A rolling mountain of flesh and fervor, the Grove Pastor is a figure of grotesque grandeur, his corpulent form barely restrained by layers of opulent crimson vestments. His head, comically small amongst the great expanse of his shoulders, is crowned with a tonsured ring of wispy hair. His face is a mask of unrestrained delight, cheeks ruddy and moist, split by a mouth that never ceases its joyous proclamations.
He bellows his sermons with unbridled ecstasy, his voice thick and booming, carrying far across the land. His every word is a hymn to the Crimson Fruit, a promise of its salvation, a condemnation of those who would deny its gifts. Strung across his swollen body, small brass bells tinkle and chime with every jostling motion, their song joining his in a ceaseless cacophony of praise. In one arm, he hefts a great golden gong, polished and gleaming, its surface engraved with gorgeous filigree that seem almost to shift in the light. With each thunderous strike of the metal disc, the air trembles, an invitation and a warning alike.
The Grove Pastor does not march upon the earth like his lesser brethren. Instead, he is borne aloft upon a miserable beast, a wretched, skeletal horse, its ribs sharp against its hide, its gaunt frame quivering beneath the obscene burden upon its back. The creature staggers and lurches under his weight, its breath labored, its milky eyes sunken with exhaustion, yet it does not collapse. To be so gaunt amongst the Crimson Congregations feculent excess is a strange thing, the beast apparently unwilling to feast upon the fruit, as if knowing something the human folk do not…
Wherever the Pastor rides, the air is thick with his voice, his bells, his gong, a booming, jubilant summons to all who might listen. To the hungry, he is a herald of salvation. To the doubtful, he is an omen, a dreadful reminder that the Crimson congregation does not go unheard.
