*Ding, ding, ding*
A belltower chimed, chasing away the darkness, welcoming the new moon.
Inside the chapel of the cathedral off Kensington and Hobble, an Ievening mass was taking place.
At the pulpit in front of the altar, a young man was preaching his praise.
The pews were full. It was strange to see such a crowd show up for an evening mass.
If one took a careful look, though, they would find that most of the patrons were of the lower class.
Tramps, street girls, drunkards, and gamblers. It was a collection of the unfortunate.
The young man wore the classical outfit of a preacher.
In his hand was an open book, his voice soothing and resplendent.
"Our Mother, almighty as she is, protects us all.
In her everlasting embrace, all can find peace.
Cold becomes warmth, hunger becomes satisfaction.
Children of the Night Goddess, rejoice in her grace.
In solitude, we find inspiration, in fear we find courage.
Praise you, Mother, we are unworthy of your love."
In the comfortable silence that followed his words, the preacher lit a candle in somber reverence.
Then he drew a moon on his heart and allowed the momentary silence to persist.
In the pews, the patrons bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Even if it was an act, it was believable.
The preacher looked up upon the chapel, gazing from end to end. He smiled, his joy evident for all to see.
"I hope to see you all again come the morrow. May you find peace in solitude, children of the Night."
Saying as such, the preacher walked down from the altar and walked through the pews.
When the preacher left, several clergy men and women entered. They brought carts of porridge and hard bread.
The patrons lined up, somehow displaying etiquette rarely found amongst their company.
The preacher had removed his mass attire, instead donning his evening dress.
As he handed out porridge to the unfortunate, he took inventory of the participants.
Where are they all going? It's been weeks since I've seen them.
Old Kenny is missing his friends too. Jibril and Ascot as well, I haven't seen them in days. He had asked the patrons if they had been seen, to no avail.
He knew better than to accept that they were merely absent.
These poor souls rarely found true salvation from their tired lives.
It's almost 12 of them, Mother Goddess watch over them.
*click*, *ahhh*
An old man lit his wooden pipe and inhaled deeply, the relief evident from his expression.
Inside the dark room, flames danced across the walls, burgeoning and shrinking the shadows.
On the floor, a corpse could be seen. It was a young man with reddish-brown hair, like fall time maple leaves.
Shockingly, the corpse seemed to stir!
Moving slowly and unnaturally, it stood and began to approach the old man.
Murder was evident in its eyes, perhaps hunger, it wasn't clear to see.
Step...step...step...crash! The zombie seemed to trip over its own feet. It tried to stand but failed.
"Pathetic! You couldn't even last a week. Is that head of yours as empty as it looks?"
Asher looked up from the floor weakly, his ardent desire to wring the old man's neck momentarily dowsed.
"I'm trying my best, old man. If the student is failing, then it is the teacher who is lacking!"
Henry wasn't impressed or dismayed by his student's sharp tongue. Instead, he fired back.
"Kid, I've been training misbegotten waifs like you since before you were born."
Asher wasn't convinced, but it took all he had just to keep his eyes open.
It had been a week since he began this grueling regimen, each day was the same.
He would show up to work full of hopes and leave broken.
He couldn't recall what it was like not to be sore anymore. His aches and pains had moved deeper, his very heart felt it.
It quivered and throbbed, struggling to keep up with his hellish will.
"I can't do this anymore! Another day of this nonsense and I might really croak. I need to quit! I'll return the advance pay. No! I'll sell my body, raise enough money to skip town. I need to get as far away from this human-shaped devil as pos-"
Asher paused for a second, thinking he had seen something strange.
He knew the very grain of this ceiling by heart now. In fact, he thought he knew the age of the tree from which its planks were sewn.
But there was something new in his peripheral vision.
Small, tiny black specks, undulating and nebulous. Shaping themselves as they saw fit, moving with excitement.
"I've finally lost it, haven't I?" He blinked and rubbed his eyes, yet the motes did not disappear.
Asher roused himself, got up and walked to his chair.
He drank some water and ventured a quizzical glance at Henry. The old man didn't seem to see them, or if he did, he wasn't showing it.
"Old man, can you see those black lights?" Henry met his eyes, paused briefly, then responded.
"I can only see the red ones, child. I guess you aren't so useless after all. Focus on them, do not fall asleep. Remember the feeling of forcing your body to surpass its limits? I want you to go deeper than that, use your will. You must capture those lights, house them. Become a vessel for their weary souls, become a Light-Keeper."