The Sinister Nun and the Hollow Saints

Product: Sanctified Sin
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A Procession of the Lost

In the dim recesses of a forsaken cathedral, figures drift in silence, their forms shrouded in flowing vestments of tattered silk. Their steps do not echo, their breath does not stir the dust that lingers in the air. They move with the weight of something ancient, something broken, yet bound by ritual. Their faces are obscured beneath smooth, featureless masks of porcelain, cracked in places, revealing only hints of withered flesh beneath.

At the heart of the procession is a figure, unlike the rest. Draped in garments of deep crimson, her mask is marred by a jagged fissure that splits it down the middle, as though something inside had struggled to emerge, only to be sealed away once more. Her hands, pale as candlewax, clutch a reliquary of tarnished silver. Within it, a soft, wet sound stirs—a whisper of something still alive.

The Sinister Nun’s Burden

The reliquary trembles in her grasp, its weight shifting as though alive. For centuries, it has passed from keeper to keeper, its whispers never ceasing—a breath behind walls, a sigh in rafters, a voice at the edge of sleep. Tonight, it grows restless.

She hesitates at the ruined altar, the stone slab cracks and its engravings fade. Behind her, the masked figures kneel, their faces tilted upward in silent expectation.

A single chime rings out, deep and resonant, emanating not from the crumbled bell tower but from the cathedral’s very bones. The air stills.

The reliquary grows warm, and then hot, dark fluid seeps from its seams. It coils around her wrists like veins, and she feels it—something stirring beneath her skin, behind her ribs, inside her skull. Not pain, but release, as if something buried for aeons exhales its first breath.

The Awakening Beneath the Veil

The kneeling figures rise, their masks turning toward her in unison. The procession is over. The ceremony is complete.

From beneath their porcelain faces, something moves. The masks do not conceal them. They are the masks, hollow shells that now shift and twist, forming new expressions—expressions that do not belong to the living.

The reliquary shudders violently, and this time, she does not resist. The silver casing bursts apart, spilling darkness into the air, thick as ink, weightless as mist. It moves with purpose, curling around the gathered saints, pouring into the cracks of their porcelain flesh.

And as the last drop vanishes, they speak—not in voices, but in laughter. Hollow, echoing, relentless. The same laughter that once rang through these halls long ago. The laughter of those who had been waiting.

The Nun’s Revelation

The crimson-clad figure staggers back, her mask splintering further as the presence within her grows stronger. She remembers now—the vow she made centuries ago, the pact that bound her to this duty. She was not chosen; she was cursed. The reliquary was never a burden to bear but a prison to maintain. And now, its seal is broken.

The hollow saints turn to her, their laughter fading into a silence more terrible than sound. They step forward, their movements fluid and unnatural, and she knows what comes next. She is no longer their keeper. She is their offering.
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