Legends of Belariath

Verinnia

The Story of My Becoming, or "How I Became a Priestess of Ishtar"

Chapter One: The Calling

"This is not my goddess," I remember thinking clearly as I swung the lash across the slave-man's shoulders. Spider motifs lined the walls of Kirva's temple, the spider goddess's beady eyes staring contemptuously down at everyone gathered. The red, angry welts on his back would supposedly garner me her favor; but that promise seemed empty to me now. What mattered to me, and worried me deeply, was the fear that I had said that aloud. My eyes darted around the spacious chamber, seeing it empty.

"He is the only one," I recall thinking clearly, as I took his face in my hands and brushed his cheeks briefly with my thumbs. "A pity, I could never trust a slave to keep a secret," I said to him, meeting his eyes, genuinely sorry. I remember the confusion in his eyes as I said those words; and it seems clear to me now that he had heard nothing. In my hindsight, I wish I could have saved him; but at the time, I couldn't risk it. I snapped his neck, and left him hanging dead in his chains.

That was my last act in the halls of Kirva, the last time I wielded my whip-arm in the name of the spider goddess. But it was not the last time I killed for my beliefs; nor do I expect my future to be any less bloody than my past. But I get ahead of myself. This is the story of how I left the Nethergloom, at the behest of my goddess, Ishtar.

I was born in another world, you might say; certainly, the Nethergloom will seem an alien place to any surfacer not used to its depths. Lightless, bleak, and desolate for the most past, I think the place greatly influence the peoples who live there. The Moriel, certainly, do not live for the same reasons other elves do; there is no joy in our daily routines, no happiness in our lives, and no peace in our worship. Beneath the starless ceiling of cold stone, my kin give praise to a goddess who promises them a fleeting image of power in return for a life of bondage and cruelty.

I was initiated into the worship of Kirva when I was but a youngling, as all the children of my kind are. The spider goddess is revered above all others in the Moriel cities of the Nethergloom, and the liturgies of her adulation are considered more important than any other manner of learning. As a woman-child, I was expected to know more than my male counterparts; to be stronger than them; to be swifter than them; and to be more pious than them. I, of course, did my best to be all three. It was encouraged, and I reveled in it, that I would consider myself their betters simply because of my gender. The spider goddess favors the female.

My traditional schooling in the ways of divine worship began at the same age for me as they did for any other woman-child. By that time, on the edge of adolescence, those who were our superiors had already picked which of us would serve Kirva as her clerics, and we were groomed to fit that station later in life. My life was easier, more superfluous, simply because of my calling. A calling which I, honestly, did not believe I ever had. Even then, I didn't believe it; but I faked it well enough, for we of the Moriel race are clever even as children, and know better than to tell the truth when silence better serves us. I kept my silence, reaped the reward I had not earned, and enjoyed my pampered life.

But even then, I could feel the emptiness in my soul where the Goddess ought to have been. I did not know the word 'loneliness,' at that time in my life--words like that, of blatant weakness, are not encouraged by the Moriel. We are an arrogant race in that regard, and tend to overlook our faults in lieu of calling them strengths. But even though I did not know the word, I was keenly aware of its meaning. For I felt it every day. It was with me in the morning time, and in the evenings; and it dulled much of the pleasure I was supposed to feel in going about my duties as a young learner.

Ironically enough, the only time I was not intimately aware of that loneliness was during the sex-play and learning that my former house encouraged. House Oblyx, to whom I was the youngest daughter, was not a major house in any regard; but we did have a specialty. From our early years, before we even fully understand what sex is, those who are our superiors take exacting effort to inundate us to its workings. I'm not sure if I took to it any more readily than other younglings, but I do remember a heightened interest and enjoyment in it as my adolescent years progressed.

I took many lovers, as well. I was a slut from an early age, and it gives me no shame to admit it. Nor did it shame me then, either; for in the society of the Moriel a woman is free to take lovers as she likes and without stigma. In this one aspect of my native society, I found enjoyment. I was free in my pleasure. And the loneliness didn't seem nearly so bad. I found myself often taking the submissive role in these encounters, and rumors of my behavior got around. I was mocked for it, but I didn't care; I was free. I was happy. As happy as I ever was, in the Nethergloom.

