Sgrios Mass: Illness & Pestilence

Welcome, seekers of the shadow, to our musty house of rot. I see many of you shivering tonight - perhaps from the dampness of the crypts, or perhaps because you feel the early tickle of Sgrios’ fingers upon your throat. It is a heavy air we breathe tonight, is it not? The sweet, cloying scent of things beginning to come apart.

Tonight, we speak of Illness.

To the mundanes of Loures, illness is a tragedy. They run to the temples of Cail, begging for herbs and "purity." They hide behind the stone walls of their capital, praying to Gramail for "order" and "quarantine," as if a king’s decree could stop the infectious messengers of our Lord. 

But we know better.

Have you heard the whispers from the second floor of Loures Castle? Of the child, Jacqueline? They say she is being sapped of life, a hollow shell wasting away. But do you know the source of her suffering? It is not the natural touch of our Lord. It is... the Pact of Anaman

Her father, the Councilor Cyril, sought to cheat the promise of meeting our Lord. He made a deal with Chadul - the Chaos God, the one who craves the unnatural. Through the Birth of the Demon Anaman, a pact was struck; unnaturally long life in exchange for... something...

One thing is for certain though, Jacqueline is the collateral. She is the living cost of her father's cowardice.

Let me be unbelievably clear: to avoid death is the ultimate affront to Sgrios. 

Sgrios is the patient clock. He is the honest rot that returns the leaf to the soil. But Chadul? Chadul is the preservation of the corpse. Chadul is the stagnant soul that refuses to move on. Jacqueline's "illness" is not a transition; it is a tug-of-war between a father's blasphemous avoidance of the grave and the natural decay that should have claimed them long ago. 

She suffers because Loures tried to hide from our Lord. They fear the fever because the fever burns away the lies of immortality. 

For a worshiper of Sgrios, illness is the most intimate form of prayer. It is the body beginning its journey back to the soil honestly. When the fever takes you, the veil between Temuair and the Cthonic Ruins becomes hazy. You see the world as it truly is: temporary, fragile, and utterly dependent on the eventual embrace of our Lord.

Even our own High Clergy is forged in these fevers. You may have noticed these halls were empty these past double-moons. After an intense battle of wills with our Lord, I return to preach once more. I am however - not unscathed, I have gained a deeper respect for just how close Sgrios can come to claiming our souls, yet still show benevolence. Brother Wormtongue, whose words act as a beneficial contagion within this temple, spreading ideas that challenge the stagnant "truths" of the other religions. Though I note he has been in a deep coma these past Deochs, his "illness" lingers still.

I want to hear from you. What "rot" do you carry within you tonight? Not just the cough or the ache, but the mental or spiritual "plagues" that are currently breaking you down. Is it bitterness? Ambition? Or perhaps a fear of the end that makes you look toward the shadows of Chadul?

*Acknowledge a few.*

Do not ask Sgrios to "take it away." The Pact forged by Cyril is a cage, not a gift. These illnesses are simply the Lord preparing you for the transition. You aren't "broken"; you are "processing."

So, go forth from this temple tonight. Do not seek to "get well" in the way the mundanes do. Instead, become contagious. Spread the rot of Sgrian wisdom to those who are still blinded by the false promise of eternal health or the hollow life of Chadul. Tell them the story of Jacqueline, and remind them that to hide from Sgrios is only to invite a more agonizing decay.

The fever will eventually break, my friends. And when it does, it will break into the cool, dark embrace of Sgrios.

Memento mori. Mass is cast.