He rinsed his paws and face, wiped his body with a wet cloth, and dropped the cloth in the basin. The water was tinted red.

He slipped into his red silk robe. It gleamed and flowed around him like a waterfall of blood.

He entered the chapel. The sun was setting, painting golden streaks across the floor, across his face. He glanced out of the window, smiled as he saw the scarlet shade of the sky. The cross gleamed crimson.

Torca Marda stood in the chapel, clad in red, beneath a red sky, surrounded by the hue of his profession.


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