The Glutton's Confession

The air in the cramped backroom of the Cathedral of the Two-Headed Basilisks is thick with the scent of rancid tallow and unwashed silk. Fat Father Othemar sits behind a heavy iron screen, his breathing a wet, rhythmic wheeze that punctuates the distant tolling of a cracked bell. Golden candlelight flickers off his greasy jowls while a massive, three-armed hourglass on his desk leaks black sludge instead of sand. Strewn about the room are discarded rinds of expensive cheeses and stained liturgical scrolls, evidence of a feast hidden from the starving masses outside.