Mr. Amara stood behind the church pulpit, reading and preaching from the scriptures. He looked like a long-haired arctic fox. He always treats me with indifference, yet he appears so calm and even smiles in front of the followers; how could that sight be anything but beautiful?

His voice pierces through the air, through my ears, and into my eardrums. I listened as if possessed. It was a beautiful tone that I instinctively felt I couldn't escape, like a siren's song. Where else could I hear such a sound? From the voice to the words, there was nothing to discard. I wish that benevolent smile would reach me too.

Mr. Amara's figure standing before the Spawn-patterned stained glass, backlit by the persimmon-colored sunset, looked like the only clear thing inside a blue, misty forest where the fog normally blinds you—like a long-haired forest fox.

The numerous followers who finally tore their eyes away from this beautiful figure to pray with all their hearts were all praying for the same goal: a second life.

They looked like the sepals and leaves supporting a beautiful but poisonous delphinium. They must have known at first that it would cause pain. That they would have to stain their own hands with a red, sticky liquid. But as time passed, they forgot all of that. Their heads were filled only with the thought of praying sincerely to Lord Spawn for the sake of the second life they would experience.

Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people happened upon this remote village once and ended up settling here, enchanted by that voice.

Of course, I was one of those followers.