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It is done by the shore, under cover of night's and winter's embrace. Freezing cold surf crashes on a rocky beach where the offering has been made, rolling ashore with the cadence of the waves. Its bulk is large, but not big enough to be a castoff calf from whaling ships.
Eight figures dressed in black clothes and rubber-lined waders rush into the knee-deep surf in spite of the cold, hurrying to the beached creature's side. Two carry torches by which the other six can see. Some grab the sea's offering by its rubbery fins, others stick gloved fingers deep within crescent-shaped gills, and together they haul it up out of the deep shore. Those not burdened with being a lightbearer instead wield long, gleaming knives. They take them to the milky flesh of the sea's offering and briny blood spills out around their ankles. Nine inches of tough flesh, bubbling fat, and ropy sinew gives way to a treasure stored within.
It is writhing when they cut it free from the host, dark tendrils lashing wildly. One of the robed figures is struck by the tendril and lets out a wailing, musical scream as it bores through his throat and begins to fork like a tree branch inside warm flesh, insinuating itself through his veins. The others are quick to cut the tentacle, then slit the victim's throat and cast him into the sea.
The glistening creature thrashes violently in its briny afterbirth as the remaining figures stuff its bulk into a wooden barrel and hammer the lid shut. The group quickly departs from the shore, soaked to the bone with frigid water.
The gutted hulk of a sea creature lays eviscerated on the shore, gradually collecting snow.
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Three Years Later...
Razmiran House of Medicine & Scientific Learning Embassy District, City of Almas
Andoran
Neth 18
4734 AR
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A suture slips effortlessly between layers of skin. The curved needle, guided by a skilled hand, laces up an abdominal injury fourteen inches across and twelve inches deep. The patient does not so much as flinch, for he has been dead for three days.
"...and that is an interrupted cruciate suture." Herald Eran Rysev of the Eighth Step says, standing beside the slab table upon which a medical cadaver rests, his distended belly sutured shut. Nine chirugeons in training stand in a semicircle around the table, watching the demonstration intently. Herald Rysev pulls off his elbow-length rubber gloves one at a time, laying them across the feet of the cadaver.
"Now, obviously if you're performing these miracles in a field triage tend the patient will be a bit more... lively." The Herald says, laughing behind his iron mask. "Alchemical sedatives and opiates are recommended, though compulsions are remarkably effective as well provided you have access to such magic."
The Herald walks in front of the slab, rolling down his long sleeves. He spies one of his Concomitants, shrouded in a gray robe, waiting by the door and quickly wraps up the lesson. "Which, I believe, is enough for one day. We'll be practicing suture forms next week, so please be sure to practice your patterns. That is all."
With a clap of his hands the Herald dismisses his students, who file out of the chamber. The gray-robed priest waits for them to leave before moving to the Herald's side.
"We are ready for you." The iron-masked priest quietly says. Herald Rysev acknowledges him only with a curt nod, then follows his Concomitant out and into the hall. They quickly transition from the public-facing corridors of the converted cathedral through locked iron doors to the wings of the building dedicated only to the Faithful. Already, Rysev can hear the sound of a low, sustained chant.
It does not take long for the two to reach the source of the sound, through a pair of oak doors into a great hall of this once-abandoned church. Now it is filled with rows of wooden tables and cabinets, upon which enormous glass jars filled with murky, opaque fluid the color of an infection and dark shapes within. Dead ivy curls across the floor and some of the tables, crunching underfoot as Rysev and the priest make their way to the origin of the chanting at the back of the chamber.
Ten priests of Razmir stand in a half circle at the base of a set of stairs, engaged in circular breathing to maintain a steady throat chant. The stairs lead up to a cylindrical glass cabinet framed in steel some ten feet tall. It, too, is filled with a murky green fluid and some large, still shape resists in its depths.
Ryzev continue to advance toward the stairs, passing between two of the chanting priests and headed up the stairs. When he reaches the glass cabinet, Rysev stands before it and looks at his masked reflection in the glass, then raises one hand and presses it to the cabinet's warm surface.
Something stirs within the cabinet, undulating in the murky fluid. A dark shape, not unlike a snake, slithers toward the glass and flattens against the inside opposite of Rysev's palm. The inky black tentacle soon forks and spreads out across the glass, like a tree branch.
"It is ready," Rysev calls back over the droning chant, "fetch a reliquary." He turns partway to look back over the gathered Concomitants to address them. "A new blessing emerges!" At the back of the room, the gray-robed priest hurries to secure a keg-sized glass jar, hauling it to the stairs.
Inside the cabinet, blood blooms dark against the murky fluid. The tentacled shape suspended within writhes and contorts. Soon it is joined by another, smaller mass ringed with writhing pseudopods. Herald Rysev turns to look back into the cabinet, assessing the new addition.
"A new blessing emerges."
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