#kaworu 01

It was the Church of Onoma that had piqued Ayanami’s curiosity, bone-white and looming in presence. She had read about Onoma and its forebodingly familiar, two-pronged pantheon in the library of Spirale University earlier that morning, although the texts available were admittedly sparse. After some time prodding the half-awake librarian for answers the books could not provide, she was politely directed to a bus station near the campus which could deliver her to the Church’s front steps by lunch time – if she was fast.

With little else planned for the day and a burning curiosity that surprised even Ayanami, she found herself in Archimedes three hours later, dwarfed by the towering pillars and high-roofed buildings her history books had described. The Onoma was not easily missed. As the bus pulled away and she crossed the cobbled street towards the place of worship, Ayanami noticed the sun-bleached front doors were closed shut and a sombre choral hum was emanating from within. Reaching for the handle, a polite older man sitting on the stone steps of the cathedral made a quiet noise and shook his head.

“Church is in session miss. Come back in an hour and you can go inside.”

So, with little else to do but sit and wait, Ayanami wandered. Past the main square, along narrow side streets, and through thickets of brush and small flowers, it wasn’t long before she found the winding stone paths gave way to dirt and grass, the stucco walls replaced by tall and leafy trees. Something within her urged her to turn around, to cease her aimless wandering before she found herself lost with no recourse.

But something drew her further in, an unnatural influence urging her deeper and deeper along the wooded path until abruptly there was no more path to walk along. Ahead was a canyon brimming deceptively with flowers of all shapes and colours, captivating and cruel as they fanned out over great, jagged stones. Ayanami thought she recognized this place from her reading, a sort of sacrificial alter upon which the native Archimedians in the past would cast their bravest of offerings. One soul’s blood for mankind’s prosperity. That was a language she certainly understood.

Peering down into its depths, Ayanami regarded the canyon with a withering stare, reminded of the adventurers she had felt so scornful towards earlier that afternoon.