Maedoc stared for a moment. He had not been expecting such a, total, show of loyalty. He had never been one to set much stock by the word of others, and knew his own was not worth much. But it was different when giving that word to a diety, in his own city, surrounded by his servants. But Rhysol’s macabre tenets were what had brought him here. At least here he might be accepted, of all places. The Dark God might understand the reasons for his dark past, and might even value his skewed sensibilities. But still, Maedoc was not a godly man, and had never really paid much heed to those he knew who were, save his father. But this could be his chance. He coughed and glanced around. “Right here then? In this office.” He thought it an odd place to state one’s undying loyalty to the divine, with the bustle of paperwork and clerks scribbling. He looked down at his worn hands, grimy from the journey across Sylira, and began to mutter uneasily. “Dark God, I have little knowledge of divine powers, and even less experience in prayer or worship. But I am an old friend of Chaos, and have seen first hand just how far a good man can fall from grace. I have fallen, and been falling for many years. At first I feared the depths to which this world pushed me. I remembered the lessons taught in the past and knew I was no longer a good person, an upright man. But now I no longer fear the fall, for I know you are here to guide me, to plummet me deeper into your chaos. Make of me the tool you require, Oh Dark God, and your will will follow with my steps.” Maedoc squeezed his hands into fists for a moment and blinked up at the registrar. “Is any of that acceptable or do I need to try again?” |