The High Father of the Panists, Bhava Fon, lay dying. He had been the titular head of the world’s main religion for almost twenty years, and his strength had kept the peace while also growing the mother church in both wealth and influence. He had as many enemies as anyone who reaches the top does; and though they wouldn’t take him on while he had a firm grip on the heart and souls of the populace, they were more than ready to pick at his corpse. A couple of different factions now met at the temple of Magnus, which served as the headquarters for the religion. His illness came on suddenly; but it allowed enough time for the Regent Fathers to pour in from all corners of Kronos to the country of Lourens. Lourens was House Odila’s Kingdom; but the real power was held by the church that was based in their largest city, Corbinus.

Wever Bran sat in his carriage with his chief advisor, Lehna Miraslav. Wever was tall and thin with an almost starved look on his long pale face. Like all priests, he had his light brown hair cut almost to the scalp, and no facial hair whatsoever. Unlike average monks that wore simple brown robes, he wore expensive golden robes with fancy piping and hand sewn designs. His assistant, Lehna was an attractive woman in her late twenties with long curly hair, swarthy skin and a bit of a long nose. They had travelled from Inram, a kingdom just a few days ride away. The Laima family ran Inram; but the King was seen as being weak, and it was well known that the wolves were at his door. The church had been a minor force in their kingdom; but under the steady hand of Father Bran, it was growing in influence. Now that Father Bhava was finally dying, he could be considered as a candidate to become the next ‘High Father’, or at a minimum, have some of his reforms implemented.

The healer held the old priest’s hand and mumbled some mantras over the prostrate form. There was a feeling of energy that flowed through the air and concentrated on the priest’s head and chest. The old man’s ragged breathing went from a death rattle to a soft rumbling. He turned to the senior priests in the room.

“I’ve done all that I can for him.”

“You were able to heal him?”, the house master asked. He was actually older than Father Fon and had been through several High Fathers in his lifetime of service to the Corbinus temple. The members of the senior council leaned in to hear if there was a cure in the works.

“No fathers, he is already on the road to the next world. I just eased his pain as much as I could. I think that Gods willing, he’ll not see another sun rise, and will pass quietly in his sleep.”, the healer said with gravity in his voice. He was a renowned healer and had performed near miracles in the past; but old age was beyond any man’s power to fix.

The council members filed out of the room, a collection of old men and women who held the power over the church that encompassed all the known Gods. They had suspected; but they now knew that the High Father was as good as dead, and it was time to begin the process of choosing his successor. Most of them were too old to want to take on the added burden of leadership, their days of politicking were behind them. After some haggling, and a little bit of informal negotiation, the field was narrowed to two who were young enough and still had a desire for the game. Wever Bran had a strong following; but his only rival, Felica Marten was the odds-on favorite. Her leadership would take much the same form as the current High Father, Bhava Fon. She stood for strong adherence to the scrolls that by legend, had been handed directly from the Lord God Magnus to the first High Father, Silas Ameron. Wever on the other hand was a reformer and wanted to bring major changes to the religion.

The house master climbed onto a chair so that he could address the crowd. When they saw him, everyone turned and stopped their conversations. “Brothers, sisters… if it is indeed the case that our master will pass this night, we all need to be prepared to move forward in the morrow.”, he was fighting back tears. “I will stay with him till the end, the rest of you, get some rest and we’ll begin deliberations in the late morning.” He stepped down, and without another word, went back into the sick room to be by his master’s side. Wever looked around, finding his assistant, he called her over. He whispered in her ear for a good long time, then smiling, retired to his cell.

The morning was bright, the start to a beautiful day. The priests entered the meeting room where the haggard house master awaited them. He looked like he had not slept in a week, and he didn’t try to hide his sorrow. The High Father died in the middle of the night, going peacefully thanks to the healer’s pain-relieving spells. When all were present and had taken their seats, he stood before them and called the meeting to order. After words of tribute had been said, and a few tears shed, he moved onto the new business.

“Now we are tasked with selecting a replacement for Father Fon. Do we have any candidates for the position of the next High Father?”, he asked the room.

“I nominate Wever Bran.”, proposed Njord Luca, a longtime associate of Wever. There were some positive rumblings, and a few negative grumblings.

Jet Callum stood, turned to the group, “I nominate Sister Marten.” This was greeted by near silence. Several of the members looked at her, then around at each other.

“Anyone else?”, the house master asked. No one replied.

“Then it is between Mother Marten and Father Bran. Who would like to speak?” There was a long silence, then Father Luca stood.

“It pains me to bring this up in public; but I heard a most disturbing rumor about the good Mother. If it’s true, then I would think that she could not be considered for such an important post. Perhaps not even for the office that she now holds!” he said, then sat quickly.

Another priest stood, “I too have heard the rumors that you speak of.”, he paused for emphasis. “If they are true, I find this most disturbing.” Most of the priests looked around, confused by the lack of decorum.

“What accusations have been made against me!”, Mother Marten demanded.

“That you have been planning to recognize the Quell!”, a priest exclaimed. “They are a death cult, and not a true religion. They should be exterminated, not bartered with!”

“They claim to be a religion; but they execute anyone who refuses to convert! We can’t deal with these animals, only putting them down like the rabid dogs that they are is acceptable.”, a Mother called out.

“I am not in league with the Quell, I hate them as much… more than any of you!”, Mother Marten exclaimed. “Under my leadership, we would conscript an army to quash this uprising. We would seek them out and destroy their leaders and burn their places of worship.”

Wever stepped forward, a hush fell on the crowd. “You say what you must say, Mother Marten, in order to win our favor; but we will not be fooled by your pleasant features and your honeyed words. Someone in league with the Quell can never be trusted.”

“True!”, Njord Luca called out. “There can be only one choice! We must have Wever Bran as our next High Father!”

“An accusation has been made; but not a scrap of evidence has been shown. I completely deny these false claims against me, and demand that proof be brought forward, or those who made these false accusations be sanctioned!”, she said sternly.

“Just what you expect the guilty to say. She is in league with the Quell, of that there can be no doubt.”, Father Luca yelled across the table. “Only Father Bran can save us from the influence of false prophets and religions!”

There were cheers and hoots in favor of Father Bran. When it came time for the voting, it was already a forgone conclusion. Wever Bran became the next High Father. After the council broke to return to their various lands, the new High Father pulled his assistant aside.

“Prepare the proclamation, we need to increase taxes drastically. The people have too much comfort and the church is barely getting by. We need to prepare for my initiatives.” She nodded in agreement and went about the church’s business.