"Oh... Oh. Oh my god..." 

The Virgin could hardly speak when she saw the multitude of tiny people, all in sandals and loin cloths and leather bras (some) milling about her. 

Her first instinct wasn't to rise up from her bed and take a look around- she just stood there for a few seconds, trying her damnedest to process why exactly little people were all around her- more than she could even count. Tiny men building wooden scaffolding around her neck. But why? This was terrifying. All of her mental faculties were speaking to her, her reason explaining that there could not possibly be an army of tiny people running around her, some climbing on her toes and some climbing her hair.

She saws that there was something rough, like a string, tied between her toes on both of her feet. She wiggled her toe out of curiosity, and the tiny person, a woman it looked like, shook with it and flailed her arms. She grabbed on frantically to the big toe, and the Virgin forced air out of her nostrils, amused by the spectacle. She then felt a sudden wrenching, directed at the nerve endings in her feet- her toes, despite the resistance she put up, were forced to spread, against her will. 

"Ow," she breathed, then seeing the platoon of tiny men pulling a rope- she couldn't see it, but she knew that somehow they had rigged her feet up to be pulled by rope. It stung, and she nearly teared up.

She felt the tiny footpads darting across her stomach and legs and feet and neck. They tickled, but she wasn't smiling. She tried to move her arm, but her eyes widened when she found that she was immobile. Panic gripped her, and the ice in her stomach formed and solidified. Why? Why was this happening?

"Who... Who are yo-"

"We," an ancient voice croaked, "are who we are. And thou, mine lady, art a goddess in sacrament."

The words stopped the Virgins thoughts. Sacrament? That was a word she hadn't heard in a long while. Not since her last regular church meeting. 

"A similitude in form of our great goddess, praise be, who nourishes us and saves us from sin. As she suffered and gave her body in death, so shalt thou."

The pit in the Virgin's stomach grew, the ice became like tendrils into her veins. Her eyes widened and wetted, when the reality of what was going to happen dawned on her. The idea of death becoming a very real possibility for her. She attempted to remove her arms and legs from bondage once more, but could not. She would try to move her torso and elbows, alas, he felt constricted there as well. She could not move, she was immobile. 

"Why," the Virgin managed to squeak out, now feeling much smaller than this tiny woman and her tiny followers  that crawled all over her. "Why are you doing this? What did I do?"

The priestess smiled a sickly, motherly smile, her teeth rotting. She came up to the Virgin's chin and set a withered, minute hand on the quivering thing.

"Nothing at all, child mine," the priestess said, patting the soft chin. "Nothing at all. But thou art counted among the sacred blood. Fear not," she reassured, "thou shalt not be forgotten, but cherished with each morsel of flesh and each drop of blood."

The Virgin's stomach churned.

------------------------

Jawm had seen them from afar off. He had seen them march like bugs across the floor in single rank and file, towards where the sleeping Virgin lay.

Poor girl. 

He saw them work across her, spinning their ropes and binding all portions of her that could be bound for the safety of the tribe and ease of entrance. He watched with jagged breath as they hauled their wooden planks up the bed post and marched them over to the gloriously white and beautiful neck. 

His heart leapt in his stomach when he saw her awaken from magic-induced slumber, the light exiting her eyes as she struggled and struggled and fought and fought but realized that there was naught in her power to fight against what was happening. He saw the poor green eyes wet with tears when the Virgin spoke to the priestess at her chest. 

There was nothing she could do.

There was, however, something that he could do himself. He would have to wait until the very right time to do so, but Jawm had that time. 

As he watched, his hand found his rib cage- the fucker Sigdar had cracked a few and some breaths became difficult. He would be required to choose his movements carefully in the next few hours. 

He looked up, seeing that the priestess was overseeing the last stages of the platform's construction. He had to move, parts of the Virgin would be unattended when the ceremony began. 

