[Western Fantasy] The black-skinned elf also wants to hug the rich woman’s lap today

The moon in the west is full.

Fog Lake is named after the mist that always appears on the lake in the middle of the night. The various spire towers are covered in the soft mist. You can vaguely see the crossed white wings on the roof, which look like a symbol of the embrace of gods in the daytime. The ghostly environment of the night is like the bewitchment of a siren.

The city in the lake, Waterili, has pure white water lilies sleeping in the foggy lake. The center of the Holy See of Light. It is the largest church area in the western part of the mainland. There are hundreds of churches in the city, and the residents also believe in the doctrine of light, and they are all the most devout believers.

Countless spiers surround the central tower. The white tower almost reaches the sky, but unlike other towers, it has no windows or terraces. It is just a straight white tower. This is an oracle tower that only priests can enter.

At this time, although it was already midnight, there were still several people standing outside the Oracle Tower.

A few, big shots.

Tonight is the last summer, and the sun will begin its return journey the next day, and it will be one year since the high priest entered the Oracle Tower. This is not a good sign. Although the cardinals were still communicating enthusiastically, who said they were not talking to dispel the panic in their hearts.

The zero o'clock bell rang first from the high pavilion clock tower in the center of the city, and then like some kind of contagion, various different bells echoed throughout the city, and finally merged into the night fog.

The conversation among the bishops also stopped unconsciously. Through the thick fog, a figure appeared under the Oracle Tower.

The high priest held a candlestick, and his too-long white shawl dragged on the ground like the wings of some animal. He said nothing and had no expression. The golden mask covered the upper half of his face, and every muscle was fixed in its corresponding position. He ignored the noble onlookers in front of the Oracle Tower and walked straight past, causing the group of cardinals to make way for him. Johnson Jr., the youngest and most ill-tempered among them, almost got angry, but was patted on the shoulder in a warning manner by his uncle Johnson Sr.

Everyone followed the high priest and walked towards the Cathedral of the Dawn. The high priest reported the oracle to only the pope. Even though the Pope has long delegated power to the cardinals, he is still the nominal supreme leader of the Holy See.

The innermost part of the third floor of the Cathedral of the Dawn is the "Room of Glory", a room that only belongs to the pope. The Pope has not left this room for nearly fifty years. Johnson Jr. had never met this leader, and even his Cardinal's ordination ceremony was presided over by Johnson Sr. In his mind, the Pope was nothing more than his uncle's puppet.

I'm afraid no one will even know that he died one day. He gave a sneer.

The high priest entered the "chamber of glory." The remaining priests were led into a cubicle next to the room by the waiter. It is said to be a partition, but actually there is a layer of wood between it and the Glory Room. The conversation in the room can be heard clearly in this partition.

The rancid smell of some kind of burning plant enveloped this small space, and it was as strong as a balm made from animal fat. Little Johnson sniffed and felt like vomiting. This is the smell of the high priest.

"No response." He heard the high priest say on the other end, his tone was calm and his voice was cold. He clearly felt that the temperature in the compartment dropped a few degrees.

"There will be no more reply," continued the high priest.

The temperature dropped to freezing point.

After coming out of the cubicle, the expressions on the faces of several priests were not good-looking.

Little Johnson was the calmest one, and even had the intention to pay attention to the fact that the Pope remained silent during the entire conversation.

The god's departure didn't matter to him. He is not very talented in elements. And faith? He believed that most of the people standing here wouldn't put it in the first place. There is only one problem that needs to be solved now, the weakening of the power of light.

Johnson Jr. doesn't find this a problem. In fact, the Holy See has already been making plans for how they will consolidate the power they currently hold when the light is gone and the sun sets.

This is nothing more than the replacement of energy. When one crystal is useless, replace it with another.

And now, they are sitting on a treasure.

He took a few steps forward to catch up with his uncle, and whispered into his ear, "The squinty-eyed Theon has been stationed at the crack of the abyss with the Purification Knight, and he is looking at it very seriously. Do you need to replace us? People?"

Unlike the irritable and mean Johnson Jr., Johnson Sr. appears to be a gentle old man. Every fold on his face exudes this kind light, and he speaks gently, "That's not necessary, kid."

His brown eyes rolled under Shura's eyelids a few times, "A good dog knows no master. Xion is not a person on either side, so he will guard the abyss more faithfully. No more 'things' will be transported Get out. That's enough for us."

"But..." The younger one still wanted to retort.

"My good boy." Old Johnson tapped the crutch in his hand on the ground. "We are still courtiers under the bed. Our actions cannot be too obvious. Remember this. Don't forget your identity."

Little Johnson frowned and responded. But he still didn't understand what it was about the pope who never showed his face that made his proud uncle so vulnerable. Could it be that he has the thin blood of God that only exists in legends?

To say this disrespectfully, let alone the fallen God of Light, isn't even the future... already in their hands?

Just as he was thinking about it, a man came running from the other end of the corridor. Little Johnson recognized him as a priest stationed in the Imperial City.

"Sir!" The man stepped forward hurriedly and saluted Old Johnson respectfully, but he still couldn't hide his anxiety. "The Queen wants to summon you!"

This is not a good thing. Little Johnson sneered in his heart. Not long after the high priest stepped out of the Oracle Tower, news had already spread back and forth between the Imperial City and Waterili.

