A towering colossus of flesh and devotion, the Grove Hierophant looms above her congregation, a living idol of the Crimson Grove’s abundance. Her form, swollen far beyond human scale, is draped in rich, flowing vestments, their embroidered folds barely concealing the grotesque ripeness of her body. Tumorous growths swell across her flesh, their surfaces taut and glistening, pulsing with the same fecund energy that sustains her flock.
In one mighty hand, she grips an immense bell, its golden surface scarred by time and use. When swung, its deafening peal rolls across the land, a call to worship that cannot be ignored. The faithful hear it as a summons, the unblessed as an omen.
Clutched tightly to her vast breast is a great bowl, cradled with reverence. A smaller, vestigial arm stirs its contents with slow, deliberate motions. The thick liquid within, rich, fatty milk drawn from her own engorged teat, blended with the syrupy essence of the Crimson Fruit, sloshes with each movement, its scent cloying, irresistible. It is a sacrament, a gift of nourishment, an offering both indulgent and inescapable.
The Grove Hierophant does not speak; she does not need to. Her presence alone is commandment, her gifts a benediction. When she walks, the ground trembles. When her bell tolls, the world listens. And when the bowl is offered, none dare refuse.
