No darker day could be remembered on Cloven Crest Island. The sea broiled, frothing up around its rock littered shore, tossing foam capped tresses angrily, as if rising to meet the rumbling, lightening ripped battle cry of the purple black sky above it. The wind wailed, hurling itself through every crack, crevice, and unfortunately for some stragglers struggling away from the beach, nook and cranny of the human body, thoroughly soaking and chilling.
They were dressed in unrecognizable culminations of robes and cloaks, wet weight against their bodies. Properly dried, they would be rich indigo, embroidered in silver at the bottom hem, sleeves, and necklines. Sea green prayer beads rattled busily on their necks. These were the Cloven Crest priests, important men who lived exclusively inland, spending a considerable amount of their time locked inside the temple at the top of Cloven Crest, a large, gradually sloping hill with a dipping swirl crest of cliffs and hills at the top, famously covered in bright mint clover in the spring. But these were the wet seasons, and the Crest, and the jungles at the bottom of the start in higher elevation were battered by the continual storms.
The priests were laboring now past the settlements of the lower classes on either side of the winding path that led up to the temple. Between the eight of them, they bore a wooden slab, hastily fixed to poles for easier carrying. Atop, lashed down tight, was a garish purple and dark wood chest, the length of a body and several more times heavy.
In what seemed like forever, the finally broke the threshold of the solid gold gate bars, after nodding to the guards, and shambled wearily down elaborative, decorative hallways. They could still hear the storm calling to them from outside, though they were safe inside the incense warmth of indoors. They eventually came to the main room, a large, speaking area, with an extravagant array of statues of various gods, adorned with offerings of earlier that day.
The burden was laid down in front of a short, balding man with frazzled wisps of hair, with large, watery gray eyes. He stopped weakly, and bowed back with just as much enthusiasm when the men who had brought the chest showed their respect.
"Hail Holy One!"
"Fruitful in the divinity may you be," the old man answered listlessly. His attention was keenly focused on the heavy lid. Sprawled across the beautiful surface were ominous symbols and signs, and a strangely crude carving of a hand, as if it was done recently. He ran his weathered fingers over it softly.
"How did you come about this?"
"Holy One, Voice of the Gods, it was locked in the violent womb of the seas, then tossed upon our shores. The sturdiest of homes, further up coast, were reduced to ruins, but this didn't suffer a scratch. Such a strange matter, we thought it best it be brought to you."
"As you were right in thinking." The ecclesiastic man murmured thoughtfully. "Leave me be, and further praise upon you, my loyal sons. Hef and Lan will watch over you tonight." he said, nodding up at two, ceiling high gold statues. Massive, androgynous figures, twins with the features of pine martens, glittering emeralds for eyes. Blazing incense burners smoked out red tinted smoke beneath them.
As a group, the indigo dressed followers left, their respectively quiet talk a low hum that followed them as they turned down a darkened hallway that led off to the private chambers.
The high priest of Cloven Crest Island, Setul Abdem, had enjoyed his position for several decades, growing up primed for his somber role. He oversaw all temple functions, including the gathering of offerings, commemorating and blessing of unions of the young couples of Coven Crest, performing the ritualistic rites for the dead, and deciphering and communicating all of Hef and Lan's portents and omens. Hef and Lan were their gods, and to them, anything else was pagan, looked down upon. Hef and Lan were the physical translations of the Great Will, the ever-present intention of everything to come and be. To defy it was madness, and the only way you did not do this yourself, was to listen to the priest, who were the vessels of the messages of Hef and Lan.
Despite all of Setul's experience and years service, he felt an unfamiliar feeling pass through him as he circled the chest, delicately plucking straggling seaweed of it's glossy surface. It was a dark thrill, a little shiver than ran up his bent spine, but left a curious weight in his gut, something akin to dread. He did not recognize the language in which the symbols communicated, nor did the golden hand so painstakingly whittled into the wood mean anything to him. He supposed it was a remnant from across the seas, to where no decent Cloven Crest inhabitant would dare go.
He licked his suddenly dry lips and rubbed his hands. He looked up, noticing how the candles burned low, and he was indeed alone. The storm seemed to have quieted, he observed.
Giving his hesitation a quick push, he hefted the lid open, it falling back with an audible bang to hit its own side.
He gasped.
Inside was the most exotic, expensive, most meticulously melded statue of gold he had seen in his entire life. The gold shimmered like melting butter, and its surface was flawless. It was the likeness of a man, a huge, great man. He took up the entire inside, from his gold boots, to hairless sculpted head. He was dressed oddly, like one of the foreigners that often came seeking trade on Cloven Crest shores (only to be turned away, naturally). Setul was confused, awed and cowed. What purpose had this served in its native country? How did it come to visit their shores? His mind, so habitually stuck on the ordinary, whirred excitedly. He looked up at the gold statues of Hef and Lan, and audaciously, thought that this statue gave them a run for their money in detail.
He examined it yet again, taking in the broad, faux chest, and the fierce, closed expression. He reached out to touch the only oddity on the entire figure, a clawed hand.
He let out a scream of horrified surprise as the instrument reached up, quick as lightening, and plunged into the unprotected skin of chest, plummeting into the soft, living tissue beyond. He gurgled, a dribble of blood seeping from his thin lips, staining the now living statue's front. The expression he had marveled at in its likeness to reality was twisted in an all too human grin of wicked delight. He pulled the dying priest close, unconcerned about the shouts of guards rushing to his too-late rescue.
"Boo", he whispered.