Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters, setting contained within. Bioware/Black Isle/Interplay does.
I
"I give of myself to strengthen you."
"We give of ourselves that you shall live."
Hands extended, he finished the rite. Briefly, a golden nimbus flared, surrounding him and his followers. Its shimmer was broken only by the pillars ringing the domed chamber. He was the sole source of light. Around him, five of the soulless lifted their clawed hands, their skin a delicate porcelain pearl-grey. A line of acolytes knelt, their faces reverent. All were hooded, all wore long sleeves, their robes the hue of silver mist. He alone stood with his face bared, his eyes glowing, sheathed in radiance. Two tears fell, quickly gathered up by the soulless at his side. Delicately, the ceremonial knife flicked, and two more droplets joined the tears. Light encased them, shining outwards. They hardened, becoming as crystal, relics of the faith.
The soulless held them aloft; the chanters worshipped.
The smell of incense was rife.
From the shadows, 'Wingless' watched. That is how they thought of her. His hands lifted and his followers dispersed. There was no alter, no holy symbols lining the wall, only a statue of a young woman. He was their alter.
"She will rise again."
"Her breath will bless us all."
"Witness and believe."
"We witness and believe."
She watched as the soulless glided away, effortless in their undying grace. Slowly, she sucked in a breath. Reconciling their presence was not something she had ever considered until recently. Even now, they still made her skin crawl. Their lifeless eyes didn't help. Lifeless, pale reflections of what they were in life, shades. That is what she believed. Had believed… until she witnessed the rite. Slowly, their eyes had changed over the many days; now they reflected their master's, their hue matching his. They no longer feasted on blood but fed on him, on faith.
"Aerie."
"M-my lord." She bowed her head; she had not heard him approach. Gently, his firm fingers lifted her chin. An unconscious tremor ran through her. His features were perfect, serene and she calmed. "Master." His smile was like the rising sun and she found herself mirroring it hesitantly.
"How fares the work?"
"I – I – it's almost done."
"I would not ask it of you…"
"N-no." She shook her head. "P-please."
His smile warmed, and through his eyes, she felt a formless touch brush her cheek. She curtsied. It was a human gesture she affected, but one she could not help though he never demanded veneration. "I look forward to reading it."
A history. A sacred text, the record of his cult. Then he was gone. She shivered.