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Abbess Heren Almere, Yarile, Athurna Abbey

The Thirtieth of Ivaris, Sixteen Seventy-Four,

Priestess Vora,

As I sit down to write this the Shining Lord, The Lord of Life and Light, hangs but an hour past his zenith. Apex prayers have been sung and our Lord Prelate’s sermon has been spoken. The Prelate spoke highly of his time in your humble chapel, Sister. It was a glowing review and I do believe his written report will find it’s way to the Grand Registrar quite quickly. With any luck you may have the funds for another dormitory by midwinter. Oh do not complain my dear, you know how things are. The wheels of the church are slow to start, yet once they have momentum they turn for quite a time.

Now I am writing to you for I had, naively it seems, expected a missive outlining the Prelate’s visit. Oh how simple of mind was I to assume you would write to me a letter detailing the experience. It isn’t as if I helped you. Rushing to pen a letter so you might be forwarned of his plans to visit your small chapel unannounced. Nor did I inform you of his predilections to bring forth pain to the guilded whores of the distant stars. Due in part to the lack of help I have heaped upon you I understand your disdain to send me any such missive.

Now all I can ask is if you did have young Madra do such a thing? Truly did she poison the harlot with the herb so grey? If you have set her such a task then you, my student, have a cold and iron banded heart. It seems you have more in common with the Sons of Mars than you do the Daughter of Sunlight. To murder a babe in the womb. Shame on you my sister and friend! It almost sickens me to call you such.

For the want of a mother to bear her child to term, to wish and dream of rearing the young thing. That is the dream of every mother. No matter her sex or religion how could you shatter that wish? How have you grown so cold? Have you already, in your too few years, forgotten your own mother and her wishes for you? Have you forgotten the softness and sweet scent of flowers?

You have lost some kindness in your zealous quest: A larger chapel, soon to be a Cathedral as you once told me. Trod with an iron boot upon the golden children of heaven. Hollow bones that break with careless force. You sound like the Prelate. Is this what you truly have become? Is this what your order brings? A raging inferno of hate? You seem to have forgotten the first value of your order. Pity. Pity for the common man. Pity for the cold born children of the stars. Pity is no dirty word. Pity is sorrow and compassion of the suffering of others. Moving to comfort and shield. You much remember this Heida.

I fear for the charges given into your keeping. While the Children of Venus are prostitutes upon the streets those within your tabernacle require sanctuary. Not tyranny. Your order is one of the few ways these people can live. The walls of your chapel grant them safety. If they were elsewhere they could turn to thievery, or worse, be taken in by a pimp. I rebuke you Hieda my friend. Return to your book of cants and remember your place.

You are a woman of the Order of Pity and Piety, a Priestess of The Shining Lord. You are not a man, you are not a priest or Prelate. This viciousness is not for you to know. Cleanse it from your heart before it consumes you and you are consigned to the flame. Dear, you must remove it before it rots your heart from the core. Through your acts, caring for these randy devils shows your piety. Yes they are vapid and pretty things to look at but you are not in the business of money gathering. You haven given your oaths, need I call them in question?

If you must set them to work then do as I said so many moons ago, there are women by the score who are barren. Why not open the wombs of these cursed venus-born to act as a living vessel. It is the Lord’s way my dear. Have them mend and launder clothes. I know that is how other chapels augment their stipend.

I am not surprised to hear that your chapel has flourished in Jarrow and the local orphanages are fit to bursting. I daresay that you will have to use your own funds to build another orphanage before too long. Then where would you be? More children to care for and without your new dormitory. Do not think that separating the Children of Venus along gender lines would waylay their lascivious libido. They are worse than cats. A single word or gesture could send them into heat, the poor dears. You would quite likely find yourself with two orgies every night, and, as you well know, Children of Venus can go until the wee hours of the morning.

By love and fire of The Shining Lord,
Abbess Heren Almere.

 

Yarile — Yar -Ill. Yarile is a large city near Opris.

Athurna — Au-thurn-a. The name of the abby that Abbess Almere runs.

Almere — Al-meh-ray