Creative Desecration

So, while I've been banging my head against the wall on Part Three of "In Over My Head," this other idea has been rattling around in my brain. Since Amber and her unique brand of odd hijinx have skidded to a staggering halt for the moment, I decided to put my other thoughts to pen (or keyboard, as the case may be).

This is less weird (a relative term with my writing, but still). Thus far at least, there's no demons or elementals or tentacles. It feels a little more airy, with a bit more of a slapstick side to the humor than IOMH.

As with all my writing of any remote merit, it's longwinded. This first part is a mite longer than the first part of my last story, actually.

Panting, head resting back on her crossed arms, Joanna let her eyes wander across the painted ceiling. Taking in the elaborate artwork depicting the creation of mankind, complete with a grisly scene depicting god rending the soul from his mate to instill life in the new creation, “man,” she sat up and looked to her left.

Under what was probably a very expensive blue altar coverlet laid her… well, perhaps partner was the most politic term. Black hair spilled around her head like a partly unfurled fan, slightly pointed features relaxed in exhausted sleep, Melanie looked nothing at all as a priestess of Belhur should. Her austere gray garb was in several torn pieces at the foot of the altar and her left breast was completely bared, one shapely leg dangling in the air and moving slightly as the woman snoozed.

Now that was decidedly not what I had in mind, Joanna mused as she quietly slipped off the altar and began hunting for her clothing. Plucking her shirt from a candelabra and pulling it over her head, she couldn’t help but look back at Melanie’s sleeping form and giggle. Clearly the superior method of profaning an altar, though.

After a few minute’s search, she found her leggings hanging by one leg from the spear on Belhur’s image, the eyelets at the waist pulled half out of the supple leather and the bit of lanyard nowhere to be found. Well, he is supposed to be a god of passionate and impulsive creation… I wonder if we created something ourselves? Snickering as she stepped into her leggings and carefully fed her limp member down the right leg, she held her pants closed with one hand and hobbled over to the altar.

I am here to be profane, after all. A bit of Belhur’s cloth would be fitting replacement laces for my breeches. Tearing the end of the altar cloth into a pair of long strips, she deftly tied her leggings closed then reached out a hand to push a stray bit of hair from Melanie’s forehead. “Might want to wake up, dear. You had best not be splayed naked on your lord’s altar