The Chalice Matron stands as a pillar of devotion, broad-shouldered and thick-armed, her form heavy with the same rampant growth that burdens all who partake of the Crimson Grove’s gifts. Tumors swell beneath her robes, her flesh ripened by years of indulgence, yet there is no frailty in her bearing. She is strong, steady, a nurturing presence amid the fervent and capering congregation.
In her calloused hands, she carries a great bowl, brimming with the thick, glistening juices of the Crimson Fruit. To drink is to be nourished, to be made whole, to surrender to the Grove’s embrace. She ladles it out with patient care, ensuring that none among the faithful go without, that all may partake of the bounty and feel it take root within them.
A small brass bell rests in her other hand, its gentle chime carrying through the hush like the voice of the Grove itself. When it tinkles, the congregation stirs, heads lift, breath quickens, hunger awakens. The bell marks that it is time to gather, to drink, to glut themselves upon the Grove’s blessing.
