our Lord, tha' they shalt be blades o'mercy upon the immortal soul." His beliefs in God may have been unorthodox, but do not tell him that. While in truth, the werebeast knew blessing the weapons was pointless in a literal sense, however, it was how he was brought up, as a faithful servant of God.
He approached the candles he had lit for his fallen comrades, and with a steady hand he crossed his chest once more. Once that action was complete, he put them out, one by one. "My dear friends, I wish I could made the journey. Ye' be Saints, ye the Lord's cho'sen. Peace be with you." This had become his ritual. Each and every week twice a week he made his way here to the old church. Devout in his practice, he often found himself in the confessional. While no one else was there, he made peace with God on high. Each time he would recount his sins and beg for forgiveness. For each life he took, he knew he would never pass the gates into heaven, nor would he stand beside his fallen friends, nor his family, nor any of the blessed souls. Truth be told, it seemed he was already in hell, already being punished.
"Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terrae, et in Iesum Christum, Filium Eius unicum, Dominum nostrum, qui conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto, natus ex Maria Virgine, passus sub Pontio Pilato, crucifixus, mortuus, et sepultus, descendit ad ínferos, tertia die resurrexit a mortuis, ascendit ad caelos, sedet ad dexteram Patris omnipotentis, inde venturus est iudicare vivos et mortuos. Credo in Spiritum Sanctum, sanctam Ecclesiam catholicam, sanctorum communionem, remissionem peccatorum, carnis resurrectionem, vitam aeternam. Amen.
Pater noster, qui es in caelis: sanctificetur Nomen Tuum; adveniat Regnum Tuum; fiat voluntas Tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra. Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie; et dimitte nobis debita nostra, Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris; et ne nos inducas in tentationem; sed libera nos a Malo.
Áve María, grátia pléna, Dóminus técum. Benedícta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus frúctus véntris túi, Iésus. Sáncta María, Máter Déi, óra pro nóbis peccatóribus, nunc et in hóra mórtis nóstrae. Ámen."
Over and over again he repeated the prayers. For minutes, for hours. Then finally he ended with a single "Amen," his hands forming the sign of the cross just before he stood upright. Slowly he turned, grasping his weapons in each hand. "Lor'd I thank ye." So it was that the old man unsheathed his weapons and placed the blades into the holy waters that filtered into the fine basins nearest the alter. "I by the power of thine lord bless these weapons, that they may cut down the fallen, and send them to our Lord, tha' they shalt be blades o'mercy upon the immortal soul." His beliefs in God may have been unorthodox, but do not tell him that. While in truth, the werebeast knew blessing the weapons was pointless in a literal sense, however, it was how he was brought up, as a faithful servant of God.
He approached the candles he had lit for his fallen comrades, and with a steady hand he crossed his chest once more. Once that action was complete, he put them out, one by one. "My dear friends, I wish I could made the journey. Ye' be Saints, ye the Lord's cho'sen. Peace be with you." This had become his ritual. Each and every week twice a week he made his way here to the old church. Devout in his practice, he often found himself in the confessional. While no one else was there, he made peace with God on high. Each time he would recount his sins and beg for forgiveness. For each life he took, he knew he would never pass the gates into heaven, nor would he stand beside his fallen friends, nor his family, nor any of the blessed souls. Truth be told, it seemed he was already in hell, already being punished.