Flight Rising Enjoyer

Three had been hatchlings, exploring the church after dark. Five in, two out.

The fourth was the graveskeeper.

The fifth a member of the concerned towns folk that had been trying to investigate.

After that, they left the church alone. It’s a small town, stand on one end and you can see the other. The type of town Prez had a bit of a soft spot for even if he could never leave the bustling city.

So here he is.

The door lets out a long creak as he makes his way inside. It’s dusty but otherwise well cared for, the grave keeper no doubt having done her job well. Still, with no care taker, all that is left for light are his lantern and the last rays of sun that are fleeting.

It’s also oddly warm. It’s not an exceptionally cold night but with a building this old there should be a draft or two. Instead Frez finds himself removing his coat.

He walks the exact path the hatchlings described to him earlier today, when Her light was still high in the sky. They had all walked in as a group, egging each other on and, in turns, daring each other to go further and further. They’d tried to be quiet as the church’s caretaker was still around back then which meant even with them all giving hushed giggles, they only noticed when five became three. The trio called out for their friends, no longer caring if they got caught, only to look at each other and see three had become two.

Despite the town's best efforts the following day, no hatchlings were found.

He keeps his head on a swivel. Though he has to stop to remove another layer, the church continues to get warmer as he gets farther. It’s odd, from the outside he feels like there shouldn't be enough room for this many rooms, this long a hallway, this many stairs that never seem to end.

When he has the time, he’ll have to measure the outside versus the inside. His time as a detective with missing persons cases and buildings this old taught him to not miss a single cubby - especially with things as small as hatchlings.

He’s glad he’s not a tundra, instead Her perfect creation of pearlcatcher, as he enters the main ceremony room. The heat reminds him of days where he thinks the Flamecaller has taken Her spot in the sky, Her joining Tidelord to make him the most miserable in humidity.

The ceilings reach high, he’ll have to inspect them when there’s more light. Walking down the aisle, he starts his first sweep, looking for anything out of place.

Then the growling starts.

Whipping around, his lantern illuminates a form dropping to the ground from the rafters. It is not a graceful landing, a heavy thud fills what should be Her sacred space, as something that shouldn’t be here lifts its head to snarl.

Its flesh is half rotting and half stone, large broken wings flare out. A singular solitary eye stares Frez down with so much hatred and rage and anger that he can’t believe it can all be contained by the one.

He runs. His heart beat reverberates throughout his whole body: it’s in his ears, in his fingertips, rattling in his chest. He can hear the thing giving chase.

Taking a corner too fast, he tumbles. It’s here that he realizes it’s not his heart beat. Laying sprawled on the floor, he can feel the ground pulse, the warmth he’s felt this whole time now feeling so hot it burns.

His only saving grace is the thing following him also comes too fast, launching past him and slamming into the wall.

Not wasting a second, he bolts. He doesn’t know if the hot air blown down his neck is just from the church (not a church, nothing of Her’s is here) or if the thing is just that close. He doesn’t look, he instead begs Lightweaver to guide him out.

The joy and relief of the outside air is shattered by him once again tumbling, this time no fault of his own, as the previously dry stairs now well with something slick. He smells copper.

Instead of fighting it, wasting time he doesn’t have, he uses it to slide down the remaining steps and continues running. He doesn’t stop until he’s well off the premises and into town, where he left his wagon. Finally looking behind him, he sees no monster.

He’s a detective, not whatever would deal with this, so he loads back up his wagon. This is where one of the townsfolk find him.

“What in the eleven happened to you?”

“Get a priest or some fighters, I can’t help you with that thing,” he can only imagine it’s blasted and cursed shadow magic, though the smell filling his nose would not surprise him to hear of Plaguebringer. He banishes the thoughts from his mind, not wanting to think of it, but he knows his curiosity will turn it over later. “I’m leaving.”

He wants nothing to do with something that would dare to reside directly in Her territory, in Her place of worship. Ignoring the town member’s inquiries, his soft spot only extending so far, he heads out.

It is only a minute on the beaten country road, when he reaches in his pouch to hold his pearl for comfort, that he realizes it isn’t his.

It’s misshapen, where his is perfectly round. It’s dull, where his is a sharp shine. It holds nothing familiar, while the feeling of his is engraved into Frez’s very being. It’s not his.