Where the Pilgrims spread faith with open hands, the Grove Acolytes ensure its sanctity with sharpened blade. Clad in juice-red vestments and encased in pyramidal, close-faced helms, they stand as the militant guardians of the Crimson Grove. Their forms remain more human than the lowest brethren, yet the fruit’s touch is undeniable, tumorous growths swell beneath their robes, their flesh ripe with the same excess that consumes the rest of their strange order.
Armed with shields of resin, harder than iron and shaped from the thick, sticky sap of the Crimson Trees themselves, the Acolytes fight with relentless, near-ritual purpose. To them, violence is not an unfortunate necessity, it is a form of devotion. Just as the fruit must be split to reveal its bounty, so too must the unworthy be cut open to receive the Grove’s blessing. They march in solemn processions, enforcing the will of the Abbey, defending its mysteries, and striking down those who would defile its gifts.
For though the Crimson Grove is bountiful, it does not tolerate refusal.
