I Can't Even Begin to Think of What to Call This

God died last Tuesday.

Unfortunately for the people of the Holy Kingdom of Tavarin the world did not end in Blessed Ice and Fire and the infidel barbarian responsible still marched inexorably toward the Sacred City. When word of the Great Isarius' death reached the Royal Temple, the High Priest and his acolytes wept aloud in the throne room, tearing their clothes and bathing in ashes; sending long, heartbroken prayers up with sweet incense. No one asked to whom they prayed, if God was dead.

News of the undaunted barbarian march came soon afterward. The High Priest ceased his wailing. He gathered his acolytes, faces a mess of ash, bodies perfumed with incense and prayer. They stood in ranks, youngest to oldest, as the High Priest slit their throats one by one, reciting aloud the last measure of the Holy Words. The High Priest then turned his knife on himself as he uttered the last Words.

The Great Isarius' women saw what the priests had done and for the first time were afraid for themselves in their cloistered luxury. Some fed themselves and their small children poison. Others fled in the night, seeking the shelter offered by less pious lords who had abandoned the Temple before news had even arrived. By Friday, none remained.

God was dead. His lords and priests and women had followed after him or gone their own ways. But the world had not ended and the Royal Temple of the Sacred City in the heart of the Holy Kingdom of Tavarin, still had the daily business of its shredded kingdom to attend to.