”Weakness, corruption, arrogance... These words are the rot at the core of the Mitran faith.” Zephys frowned as he read the familiar passage in his father's treatise.
The people are blind to the truth. They have been turned from the hard truths of life with Mitra's easy lies. It is not too late. They will learn or be punished for their willful ignorance. Zephys closed the book and rose, stretching his deformed body. Ugly grey flesh pulled tight over taught muscles. He could hear the soft murmurs of the congregation above him. They're soft prayers drifted down through the floorboards. His father's strong voice was easy to recognize even if he couldn't make out the words of his sermon.
He sighed and turned back to his bookshelf looking for something he hadn't read recently, So... bored. Father needs to find me more material soon, both books and... He glanced over to the dirty cot with it's chains in the corner. Yes, I need a new... diversion.
The basement room was small and not very well lit. In truth, Zephys didn't need the low burning candle sputtering at his reading table. Still, light was a welcome and rare treasure. Zephys was not often allowed out of his room. For years, his father had kept him hidden down here, safe from the prying eyes of Mitran inquisitors. When he was younger, Zephys didn't understand. He hadn't hurt anyone. The rats and small birds that occasionally found their way into the church didn't count. Why would the Mitrans hate him? It was fear, he later learned. Fear of that which they did not understand, that which didn't fit in their tiny minds and tiny lives. It was the Mitran faith itself, his father explained, that made life this way. Before, there were many gods in Talingarde. Many faiths. They were varied and they did not all agree, but all were respected. Mitra changed that. Mitra was a small, jealous god who could not tolerate perspectives other than his own. He was afraid of the other faiths because they illuminated his own imperfection.
As he grew and learned, Zephys became more and more agitated. He hated the Mitran faith with a passion. His father always said he was trying to change the system from within, but nothing ever changed. He was also growing tired of his home. He'd started sneaking out at 15, waiting until his father had gone to bed before drawing a cloak about himself and sneaking out into town. He was initially too afraid to approach anyone, but one time he came across a girl in the streets. She was a barmaid headed for home and the hour was late. She saw Zephys shuffling through the alley and at first looked afraid, but when he retreated towards the shadows she mistook it for fear and approached him instead. She asked if he was hungry. He remembered her hair. It was so yellow. She was kind, but when his hood revealed his unnatural face she shrieked and tried to run. Zephys panicked. He remembered trying to make her be quiet. He covered her mouth. Eventually she stopped moving.
The next evening after services his father came down to the basement. Zephyr expected him to be furious. Instead the tall man spoke calmly, ”I should have expected this. After all, you're of an age for these kind of urges. Do not go seeking them, for that is dangerous. I will bring them to you.” Zephyr discovered what he meant when a week later his father brought the cot and chains into his room and then the day after when he brought the girl. ”I've silenced this room from the outside. Have your fun, talk to her if you wish, but do not let her leave. No matter what they say, you cannot trust them.” Zephys heard the wisdom in these words. After all, hadn't the barmaid betrayed his trust as well.
Zephys was startled from his reminiscing when he heard a bang and startled shrieks from above. Bootsteps and his father's shouts. He brought up a ward and reached for the dagger he kept at his bedside. When the inquisitors burst through the basement door the sight of his father bruised and in chains enraged him and he charged at the group, but was quickly outnumbered and brought down. As two held him down, he saw a third heading towards his bookshelf. He reached out a hand and begand to protest as the club came down on his skull and the rest was blackness.
