Not every member of the Holy Imanjar follow their deities so wholeheartedly. Far from the Temple of Lonely Souls, in the courtyard of the Capital’s Temple of Victory,
“Divine puppets…. do you hear what they are calling us now! It is bad enough that the High Holy Imanjar get the majority of the offerings… Bad enough that the Deity of the Temple of Victory never calls upon us so-called lesser Holy Imanjar. Now the commoners call us divine puppets!” A middle-aged man with a bck goatee whispers angrily, waving about a walking staff.
“Shush, the Head might hear you” whispers back a young d of quite a nervous temperament. His foot taps in a steady rhythm while his eyes dart back and forth. He might have well been a mouse being held hostage by a cat. “It’s inspection day and I DO NOT want written up again. Let the commoners call me anything they want, it’s much preferable to being called into the Head Imanjar’s office.”
“But it’s true! It’s almost as if someone is spreading the term!” hissed a tall woman clutching a stack of newspapers.
“The Head’s coming!” shouts another member of the lesser Holy Imanjar, frantically running into the main courtyard from a side building and sliding past the others to get into position. Her eyes look huge due to fear and trepidation, her many small braids are scattered about and falling out of the hasty updo, and mud has turned the bottom of her bck boots the same brown as her robe. Such is the life of the look out.
The Head Holy Imanjar comes walking around the corner and enters the courtyard alongside the Temple Keeper, Austran DeLou.
Austran is an old, white-haired blustery fellow. With every breath he puff up his chest and body like a balloon, and every word comes out with a gust. He seems to be fighting for breath in the presence of his esteemed guest.
“Righty ho, here we have *inhale* Rafinel, rat looking man, *wheeze* told him his goatee looks like he pstered on shoe shiner’s polish *inhale* but he just will not listen *wheeze* I tell you *inhale*
The Head Holy Imanjar’s eye twitches. Poor Austran struggles, holding his breath in as his cheeks turn red.
“Quite… quite so,” responds the tall woman while she fiddles with her gsses.
Austran can finally continue, bsting out air with an answering “quite so!” With much hemming, hawing, and huffing, the rest are finally introduced. In summary, Rafinel is the middle-aged man with the bck goatee. The young d is nicknamed Scamp (he refuses to tell anyone his birth name, having decided it was hideous at the ripe old age of seven). The tall woman with gsses is in turn named Perfidence. Finally, the look out’s name is Afia.
“And this here *inhale* —
“Is myself, Vaza, humble servant of the Deity of Victory” interrupts the Head Holy Imanjar in a distinctly annoyed voice. “Thank you for your time, I must now attend to the Deity’s will. Good day.” Stomping off with much haste, his gold robes glint in the sunlight.
Perfidence pats Austran on the back as he colpses on the cobblestone floor, panting.