Fortunately, they still have a bond with the Queen, so the Queen will not embarrass them too much.

"There is one more thing, sir." The priest lowered his head even lower, "There are rumors in the palace..."

He trembled, "'Porcelain Princess' Anne Rogere is missing."

"Huh." Little Johnson heard his uncle laugh, full of sarcasm, "Good boy, do you think this 'disappearance' was directed and acted by the Queen herself?"

Johnson Jr. could not answer. The birth of the Porcelain Princess was a gift from the Holy See to the Queen, and her existence symbolized the secret agreement between the Holy See and the royal family. But at this critical moment when the Holy See was extremely weak, she disappeared.

"Let's go, you have to meet her. This woman is more greedy than I thought." Old Johnson called the servant to get a velvet robe, "My child, you stay here. Although the sun is shining brightly, It has fallen, but the afterglow is still there. Keep the dignity of being 'bright' and don't let anyone see the clues in it."

Little Johnson lowered his head humbly in front of his uncle. After a long time, he raised his head again with pride.

He strode towards the outside of the church, but accidentally saw a figure in the courtyard in front of the church. He was a priest who was over fifty years old. His hair was half gray, and he had not dyed his white hair black as was the fashion nowadays. His clothes were simple, matching his status, and they only wore red and white priest uniforms. He stood there, his body slightly stooped, more like a long-time laborer than a missionary, looking at the most exquisite fountain pool and stone carvings of the Cathedral of the Dawn in trance.

Oh, of course he knew him. Little Johnson turned around in disgust. "Sculptor" Leo, the stone sculpture in the fountain pool is his famous work "Claire, the 'Morning Sun' that guides mankind forward". The guy who had such bad luck was obviously just an ordinary stonemason in the temple, but his work was noticed by the person above him. He was promoted to a priest, and later was selected as the caretaker of the "Meat Box". Now he is actually with a group of them in red clothes. The bishop was an equal.

cut. spat the noble-born arrogant, indignant.

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The first scent of the night is voluptuous tuberose, like layers of satin. Large tracts of indole spread out, covering up the rancid smell of the white flowers.

The young maid opened the bead curtain and presented her master with fruit wine made from pomelo and the latest developments in the city lord's mansion, "The counselors have sorted out the list. The invitations will be sent out tomorrow."

As she bent down she could not avoid seeing the profile of her master. The hedge witch Chrissy is different from the rumors in the outside world. She is not extremely beautiful and her appearance is not aggressive. She looked at the firelight in the embossed sterling silver incense burner. Her light brown hair was draped over her shoulders, and she gently held her chin. She was a sad and passionate lady.

The maid had never thought that she would interact with a witch, which made her uneasy. This is not really any discrimination, the main reason is that witches are too rare, rare and mysterious. Legend has it that they gave up half of their souls to the gods of other worlds, and in exchange they gained eyes to see the world.

There are not many records about witches in history, but every time they appear, they are always accompanied by huge changes. Over time, they gained the notoriety of "banshees."

"Melissa." The witch's voice was no different from that of an ordinary girl. It was not frightening and confusing. It was as gentle as a feather. "Do you want to come and take a look."

The maid hesitated, and finally curiosity got the better of her. The witch pressed her on the seat and guided her to look towards the flames. "Don't be afraid. Follow the instructions and stand on the inside of the 'hedge'. Don't cross the line. I will protect you."

"What did you see?"

The maid's mind has been completely captured by the leaping flames. This was different from the flames she had seen before. Unlike fire, it was like a bright mist. The fire was like a warm embrace, like a suffering god, struggling to pull her into the burning center. She unconsciously wanted to step forward, but felt hindered by her waist. It's a hedge.

"The moon," she answered truthfully, "a huge, sharp moon. The moonlight wants to penetrate me."

"Then what?" the witch lowered her voice.

The maid clenched her fists, as if she was trying to fight against something unknown, "There is one star. Only this one, falling from the east to the west, tearing the sky apart with the light of fire."

"there is none left?"

"Nothing."

But then she hurriedly denied it.

"Ah, there's more, there's more." This time she couldn't help but stepped forward, but was stopped by the witch who was standing aside and observing.

She was so close to the flames that a drop of sweat fell from her forehead like a tear.

She did shed tears, her eyes filled with tears, and her expression was painful and regretful, but she still couldn't help but look at the illusory image in the flames, as if there was something in it that hooked her soul.

"what……"

"That is……"

It was so warm, wet, endless, and unknown.

dark night.

The moon disappears and the lone star falls. Only this lonely black is left.

In the darkness, memories surged. The cry of a baby, the silent cradle, the hum of a mother, the silent grave.

Falling into this pure blackness, one forgets one's own existence while lamenting one's own insignificance. Taking stock of the losses in my life like countless treasures, my desire to save them is ultimately out of reach.

The most painful thing is not losing, but being deprived after gaining.

Hence the tears.

So cry.

She was crying. The night is also crying. This is grief that passes like an umbilical cord. About the grief of loss.

Chrissy blew out the fire in the furnace. As a spice, the mimetic letter flower maintains the form of a dead flower, but the petals are no longer pure white, but completely black.

"Isn't this an obvious fact?" She said to herself, "After the light, there will be darkness."

"The tragic, lingering night."

"That's the 'rule'."