I watched the sun slip slowly below the horizon. It had been years since I’d seen a sunset, or a horizon. As the sun disappeared, I stood up, dusted the earth off of my robes and entered the temple. Another experience I hadn’t had in years.
The interior of the temple was quaint, but functional. More than sufficient for the small colony in which I found myself. I made my way down the center aisle, admiring the paintings that hung on either side of the congregation chamber. Most were landscapes or depictions of parables; all were copies of art in the great cathedral on Amarr prime. One was unique, original, a depiction of a plain man of Matari descent standing in a field. I stepped between the synthwood pews to take a closer look. The paint was real, the frame was oak.
“Saint Terrance,” came a soft voice from behind me. I turned to see a tall man, clad in robes of the order smiling at me. I looked back at the painting.
“I’m not familiar,” I said simply.
“Not many are, a missionary and our patron saint here. He died a few decades ago, executed while trying to spread the light to the native population.”
“How can I help you child?”
“I’ve come to confess, it’s been a long time father.”
He smiled and gestured toward the confession booth.
“I have as much time as you need,” he smiled, “a luxury of serving The Lord in a small backwater colony.”