The first time I heard Her voice, I was overjoyed; but for all the wrong reasons. Thinking this to be the voice of Kirva, I heeded to Her call quickly and without hesitation; for this was the consummation of my purpose in life, the way it had been taught to me. To offer my prayers to the spider-goddess, to listen for her distant voice, and to act in her name. In my ignorance, then, I perverted the call of Ishtar's voice in my own mind until I was sure it was Kirva's. Images of lust and pain seemed so in keeping with Kirva's realm of dominance and aggression, that I paid them no mind.

Of course, there was no big to-do about this revelation. There couldn't be; I'd been faking it all this time, so I couldn't very well tell anyone about it without revealing the lie. But inside of myself, I was proud that I had finally made it. 'Fake it until you make it,' I had heard them say. But I did celebrate, privately. I took a lover that night.

He was one of the low-born of my own kind. Attractive, strong, and perhaps even quite intelligent; but none of these things mattered, of course. He was a male, so he was beneath me. He likely lied when he told me how much my presence honored him; but it served its purpose to swell my ego. I enjoyed him. Oh, how much I enjoyed him throbbing inside of me, likely too afraid of displeasing me to truly enjoy himself. The slave-man was an excellent fuck, and I rewarded him with the honor of being chained up in the temple of Kirva to be beaten for some imagined slight.

Heavy iron manacles were fixed about his wrists, and another set were set around each of his ankles. Chains draped down from two pillars set in front of the altar drew his limbs wide, exposing his naked and trembling body. This is how we position our men-folk and prisoners to be sacrificed; he knew this, and began to beg. I grabbed him by his hair. I remember him having such beautiful hair, glossy white as though from bathing.

"You will not die this day, slave," I hissed into his ear. My tone was harsher than it needed to be, intentionally trying to scare him. And by his recoil from my lips at his ear, I knew that I had done nothing to allay his fears from him. Naked except for a pair of boots, leather and heeled, I walked slowly around him. My fingertips graced his flesh, drawing faint lines across his chest and over the curve of his shoulder. I dug my nails into the side of his neck, and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying. I laughed to his face at his efforts, then drew away from him.

"Kirva has shown me Her desires for you," I said sweetly, amicably, as my heels clicked against the stone floor behind him, "and I intend to help you service Her." My fingers coiled around my whip. I hefted it from the altar, and swung it in the same motion. He took it across his back, in a straight line down his spine. The blow was wicked, evil, drawing a vicious welt and nearly breaking the skin. I laughed at him as his pain-wracked body yielded to the whip, screaming sweet songs of agony. I forced myself to laugh at him, even though I did not feel any pleasure in the act. This was my Goddess's work, I thought; so I forced myself to continue. I devoted myself to it.

I drew the lash back up, and wetted its length with my tongue. With my lips pursed around its width I continued to force my laugher; trying to convince both myself and the spider-goddess that I was enjoying this act in Her name. I swung the lash again, across the backs of his shoulders. Twice. Again, a third time. I lost count after the first seven, and his back was a crisscross of angry red lines by the time I was done.

But something was missing. Something that I only barely knew, that I had felt only once. The Call. More specifically, the feeling of satisfaction and self-worth that The Call had given me. I didn't feel it, doing this. And though my people are arrogant and sometimes deluded, we are most astute in matters of the spirit. As a cleric, I was even more so self-aware than most, so I knew something was not right with this. The Goddess was not here, was not approving this. I felt nothing from Her. I voiced my suspicion aloud without even thinking, for a cleric's conviction is that great.

"This is not my goddess," I said as soon as I thought it. At least, I thought I said it, at the time. My eyes went wide from fear immediately. This slave-man, had he heard me over his own screams? Had I even spoken a word? Words cannot describe the tense anxiety I felt in that moment. More than I had ever been in my life up to that point, I was afraid. Deathly afraid, for such heresy was not tolerated within our society.

My eyes went to the back of the slave-man's head. Had he heard? I couldn't very well ask him, for fear of revealing it if he hadn't. My course was clear. I hated it, and I still hate it. I had to hide my realization. I couldn't take the chance that he had heard me voice my dissent from Kirva.

