The Basilica of St. Andric the Martyr

The Basilica of St. Andric the Martyr

Nestled amidst the heart of Old Praach's winding streets sits the Basilica of St. Andric the Martyr, the center of the Okral Pontificate's seat and the mouth from whence its wisdom is dispensed. Foremost among shrines to the holy mother, it stands to benefit most from her bounties, lined with gold tithed from the hands of the faithful and repentant - and give those bounties back to the city in term, housing infirmaries for the ill, a conservatory for those without the money to pay for the greed-extolled academies with their faithless deans, and many services besides to tend to those the city has abandoned in its sinful path. Not - of course - that the Okral Orthodoxy cares only for the poor! After all, it is the generosity of those few nobles with gilded hearts that keep the church in the position it is today. Once, it was the forefront faith of the region, but over time, its hold has diminished, only keeping a modicum of its former glory from the men in power who still adhere to its codes. One of the Veiled Lords themselves, after all, Stanislav Andriky, is the Head Pontiff of the Faith and curator of the Basilica - and while he does not always have the Duke's ear, the Faith is nowhere near losing its relevance even in its crusade against the secular decadence the rest of the culture has become.

Stanislav Andriky

Born Stanislav Kozlov, it is said that the man who was to become the Head Pontiff of the Faith was once a gambling, whoring son of a minor lord. He spent his days in gluttonous depravity, whittling away the money his late father had left him, when - one night, while staring out the balcony at the city below, contemplating the final step to end his hollow life, he saw the face of St. Andric appear to him. Born in the flickering torchlights, the glint of starlight in the river his kindly eyes, the curves of the street his stern-lipped mouth. He spoke to Pontiff Andriky, then.

"Stanis," he said, "my city is in ruin. This city which I gave my life to defend twice over, first as a soldier to my king, then as a martyr for my Faith. As our sacred Mother gave me new life, so I bestow new life unto you. Come to my Faith, dear Stanis, as all come to the Mother's hand when she beckons."

In a flare, the face vanished, leaving Stanis blinded and confused. That very night, he went to tell his friends what happened - and found himself unable to speak. Then, to his mother - and again, his tongue refused to leave the roof of his mouth. Finally, he went to the Basilica of St. Andric, a mix of fear and awe in his heart. Pontiff Servy was the head of the faith, then, and he took one look at Stanis' panicked eyes and knew what had become of him.

"Tell me your name, boy," he demanded.

And so Stanis tongue left the roof of his mouth, and he could speak once more.

"I am Andriky," he said, "and I am here to join the Faith."

The Okral Orthodoxy

In the beginning, all life flowed from Mother Okra's fair left hand like water, spilling out over the land in plenty. In the end, all life shall again return, beckoned back to her just right hand as the Greer flows up from the bay. So too do the celestial bodies navigate from palm to palm, so too do all lives start in birth and end in death. This is the will of the mother - a left hand to give, to nurture, to invoke tender care and bless the well with bounty, and a left hand to take, to finish, to met out retribution for those who were wronged and a just end for a life well lived.

It is a virtuous soul who accepts blessings from the left hand of the mother with humility, and who willfully gives all they can when the right hand beckons.

Our mother is a mother of fire. She is radiant as the sun, and is just as likely to make the plants grow in her brilliant light as she is to leave them shriveling in the scorched soil. Her will is a mystery, her intentions beyond what we can know. Just as the tongues of fire leave destruction in their wake, so too does the right hand of the mother bring disease, poverty, suffering - but as the fire leaves new growth in its wake, so too does the mother's left hand leave us stronger and more bountiful than we were before we suffered. The virtuous who accept their trials find bounty in its wake - the sinful who scorn their trials find naught but scorched earth.

Every week, we bathe our faces in ashes to remind us of this - in the fire's wake, the ashes bring new life.