The Church of Decay has always been a curious topic of the press office. Gossipers and journalists eager for their next scoop swear that it exists, that it has far-reaching motives. Skeptics claim it’s a myth, nothing more. I’m somewhere in the middle. I’ve always been interested in the occult, curious about seemingly widespread cabals of the parishioners discussed in water cooler talk. It was something that lingered in the back of my mind for quite some time, something I wish I could drop, but no. No matter what report I was working on, whether I was at work at all, the thoughts of the Church lingered in my mind like the melody of an irritating song.
One muggy, dreary evening, I punched out, packing my typewriter into my leather satchel and guarding it closely. The walk home wasn’t a particularly pleasant one, as I had to pass through the more… worse-off districts of the city. I had been harassed many times by the vagrants and beggars on the way in the past, so I thought little of it when a disheveled old man grabbed at my ankle. He was seated on a rugged mat, some form of cloth obscuring his face like a hood. His sudden grasp caught me by surprise, and I fell, only able to wrap my arms around my satchel in the nick of time. His voice sounded ragged and worn when he spoke to me.
“You… listen to me!”
Now, naturally fearing for my life, I paid close attention.
“I hear you lot talking about the Church… You journalists know nothing about it… Stay out of it! You will end up as I have!”
He removed his makeshift shawl to reveal his aged, tired eyes, his scleras red with blood.
“Good God, sir! You need to see a doctor!”
“Can’t afford it. I know it’s because of that blasted Meirkien… He knew I would betray the Church. I can’t see anymore… Please. Stay away.”
I was befuddled by this man’s ramblings. Paradoxically, curiosity overcame me. I needed to know where this Church of Decay was. Surely if I wasn’t treacherous, I wouldn’t befall the same fate…
“Sir, I need you to give me the location of the Church. We need to put these rumors to rest as soon as possible. Maybe, if we do this, we can compensate you for your injuries and prevent others from befalling the same fate.”
“If you can cure me, then yes. Leave the Western borough, keep heading in that direction until you reach the woods near the processing plant. Follow the trees marked with scratches until you find a trodden path. Go down that path, and the Church will be in view. Please, journalist, don’t do what I did. Don’t join their ranks… you will never be able to leave.”
All I could do to respond while memorizing his information was nod solemnly. I brushed off my satchel and went home before embarking on my journey to the Church of Decay.
The walk to the outer borough wasn’t as stressful or nerve-wracking as it was tiring, but when I reached the forest, I realized that I was clearly not dressed for the occasion. I couldn’t turn back now, but I was fine dirtying my slacks and dress shoes if it meant I could get information.
The moon had begun to shine overhead as I navigated my way through the wooded area, and I had to inspect the masses of trees closely for markings before it became too dark to discern them. For what felt like ages, I wandered through this forest until I was met with the same dirt path that the old man had described to me. Not wanting to waste any more time, I ran down the path until I could see the faint, orange lights of torches aflame. Soon, I was at the foot of the Church of Decay, towering ominously with statues and flames galore.
A woman clad in hooded black robes stood at the entrance. She seemed to observe as opposed to guarding. I approached her, head bowed out of respect and humility.
“‘Scuse me, Miss, may I enter your beautiful Church?”
She said nothing but nodded in my direction. I took this as a sign of approval and entered promptly.
The halls themselves were absolutely gorgeous, carefully fashioned from stone and slate. They were dimly lit by braziers, shadows of various figures and objects dancing on the walls behind them. Beyond the braziers lay several corridors filled with knick-knacks and more of those hooded men and women. They seemed to whisper to each other, mumbling quietly to themselves and their partners. Down one corridor was a path sculpted of bone. It had been implemented into the concrete floor, moving up to a raised, basalt platform. Upon the platform were many more braziers lighting up an altar that could be reached from a flight of stairs. The stairs were crafted from obsidian, matching colors with the basalt. Behind the altar was a large pit that overlooked several smaller ledges holding braziers.
Down another corridor appeared to be a throne room, although it was being closed by two differently uniformed men. On their backs was a great sword with a gilded gold handle. The tip of the sword was sharp as a spinning needle, perhaps able to pierce bricks. I only saw a glimpse of the throne, a beautiful and tall chair prefabricated with gold and silver, until I was ushered away by two men with black robes. These men, upon further inspection, had a dangling necklace with a horse-skull pendant. The beads stringed along with the pendant were beads of bone, resembling the color of the horse-skull.
In front of me stood a young woman with maroon-colored robes. The robes were fashioned of beautifully-woven silk, making for perfect garments. In replacement of the black pit that would be her face was a horse mask and two bone-horns sprouting from holes in her hood. She seemed ready to speak to me, eyeing me as if to inspect my very soul.
