Thaumutagy

Prolouge

Liminal Space

He shouldn't be standing there. There was no reason for him not to be though, there wasn't a single voice or sign begging him to move, just the back of his own mind. He was out of place. It was a surreal sensation that had his fingers nervously tapping against the flask in his hands. It was a liminal space. He loved it. Whether it was the surreal emptiness and think darkness that made him feel out of place or his secret "Satanic gift" that no one knew of that made him feel odd, he didn't know. Of course he did visit church every Sunday, for he did not want to arouse suspicion, it was the fact that he stood there willingly at such an obscure time that fueled his constant feeling of obscurity.

He walked to a large basin, simple but lovely, that stood proudly on the alter. He looked down into it, seeing his pale face reflecting back at him in the holy water. He looked into his own eyes, breathing in the scent of petrichor and musk, feeling the dank chill or the shadowy room, and listening to the low roll of faraway thunder and approaching atmospheric disturbances.

Seto blinked a few times, bringing himself back. He rubbed his cold finger over the chilling glass of the flask he held. And then, he dipped it into the holy water, watching the ripples disturb his image. He brought his hand from the freezing water and fished a cork out of his ragged pocket with the other. And with that, he sealed the bottle, and put it back in his bag, hearing it click against a vile of rose oil and a little sack of salt. Stealing was his way of keeping two of his primary practices sharp.

The wind was beating the door of the church and the thunder boomed louder than before. Apparently there really was more of the storm to come than he expected. He decided to finish up his work quickly. Seto looked into a little stand to the left of the alter, he approached it to see it was full of white scentless candles and a woven whicker basket of donations. He looked at the coins and emeralds, but his guilt paralyzed his hand. Instead he clasped his hand around a candle, taking three. He would not stoop to theft of donations. Besides, why steal money from the church if he always refused their financial offerings for the poor.

He lightly closed the rickety drawer and stood back up, his back popping. He rubbed his tired eyes and looked at the door of the poor old church. The wind was getting violent once more and the thunder was becoming more frequent.

"Oh creatures of nature, do take pity on our poor village," he whispered to the spirits he often found himself praying to.

He then placed his hand on the rough wood and exposed himself to the elements.