26 - Seven Spokes [Cherno]

Unlike the Zaveshian temple, the Seven Spokes one was markedly more alike to what she expected from a religion. In fact, its interior was unsettlingly close to old pictures of shintoist temples she’d seen. Imagery of the “seven-spoked wheel” abounded wherever she turned, though it was more of a spindly, seven-pointed star whose points went through an outer wheel.  At the doors, men in massive suits of armor stood, boxy belts on their waists and giant swords in their hands. She felt their gazes pass over her, only briefly stopping before they moved on. A sorry-looking person with burns similar to the state of her own arm could be seen hunched over on a bench next to one of the walls, shivering as the cracks in his skin exposed bare flesh beneath. Yet again, a conspicuously shintoist donation box awaited at the room’s far end, at the foot of a towering statue flanked on each corner by a different figure. The centerpiece depicted a robed woman with flowing hair and a featureless face, seated with legs crossed, holding in her hands a seven-spoked wheel at whose center sat a planet. Krahe didn’t have the time to get a closer or better look at the display, as the state of her arm immediately drew attention. Not from the guards, but from one of the priestly-looking individuals who milled about, clad in a wide-sleeved robe from which reams of densely-inscribed seals fluttered like tendrils of torn caution tape whipping from the nose of a speeding motorbike. It was a man, a man with a majestic mustache and spiky goatee, his slicked-back hair tied up in a ponytail, and with fiery orange eyes. He reached out a puppet-like hand of ivory segments and silvery joints.

“My friend, your arm. Is it why you have come?” he questioned with a look and tone of honest concern. Krahe wasn’t used to such towardness in the slightest, but she decided to at least try to trust him until she saw signs that something culty might be afoot.

“Someone recommended that I get this sealed up,” she said, slowly raising her arm. The priest gently pushed it down as if he feared that it might crumble off of her shoulder at any moment.

“That… Was a wise recommendation, and a wise choice you made to follow it. That you can even more your arm in such a state is a miracle in of itself. If you would come with me to my sanctum, I will prepare seals to contain your anathema. There is no need for payment, just donate as much as you are able and when you are able. Perhaps consider doing one of the volunteer contracts, I am sure there is something to be found for you.”

The priest led her to a quiet side room, one filled with a combination of strange technology and occult implements, the imagery of that seven-spoked wheel everywhere she looked. No altars or similar subjects of worship; it was laid out more like a doctor’s office than anything else. The severed head of a banisher stared back at her from a large jar set on a writing table in the room’s corner, seemingly untouched by decay; it only had the one large eye, no human ones. Besides the jar, a typewriter caught her eye. Rather than a keyboard, it had a cylinder with rows of symbols and a single trigger. A reminder of this world’s linguistic system, which had faded out of her awareness.

The priest of Igaria pulled up his sleeves, tying them back with strings which were seemingly present just for that purpose. While his right arm was completely synthetic as far as she could see, the left was distinctly fleshy, yet patchworked and strange, covered in frankenstein-esq stitch lines and tattooed with eldritch symbols.

He gestured for her to sit on an elevated seat and gingerly took her arm in hand, immediately asking: “Does this hurt?”

“No.”

“And this?” he squeezed her hand slightly.

“No. My arm does not cause me pain,” she admitted.

“Truly? Igaria and Zavesh smile upon you, then. Do you practice anathemism, or did you suffer these burns by some other means? How long ago did you suffer them?”

“I’ve had them for as long as I can remember. Anathemism comes naturally. I try to avoid using it unless I must,” she lied.

“It is not my place to judge you for making use of that which is within our reach beneath the Seven Spokes. Burn some Thauma and channel it through the limb, if you can.”

Krahe did as asked, burning only a tiny amount. A few lines on her arm alighted with an ember-orange glow.

“Yes, I feel traces of anathema flowing out even now. You seem a truly curious case, presenting as extremely severe at first glance, yet you do not seem to suffer any symptoms of deep-tissue anathema damage…”

Trailing off, he let go and turned his back to her, going over to one of the cabinets. Retrieving a ream of yellowed, he put it on the writing desk and took from its top drawer a brush alongside a shallow, rectangular stone dish. A bottle of ink and a black, rectangular stick followed. Calligraphy tools of some sort, she wagered. The priest mixed the ink, said a prayer, and set it aside as it took to bubbling in its dish. He then cut a section from the ream of yellowed paper and loaded it into his typewriter, dexterously spinning the cylinder and striking the trigger like a gunslinger of some sort.

The priest proceeded to paint esoteric symbols overtop what he had typed, and held it out to Krahe as if it were a geiger counter. His eyes flicked between the paper and her. Once more he turned and returned to the writing desk, this time retrieving a roll of plain white fabric.

“Your body seems to be just barely managing to dissipate the anathema which it passively produces, and the apparent leakage happens to be a side effect of this imperfect process. Rather than a hard seal, I will provide you with one which will fully disperse the “leaked” anathema. Assuming that your condition does not worsen, you will not need to have your arm amputated any time soon. Count yourself lucky.”

Those last three words carried a sense of hard-earned, bitter experience. Perhaps the priest was an ex-anathemist who chose to help others like his past self.