Purity- a Salvis story (completed)

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(A/n: sorry this chapter's so long, but it's a finaly so, I had to)
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I woke up feeling so sick I thought I might pass out again.

My brain was on fire, I felt like someone had shot me in the throat. My stomach was in so much pain, it might have been filled with molten rock.

I let out a small groan as I lifted my head, trying to force my consciousness to come to me. I was cold and groggy, and the sharp pain in my skull was rapidly becoming unbearable.

As I tilted my head up, I very quickly figured out that it was a mistake to move that fast.

The movement sent bile careening up from my stomach. I threw a hand up to my mouth in a desperate attempt to stop the potential vomit from threatening me.

Or I tried, at least.

I soon came to find out that my arm was being held down by something. I didn't have time to see what before my stomach's content's screeched up my sore throat. The pain was taking up too much attention to aim away from my torso.

I panted and let out a final few gags and sputters, barely having the mind to realize it had to be whatever dad had made me take.

My head hanging, I suddenly heard a voice ring out from the darkness in front of me.

"Repulsive." He spat.

It was father, alright... but it sounded... off. Maybe muffled by something? It took everything I had in myself to look up.

Immediately confusion consumed my tired face.

"W-Wha-?" was all I got out before I felt my head shoved down to a bowing position, sending another wave of nausea to my stomach. It was only then I realized that the 'something' holding down my arms, was a cloaked figure on either side of me.

As I stared down at the mess on my lap, my mind frantically raced over what I had just seen. My drugged mind could barely process it.

My father had stood in the glow of candles in front of me, eyes visible, but the rest of his face... the rest of his face was obscured by a giant, ugly, metal dog mask. A black robe was draped over his shoulders, decorated with small tassels and pendants. I couldn't help but think of the examples of false gods in my old religion textbooks.

But, what was worse than everything combined, in his hands lay his shotgun.

The one that always hung on his office wall.

The one he always kept loaded.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

"He may rise, brothers."

Suddenly, the hand on the back of my neck was gone, replaced by one in my hair, forcing my eyes back up to the horrid display in front of me. I let out a short hiss over the pain it sent through my scalp, but I wasn't able to dwell on it for long.

After a long inhale, my father began to speak.

"This day was meant to come when you were a much older, much wiser young man. And under very different circumstances," He droned, an edge to his voice, "but after the events of the last week, I decided with the help of the high council that it is time. I fear this may be our last hope for you, son."

High council? Last hope? What the hell was he talking about? The more the drug-induced fog cleared from my head, the less and less I seemed to understand.

"For generations, our family has been part of something. Something bigger than ourselves.
We call ourselves the devourers of god. We have believed for centuries that one day, there will be a boy called the child of abomination, who will try to stop us from cleansing the earth of sin and filth. I've tried to stop him in the past, but I was never successful. Luckily, that prophecy has told about my child, and who is to be the  difference between our triumph and failure."