Victory often did not have the sweet taste it used to. Ranks were swelling. The church was almost at its height. But there was something off. Something wrong. The robed priest padded their robes. He searched his holy fanny pack. Where was it.

"Tie! Where are my cigarettes!"

Another robed figure sprinted into the room. "We used the paper to write ceremonial scrolls, oh great one."

The great one opened up their ceremonial fluid vessel and gulped down a mouthful of the red liquid. "Any other news you want to let me know?"

"Great one, the vile Rebel Boys lost one of their raiding parties."

"So, the usual."

"It is another boon from the Acolyte! He deems our mission for our lady worthy and has sent the grimm after them!" Bellowed out the disciple.

"Why would they send more. We already have control over the ones in this area already through the Seers." Grunted the Great One as they wiped their mouth from another swig.

"They see our cause as just!" Yeah, they weren't home right now.

"You're dismissed, Tie."

"Thank you, oh Great One for your presence, and for calling me!"

"Yeah, yeah, leave my chambers," groaned the Great One, as they tossed the rest of the sacred fluid down their gullet. Damn, did whiskey burn good. The glass vessel clattered on the floor, as the Great One slumped forward, screaming silently into their holy lounge. How did they get here? Why did they manage to get away with this for this long? Why did everyone's IQ drop to a third of what it was as soon as Salem took over? These were the questions they had to ask themselves.

And why did they take their Great One's cigarettes to make paper? You can't write on that paper, nor were they even sure if it even was paper. They needed something, anything, to stay sane in this crazy world. Cause, by Salem's name, these nut-jobs weren't it, and neither were the possibly mentally damaged Rebel Boys.