The late-night air remained bitterly cold.
But the darkness and shadows from the depths of night had, at this moment, been completely driven away by the radiance bursting from the Church.
It was not Holy Light.
That sweet, uncanny pink glow, the kind that made one's mind swim and go blank at a single glance, no matter how one looked at it, could hardly be associated with the word "sacred."
Even the hymn that drifted out from within, soft and rippling, carried an indescribably eerie note.
"We praise you, Chauntea, Mother of Plenty, Nurturer of Life!"
The stained-glass window that occupied an entire wall was dyed into a vast sheet of pink, turning into a strange backlight that shone behind the goddess's statue upon the altar.
"Your fingertips brushed across the earth, and waves of wheat surged into gold;"
"Your breath became the summer wind, and laden branches bore heavy fruit;"
"Your gaze was like the rising sun; flowers bloomed in abundance, and granaries overflowed!"
Pink light hung in the air as devout hymns lingered within it.
The strange atmosphere inside the Church, and the pink radiance surrounding everything, seemed to have no effect on its sanctity at all.
The benevolent Lady who held a rosebud in one hand and plump grains of wheat in the other still looked down upon the world as she always had, serene and gentle.
"In the name of Chauntea, our great and merciful mother, shaper of all things—"
"May the land be fertile;"
"May life never cease."
The hymn seemed to be reaching its end, and the voices of praise echoing through the air quietly rose.
The aged Priest in a brown-green ceremonial robe knelt at the goddess's feet, his body trembling slightly with the emotion surging within him, making the Holy Symbol at