I moved towards him, I circled back around in front of him. A pathetic slave-man hanging in the temple of Kirva, awaiting his punishment. His death at my hand. I could have beaten him until he was bloody and dead, and none would have questioned me. He was, after all, only a slave. A piece of property my family owned. And a male, on top of it. I could have been cruel to him, attempted once more to revel in Kirva's 'glory.'

But I didn't. That was not my place, I was beginning to realize. And he certainly did not deserve to suffer for sins he had not committed. I resolved to give him a swift and painless death. I even showed him affection, and compassion; and these acts of kindness only further sealed my course. He went to his death in hazy-eyed confusion.

I left him hanging there with a broken neck, in his chains. The chains that I had put him in. That Kirva had put him in. I found myself feeling depleted and empty, and I don't remember anything from the rest of that night. I know that somehow I found my way back to my chambers. My sleep that night is a vivid recollection for me. I saw the Goddess that night, and I was given my charge in life.

I beheld a woman of alabaster flesh smooth and delicate, her skin gleaming in the light like polished porcelain. One hand was buried between her splayed thighs, and the other was tweaking and pinching an aroused nipple. 'A surfacer woman?' I recall thinking as I first beheld her. And then I was struck with the awesome glory of her Divine Presence. Even in my dream, I felt it overwhelm and envelope me. It was like my skin was on fire and my very soul was burning.

There are no words to express what she told me that night, because she did not speak in any language. Her thoughts were made known to me, Her plan for me made evident, and Her will instilled upon me as my own. In my dream of her, I became very, intimately aware of my mistakes. I saw myself with a collar about my neck, the subject of beatings and rape, submission and slavery. A slave to the Goddess. To Her will. I must endure these things as penance? No, not that. Simply because the Goddess wills it.

My conscious mind balked at these images, wanted to fight against them; but there was nothing to fight. These were only dreams, and I couldn't scream them away. And deep down, I did not even want to fight them. I was beholden my Goddess, I knew just from seeing Her. I could feel her inside me, supplanting my nature and my ego. I could feel Her working Her will in me, changing me to fit it. She was making me Hers, and She was instilling me with the qualities She wished for me to have.

My people's inclination for cruelty and for dominance was suppressed by Her will, my lust for blood and for sadistic interplay quelled considerably. She wished for me to be a submissive. Her slave. A slave for the world. In my submission to Her will, I found my freedom: freedom from the daily drudge of my lonely spirit, freedom from the harsh ways of my people, freedom from the fear and the pain of living in a dark and desolate place. In place of fear, I was given conviction. I was given faith: a faith that burned my soul beyond recognition and changed me forever to be a servant of Ishtar.

I awoke the next morning newly refreshed. I awoke the next morning with images of the Goddess in my mind, and dancing in the peripheral of my vision. I awoke the next morning with a feeling of contentment and of devotion to something larger than myself. It felt so good to finally be committed to something, some one. I left my family's house that morning without a word. I did not slay their servants, did not destroy their temple, did not draw attention to myself as I made my way into wild expanse of the Nethergloom. I left, and by the grace of the Goddess I traveled safely through the underground wilderness and in the surface-world.

I am thankful to this day that the Goddess chose me to walk Her path, that She in Her infinite wisdom saw it fit to awaken me to Her Divine Glory. And though my path in Her service has been a difficult one, I am grateful to have had that honor; for there is no greater love than the love of the Goddess, even if many do not understand this. I have no regrets in having left my people behind, in having forsaken their cruel spider-goddess, or in having killed for my own safety and the temerity of my beliefs.

I have purpose in my life now. I am the Hand of the Goddess made manifest to work Her will in the world. I am the Voice of the Goddess given words to sway the hearts of the people. But most importantly, I am slave to the Goddess. I am Her kneeling pet, I am Her adoring servant, I am Her devoted follower. I am a cleric of Ishtar, and ever shall I be unto the end of my days; for She has called to me, and I have listened. I hear Her voice, and I obey Her will.

Further supplements shall be forthcoming, chronicling Verinnia's exploits in the Nethergloom, her adventures on the surface world, and her coming to the Empire!

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