“You there, visitor to our Church. What do you seek from us?”
Part of me wanted to present myself as a journalist, but seeing the skulls adorn various areas of the walls made me think twice.
“I’ve heard of this place, of its god. I am interested in learning more.”
She paused for a moment, and motioned for me to follow her.
“We have something in store for you, visitor. Kindly come with me.”
I followed, always enamored by the intricate and deliberate details of the church. Primal, visceral structures of bone contrasted delicate decorations of gold and silver. Carefully maintained ferns and grasses, full of life, juxtaposed the deathly aura of the inside of the building. We walked for some time, before we were both met by the entrance to a grand hall of sorts. Many of the same figures I had seen, with robes of maroon, black, white, and some even with gray, all stood around a circle. This circle seemed to be an altar of sorts, and they all seemed to watch me with some measure of expectancy. A chill began to run down my spine as I began to consider the gravity of what I was getting myself into. Would they destroy my sight like they did to the old man? Would they eat me alive? Were they that sort of cult?
I fidgeted with the seam of my pants as I was escorted to the middle of the circle. I could not see the face of all these people, but I could tell that they stared at me, wide-eyed with madness, and seemingly anxious for what was to come. All around me were the skulls and bones of horses and men alike, a dark, putrid fluid pouring from some of the more ornamented ones. The altar itself had a sigil engraved carefully into it, and on its outer ring was a lectern where the woman who led me here soon stood. There was a wicked book in the middle full of diagrams and seals that I could not decipher or understand from a distance. She quickly flipped the book to a different page, one full of text, clearly not in English or any Latin alphabet. Instead, there were eldritch runes, seemingly going top-to-bottom as opposed to left-to-right. All of them, I supposed, understood these texts with some measure of fluency. Would I be given the same esoteric knowledge if I joined?
I stood in the middle, and not long after, the maroon-robed woman began reciting the runes. Since I could not understand much at all, I paid little mind to what she was saying, until I heard something already etched into my mind by the old man:
Meirkien.
Immediately, a tear seemed to form in time and space itself. It exposed itself like a bleeding wound, red and full of stars. From out of the rift emerged a beast so horrifying that I could do nothing but freeze.
A creature, three deer skulls fused together with multiple eye sockets, all looking at me with condescension. From its antlers hung a stopwatch, seeming to move its hands at the speed of light but also not at all. It had a mane like a lion’s, with green, otherworldly eyes dangling from its neck like a bead necklace. Its arms and legs were intact, having claws and hooves, respectively, but its torso was.. decayed. Nothing but bare ribs remained where flesh may have once been. Atop its ribcage were two angelic wings, just large enough to carry the beast in flight. It flew out of the rift with unprecedented swiftness, hovering the air while it spectated its followers.
Immediately, all of the acolytes groveled on their hands and knees, save for the woman who recited the ritual. Instead, she held her hand on some sort of pommel on the side of her hip.
“Esoteric one. I have been summoned from the depths of Decay and Chaos. What do you desire of my presence?”
“My lord Meirkien, I offer this initiate to you in exchange for your continued favor to our Church of Decay.”
“So be it. I shall be pleased thoroughly, Esoteric one. Do what you shall, and I will watch.”
She drew her dagger. I screamed for help, so loud that my voice shattered. Meirkien looked down on me with annoyance, and flicked the wrist of his left hand. Immediately, my voice was gone. I could scream no longer, only opening my mouth as if to mimic it. Tears streamed down my face, mouth agape and teeth gritted, as the dagger was driven into my heart. I felt an otherworldly agony as I watched my body drain of all its blood. All the rivulets of my blood formed threads, ignoring gravity and flowing upwards into Meirkien’s skull. It was thoroughly anointed; where there was once off-white bone, there was now a slick coat of crimson. My body began to feel lighter, and I thought that I would have died were it not for the immediate revival of my body.
I sat up, heaving, as I saw my wound no longer bled. I was pallid, no different in appearance to an embalmed corpse, but I felt a new, sinister sort of life force course through my veins. I found myself only barely able to think lucidly, but with a sort of frenzied fervor that I had only seen in the eyes of the acolytes witnessing my slaughter. My thoughts were filled by the Dead Chaos God, my overwhelming love for him, and a newfound sense of purpose. It was as if someone else was speaking for me, out of my now-useless voicebox, when I uttered:
“Glory to Meirkien.”
Ah, The Initiations. One of the most terrifying experiences in the eyes of a Traveller. This would be but another mere story of one joining our fold.