The Temple Thief

In the small hours, the supple cloaked figure entered the pagan’s temple, going along the churchyard among the decayed tombs and age-old vaults. He was passing himself off as a common rustic pilgrim, disguised in a coarse robe and a carved wooden staff. The grim guards had not noticed ought unheard-of about both his manners and tongue. He came across as a pious farmer who was just trying to worship his nocturne god. His mumbling opened the iron gate for him better than a frenzied army. His limping persuaded them into giving him way.

Notwithstanding the feat was not accomplished yet. People say no thief has ever left the heretic’s domed church. At least, not alive, it is rumoured. Beelgar the thief already knew it. But the shining onyx jewel which lay betwixt the claws of the cruel god the pagans worshipped was too much arousal for him to ignore.

The inner chamber was teeming with local dwellers. Hither and thither an acolyte of shaven head and slanted eyes was chanting in a monotonous voice the blasphemous litanies in praise of his dark god. Beelgar couldn´t see through their weird words more than an eldritch awe. If he were caught in, the altar stone would be soon tainted with blood. His.

Beelgar wandered around as if afraid of the holiness of the place, until he could manage to slid between two rear curtains he knew well by his outside minions. Then he went past a carpeted hall lit with bronze lamps, and when he reached a cross, he headed confidently to the right, descending a path of worn down steps, till the pagan God’s effigy stood before him implacable and haughty in the candlelight.

Beelgar came closer in order to get the onyx jewel lying between clawing alabaster hands. Right away a hidden door was opened, and a horde of eager worshippers rushed into the chamber, iron knives in their hands, and ropes of reed grass, their eyes flaming with primal bloodlust. It was only then he realized that he had been completely taken in.

Artwork: Thief of Life, © JasonEngle