The doors to the mausoleum were made of heavy bronze, and despite Delyssa's athletic build she strained to push against their weight. They swung inwards with a metallic groan, and a gust of musty air swept past her out of the dim anteroom within. There were high, narrow windows in the upper walls of the chamber that let in thin beams of light, and as Delyssa shut the doors behind her she could see dust swirling afternoon shafts. The interior of the crypt was made of the same ochre stone as the rest of the Temple, but while the flagstones of the central building were worn down to a smooth sheen, the cobbles beneath Delyssa's bare feet were cold and rough to the touch. The chamber continued forwards a short way, then descended downwards in a narrow set of stairs, the landing below lit by flickering torches.
She felt uneasy. The mausoleum was, befitting its name, not the place of joyful ecstasy like the rest of the Temple of Shevlana, and Brother Kruit himself was mostly a mystery to her. He kept to the crypts, emerging briefly for festivals and holy days, when Delyssa was typically more occupied with other people. He had a reputation for being reclusive and dour, and even though he had frequent meetings with Mother Corporeal, she always came to visit him instead of the other way around, an unprecedented reversal.
Delyssa opened her mouth to call out to Brother Kruit, but the silence of the mausoleum weighed down and her voice caught in her throat. Instead, she silently padded down the stairs, her left hand trailing the wall alongside her. The room opened out at the bottom of the stairs. In brass sconces on either side of the stairs, the torches smoldered, giving off a dull orange glow; their smoke curled upwards and clung to the low brick ceiling, making Delyssa's eyes swim. Inset on the wall to her left was a rectangular alcove adorned with a small shrine. Across the room, facing the shrine, was an aged wooden chair. At the far end, the passageway continued on into darkness, and from it Delyssa felt a chill breeze that momentarily disturbed the otherwise humid and heavy atmosphere of the mausoleum. She turned towards the shrine.
It was of Shevlana, her likeness rendered in a softer, smoother stone than the statue overlooking the main temple hall. While the great statue was positioned coyly, a temperate hand covering her sex, here statuette had a wide stance, her legs set wide apart. The goddess' arms were extended above her head, in a Y shape, each hand doubling as a candleholder. Thin candles danced in each of the effigy's palms, both little more than stubs. With a small start, Delyssa noticed that instead of spilling over and dribbling to the base of the altar, the wax from the candles simply sank into each hand of the statuette. Through either some cunning craftsmanship or -- as Delyssa suspected -- enchantment, the white wax instead poured in thin streams from both of Shevlana's breasts, as well as out from between her legs. For a moment, Delyssa pondered the sacrilege of bending over to inspect the level of detail on the carving of her goddess. The wax pooled in a flat, unbroken circle around the goddess' feet, a pale disk that glowed in the candlelight.
"From the light of the heavens, Shevlana produced both seed and sustenance," a man's voice said off to Delyssa's right. She jumped and straightened. Emerging out of the gloom of the opposite passageway, carrying no torch or other light source, was Brother Kruit. He was tall, fair-skinned, with a graying beard that regained some of its past red in the chamber's firelight. He was barechested, wearing only a pair of loose pants, belted with a rope. Kruit was, to Delyssa's continued surprise, almost impossibly muscular. While Delyssa's friend and initiate brother Jahroud had a naturally athletic frame kept in shape by his frequent and persistent lovemaking, Kruit had the strength and structure of a lifetime of hard use. It reminded her of the bodies of the adventurers that came to the temple for healing: the hard lines and sharp angles of muscle, interrupted by scars, either the twisted knot of puncture or the slash of laceration.
Kruit's body had plenty of both. While the healing magic of Shevlana's servants could stitch together even mortal wounds, their marks were permanent, and Kruit's torso held the evidence of their infliction. A long line that ran straight upwards along his right abdominal muscles, a pair of puncture wounds about a hand's length apart on his left breast, a curving series of pocks that arced along his shoulder -- the teeth of some great beast, Delyssa realized.
Kruit took Delyssa in with one sharp glance, continuing into the chamber, stepping soundlessly up behind her. She felt rooted to the spot. He leaned over her shoulder, placing one large hand flat onto the altar.
"When the first Child crawled from the Desert of None, she found Shevlana. The goddess saw what the Child needed and became the first Mother, to the anger of the other gods, who saw the child's potential and were afraid."
It was the basic founding myth of Shevlana's cult, condensed and simplified for ease of teaching, and Delyssa was entirely familiar with it. But something about how it rang from Kruit's low, rumbling voice, the soft echo through the crypt, gave it a gravitas unfamiliar to the way it was told in the main temple.
