The robes he is given are cold to wear, dried in the rolling breeze of a late fall day. But they fit, and they are new; newer than the worn shirt that rest on the table behind him.
Karthus lifts the staff of the tallymen, horizontal to his person - two single rings dangle from the base of the staff's carved head, a solid mass of what appears to be made entirely of iron. It is unevenly balanced, and angles down towards the floor as Karthus holds it in his hand. He turns it to direct its carving up, towards the ceiling.
Father Anton told him the rings are wards for spirits to leave a body be, for they are hunts of the Kindred. They rattle against the wooden pole and the curve of the iron, and spirits see the robes of the service before they flee. Karthus brings the figurehead towards him, touching the iron rings. They are roughly carved, and running his fingers against them allows him to feel stone grit crumble from the carving.
It might as well just be ore itself, hollowed free and looped around a staff. He quite likes it. They're heavy, and the sound is unpleasant to everyone else.
Brother Djoro is a man of short height, Karthus' age, and a bald head. He enters the room, a book of prayer under his arm and a hand pulling on his white collar.
"We look like wholly different men in these, dont we?"
Karthus doesn't look at him - but allows him the attention of his head turning, just enough that he can still look at the rings. "I do not like the colour white. I would rather dress in the black of Brother Frederick."
"It's because we're novices," Brother Djoro replies, stepping to his companion and patting the shoulder of his taller companion. "One day we will dress like the priests, Karthus. I hope that day comes soon for us both."
Karthus makes a pensive sound. He pushes up one of the rings, and allows it to clatter the iron. "Are we requested for prayer?"
"Once we are sworn in ceremony, yes. Do you like the staff that much?"
He repeats the motion, the iron scraping against itself, a dull and hollow sound. "I enjoy the sound it makes."
Brother Djoro's brow furrows. Karthus doesn't see, but knows he does anyway. "If you're eager for prayer, we may enter the chamber to witness. They'll swear us in once they are done."
Karthus finally turns his hand and brings the staff to stand. Brother Djoro watches, and he watches warily - Karthus sways the staff forward and back, rolling its heel against the wood floor. There's a short smile on his lips, absent from Brother Djoro's presence.
"As you kneel," Father Anton speaks, with his voice that rolls like thunder on a day marked with rain, "I will ask you to speak of the words written within the Book of Verse. Repeat the Oath of Service as you are blessed, boys."
Both Karthus and Brother Djoro kneel in a chamber of men in black robes, before the beautiful glass of the Arrow's Dance. Evening sun peers into the blue and indigo of the painted glass, casting the gentle shadow of the Lamb's mask upon those in thought and prayer. Before the boys lay their books, spread to the first page of the service chapters.
Karthus' mind drifts among the plane beyond any man made wall or country border, where the Hunt is everlasting and the Kindred lay to rest the souls taken. He breathes air that does not exist so he may find a name for his long-sought desire, thoughts walking through grass that parts for the body to pass. Will they see him among the grass and understand his devotion? Perhaps they will.
Devotion does not spare one of the Hunt. But that is the purpose of such love; a devotion declared in spite. And should the Kindred be enraged by such unnecessary love, they would tell man of its blindness through a dying prayer on a dead man's tongue, his body ripped in half by hungry teeth and arrowheads used as blades.
But that is no such punishment.
Karthus' body speaks the verse:
In devotion we shall observe the balance of life, and cherish that which we are given. It is a gift of Your that we possess, and Your arrow may claim It as you so choose. Your punishment of teeth is not one to fear, but one to reflect upon and understand. We offer ourselves as servicemen, so that You may know of us when the Hunt does come. We will bless the bodies You take for the Hunt and cherish Them, as we cherish Your judgement.
To utter the Oath by the Father's feet is to swear service to the Kindred eternal - opening one's mind to the understanding of death and unveil purpose in one's existence. Upon his head, Karthus can feel a hand press down on his thin hair, Father Anton casting an open palm in the shape of the Mark above him. He mutters his response, and Karthus can not - and does not want to - hear the words spoken by him. He knows what the ceremony of service proceeds as.
There is only his thoughts, and how his body, which is less of a body than most men, does not drift with them. It does not matter, when he reaches for the name of life and death in the mist, a thick grey that spills from between the Masks of the Lamb and Wolf. The name and purpose, the existence between..
Karthus does not return to mass until it is well through the ceremony, standing by Brother Djoro in newly draped black cowls over their white robes. The staff rattles with its iron rings when his body stands it even to its side, and it awakens him to the presence of his company.
There is truth to his devotion, but he wonders if the taste of the oath on his tongue will last. The Masks watch the service above, and Karthus thinks about the dead body of Elesia hanging from the tallymen's cart.