From his vantage point, just in the corner shadow of the desk that resided next to the Virgin's bed, he had a clear path ahead of him. Along the way to the actual bed, there were plenty of large objects and dishes that could hide his movement towards the post of the bed. He knew that there would not be much in the way of surveillance upon the desk, what with their only security threat, the Virgin, locked up tight, but Jawm would be damned if he was not going to be as careful as possible on his way over to the bed. What he was about to do was crucial. 

Jawm glanced over at the platform. Despite the Virgins wrigglings, the platform they built was fairly steady, even though it sat partially on her neck. He saw the priestess, her white plumage bobbing in the cold night air, ascend the makeshift stair followed by her bloody entourage. 

He began his own descent- he emerged out this corner in darkness and hid behind a nearby mug, feeling the cold porcelain on his cheek. He hugged around, placing his feet carefully to not make any noise- not that anyone could hear him over that deranged chanting, a chant he himself had once partook in.

As he dashed over to a shadow behind a book, he heard a croaking voice, familiar and prophetic as if from out of the wilderness, yell out to the now silenced body "and now, we hath come to the end of our soujourn sacred." As he crouched next to the book, he heard a chorus of unearthly voices. 

"Praise be," they echoed. Jawm knew his tribe's ritual had begun, an he didn't have much time. The Virgin didn't have much time. The sacrifice who would be fed to the Virgin had less time than all of them. 

He picked up his pace, sprinting across the table, suddenly not so concerned for discretion as he was for speed. With the tribe's attention focused primarily on the ritual and their stupid chants, Jawm could afford less discretion in his movement. He darted from object to object, not really taking his time to sink into darkness between objects. He was a little more than halfway across the desk when he found there was a straightway from the edge to the bed. Between the desk and bed, he knew, was a chasm that would kill him if he fell. 

"Thou shalt prolong us, ye maid, ye Virgin," came the speech from the platform. 

He didn't know exactly how long the gap was between the two boundaries, but he knew it was probably a jump. He glanced over to the bed peaking near the edge of the desk, and he saw that the bed was a great deal lower to the cold hard wooden floor than the desk. So, even if there wasn't a great deal of space between the two pieces of furniture, there would be a hell of a drop. 

"With life,” the priestess proclaimed, as the chants rose, "cometh death."

"My time runneth as water," muttered Jawm in frustration. He had to make a decision, which his feet did for him- he found himself running towards the edge the table with abandon. He had a sudden flicker of doubt- why was he doing this? Why was he risking his life to save one who didn't care at all to kill several of his comrades? Former comrades, he obstinately reminded himself. Still. Zdua. Ureat. One drowned in the Virgin's waste and one splattered all over the floor. 

He was nearing the ledge. If he wanted to stop, now would be the time.

"For the great, the small, for the quick, the dead," Jawm heard the priestess bellow. He neared the edge, committing to the jump. 

He measured his steps carefully- three, 

"For that which shalt come,"

Two,

"a similitude!”

One. 

Jawm pushed off his right leg with all his force, tucking his left below his chest, and then immediately regretting it when he felt his pain creak out of his ribs. 

He screamed when the rest of the crowd screamed, fervent in their religion as the girl on the platform unwillingly fed her blood to the Virgin, as Jawm sailed across the chasm and over the to clothen field where the Virgin lay and the tribe were. 

He landed rather softly on the pillow next to the Virgins head- it made him gasped when he landed on his back, not out of pain, but out of surprise- he did not expect to feel such luxury as he fell. He rolled up, in time to hear the priest scream,

"The ritual complete, thou shalt house us."

Gaining his orientation, he arose and parted over to a binding of rope that was attached to Virgin's nearby white wrist. As much as he wanted to admire the wrist, he pressed on. 

He came up to the bedpost, where he saw the dozens of ropes hold fast the wrist. She pulled at it, and, as a result, it was taut and ready as he felt the rope. He unsheathed his blade and started to saw away at the rope.

"Guards, spread our divine’s legs, that we may enter and know her, and break her seal, and feast.”

She screamed, and he sawed. And sawed. And sawed.

The rope broke, and the Virgin's wrist snapped free, unbound. 

Then, the chaos began.

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