"Shevlana fed the Child from her breast and watched it grow, hidden from the other gods. She knew that the Child -- the first Woman -- needed companions, and so in one night Shevlana gave birth to the rest of humanity, each one unlike but equally beloved. The gods could not forgive this, and so cast Shevlana off the world and back into the heavens, intending rid the world of their new competitors."
As he spoke, Kruit slowly moved his hand from the altar and through each stream of wax, one gentle finger that moved from the statuette's left breast, then the right, then back down and through the trickle that ran out from the goddess' sex. The white wax trickled down into his palm and hardened. Delyssa watched silently. Kruit's recitation came not just with the worn gravel of his voice, but the heat of his breath and against her already-hot neck, and the aura of his presence close behind her, and suddenly there was a sensation of vitality in the chamber that made it feel like not a crypt at all.
"But Shevlana's charity found reward, for when her children spoke her name in thanks it became prayer, an unexpected investment of power in the goddess. Her children possessed faith, and this the gods desired, for each their own purpose. They followed their exiled sister into the heavens, but here Shevlana once again shared her love, and the other gods saw the beauty and strength of her children and began to love us in turn. Only a few gods chose to remain in the world, like War, too jealous and too shamed to ascend with the others."
Kruit brought his hand up to one of the candles and held it close, so close that Delyssa wondered if he would burn it. The wax in his palm began to melt once more, and with another slow gesture he turned his hand and all the wax poured out and back into the unbroken pool around the statue's feet.
Kruit stepped away from Delyssa, and the absence of the heat from his proximity shocked her. She turned and watched as he made his way towards the chair. Her heart was pounding, and Delyssa realized with an uncharacteristic embarrassment that she was desperately aroused. Her breasts chafed against the usually comfortable wool of her robe; her nipples stiff against the fabric. Beneath the robe, she could feel a sticky wetness between her naked thighs, and suddenly she felt it was difficult to not shift one hand there to explore.
Kruit's movements distracted her once more. There was a caution to them that seemed unlike the grace of his footsteps and the strength of his physique. He held out one hand and felt through the air for the back of the chair, and slowly settled himself down into the seat with a soft grunt. Now, facing him completely for the first time, Delyssa saw that Kruit was blind, his eyes were gray and unfocused, staring towards her but not at her.
She opened her mouth once more to address him, but he spoke first.
"You must be the acolyte, Delyssa. Mother Corporeal sent a messenger saying you would be visiting, but the acolyte didn't stay long enough to tell me what about," Kruit said. He sat casually, legs splayed, each hand curled over the arm of the chair.
It took Delyssa a few thunderous hearbeats to find her voice. "Mother Corporeal has told -- invited -- me to leave the temple with a band of adventurers as part of our agreement with the Campaigner's Guild," she managed. "I was told that you would have some advice for me."
Kruit stroked his beard, and nodded, his gray eyes now closed.
"When was the last time you visited the crypt, acolyte?" he said.
"I'm not sure," Delyssa said. "It must have been some years now, I'm afraid. Five, maybe. Six."
"There's no need to sound so ashamed, acolyte. How long have you been with us at the Temple?"
"Twelve years, Brother Kruit," Delyssa said.
"And before that?"
"Eight on the streets of Gra'tan."
"Do you remember much of those days?"
"Not much," Delyssa said, uneasy about this line of questioning, but unable to stop herself from answering. "Just a little of the worst and less of the best. Most of it I've tried to forget."
"Hmm." Kruit leaned back and seemed to think for a moment. "So, long enough past so as to be forgotten, but wounds deep enough to still to be felt."
There was a beat of silence. Delyssa wasn't sure what to say. Kruit cleared his throat and spoke again.
"You must be an accomplished healer for Mother Corporeal to send you on quest. Is that so?"
"I suppose so, Brother Kruit."
"Hmm. And what do you do for exercise? Fucking in your cella all day?"
Delyssa gasped. "Kruit -- "
"
Brother
Kruit," he interrupted.
Delyssa felt her face flush. "
Brother
Kruit, the priestesses say that we aren't to use such language." Her heart was still thumping in her chest, the indignant weight of anger heavy atop the arousal that lingered there.
Kruit gave a short laugh. "So they do. Is that your answer?"
She resisted glaring at him, though she knew that he wouldn't be able to tell if she did. "No. I dance, and I often spar with Brother Kallaut in the gardens."
Kruit nodded. "And are you good at it?"
