The last words of Thelonius the Scribe - Part V

Hello Paxians

This is the one before the last text from Thelonius. You can find the previous texts in our earlier blogs listed below. Thelonius, Part I Thelonius, Part II Thelonius, Part III Thelonius, Part IV

The Age of the Papacy (2996 to ~3900)

Then came Mellephaneous, the Eighth Redeemer. She brought neither fire nor flood, but order.

With scripture in her left hand and the seal of the Divine in her right, she reopened the gates of Axis Mundi, restoring communion between the Four Kingdoms. Her voice was not loud, it was final. Her word ended quarrels, stilled armies, and bound kings to a common path.

In her time, the first Petrae Dei were raised: great standing stones, carved from sacred granite and engraved with the sigils of the Holy See. Within each, it is said, was set a relic from the monastery of Oroael, touched by the Sixth Redeemer himself. These stones carried doctrine across the realm, and when needed, called the faithful to arms… or sent the Papal troops to a valley. They became pillars of unity, and of discipline.

Mellephaneous ruled for one hundred and twelve years, unwavering, untiring, unchanged. When she vanished, no tomb was found—only her robes remained, folded upon the seat of judgment.

She left behind a world of peace.

But peace, left too long in silence, begins to harden.

The Divine did not send another Redeemer. The faithful believed none were needed. Yet while the altars gleamed, the old sins returned. They wore mitres, kissed relics, and echoed the language of sanctity.

The Papacy reigned uncontested. Trade prospered, fields flourished, and cities gleamed beneath painted glass. But thought dimmed. Curiosity slowed. The word of the Holy See became law, and law replaced learning.

The first Crusades marched against demons. Others followed, targeting the Fay, the shamans, and the singers. In time, no one was safe who remembered too much.

The House of Thornwood, who kept the rites of the Great Mother, was the first condemned. Their groves were cleared, their chants silenced beneath liturgical proclamation.

The House of Radiance, claiming bloodlines from the ancient dragons, was erased. Their halls were sealed in salt and their names struck from memory.

The Paladins of Solhart, once guardians of the Golden Stag, were declared heretics. They had stood too long with the druids and sang too often in the old tongue.

The Unbowed would not kneel. Scribes and sages who knew no throne but the one bound to the roots of the world, they vanished into the forests, taking songs and stories with them.

In the soot-blackened ruins of Oroael’s monastery, a spark remained. From scattered scrolls and broken tablets, the Karma emerged. They taught that balance was not rebellion, and that justice could still be lived. Papess Elusphan declared them dangerous. They were pursued and scattered, but they were not erased.

Even the scribes were watched. In the name of simplicity, storytellers were banished and their verses burned. In the name of purity, inquiry was condemned. The Holy See taught that if the Divine wished something discovered, They would send a Redeemer.

Some popes were wise. A few were kind. Most ruled only briefly, their names lost among the incense and stone. But there were others, remembered not for their virtue, but for how deeply they wore their masks.

Pope Maulen, remembered as a scholar and builder, enshrined pride. He filled the cathedrals with his own image and rewrote the psalms to praise his name. He declared the Papal Throne second only to Heaven, and the people rejoiced, unaware Heaven had turned away.

Pope Malhenus established the Inquisition. Its structure echoed the armies of Anatolia, a gesture meant to honor the Eastern Kingdom. In truth, it hollowed it. The finest soldiers pledged not to king or country, but to doctrine. Within a generation, the Inquisition became the greatest military power in the realm.

Pope Luseman ossified the Church through silence. He wrote edicts more often than he spoke them. Councils bloated. Reform died stillborn. Sloth grew in the corners of the sanctuaries, unnoticed and unchallenged.

Papess Senehua, whose laughter once brought joy even to the dying, turned levity into ritual. She made fasts into parades, shortened prayers into rhymes, and turned sacred vigils into games of wit and charm. Laughter replaced awe, and holiness became a performance.

None of these sought ruin. Each believed themselves righteous. Each followed the path of virtue into darkness, and never looked back.

And still, no Redeemer came.

For more than eight centuries, the Papacy endured. Eighty-two names are carved into the pillars of the See. Some polished its walls. Others watched them crack.

Then, one morning, a man arrived barefoot at the gates of Axis Mundi.

His name was Loïos.

He carried no seal and wore no title. He asked for no crown, made no claim. He only asked the people to rest, to remember, to listen. His voice was quiet.

He never reached the altar.

Some say it was fever. Others whisper poison. Some believe no Redeemer dies without purpose.

After his death, the Petra Dei began to hum. The leylines rippled. And though the cathedrals still stood, the earth beneath them had begun to stir.

Thus ended the Age of the Papacy. 

Not through fire. Not in rebellion. 

But in silence the wind no longer carried.

—Thelonius the Scribe