Industrial Cthulhu: Starting as an Island Lord

“We beseech Earl Hughes, God of Steam and the Deep Sea. His divine might shall protect the faithful, granting us fullness and restful sleep.”

“You are the lungs of the boiler, breathing the starlit fire;”

“You are the tongue of the gears, whispering secrets soaked in oil.”

“If our spines could be twisted into bolts,”

“Let them anchor willingly in Your trembling echoes,”

“Until flesh and cast iron rust as one,”

“Our vows shall cycle endlessly like the piston!”

“Let us chant in unison—”

“Praise be to the great Earl Hughes, praise be to the holy Castel, praise be to His divine oceanic kingdom!”

Inside a dilapidated and slightly decayed room, a group of people knelt in prayer, voices raised high.Directly in front of the group stood several hooded figures. In front of them was a massive cauldron, from which steam gently rose.

“All right, the ritual is complete. Begin distributing the holy water,” one of the hooded figures stepped forward and said. Though he tried to make his voice sound hoarse and deep, he couldn’t completely hide the youthful tone—it was clearly a young man.

The kneeling people immediately stood up and formed a neat, orderly line. It was obvious this wasn’t their first time participating in such a ritual.

At the end of the line, a group of ragged children huddled together, timidly whispering among themselves.

“Gwen, do you think Castel really exists? I… I still find it hard to believe. A place where you never have to go hungry, where there are houses to live in, and as long as you work, you can earn money…”

“I don’t believe it either.”

“Huh?” The little boy froze, staring blankly at the thin girl before him. “Then… why did we come here?”

The girl pointed toward the front, where several people were holding bowls, and a robed, hooded priest was pouring holy water for them.

The holy water was ladled from the cauldron, sending up wisps of steam. It was poured into bowls and instantly gulped down by eager believers.

They weren’t afraid of getting burned. They slurped and swallowed as tears welled up from the heat, yet none stopped drinking.

“What is that…” the boy asked instinctively.

“No idea. All I know is that, in the Lower District, these followers of the God of Steam and the Deep Sea always look the healthiest,” the girl muttered, glancing at those lining up for holy water. “If they were looking for sacrifices, they wouldn’t be feeding people this well.”

A woman in front of them twitched her ear and glanced at the group of children. Her eyes lingered on Gwen’s white hair for a few seconds.

“Northlander?” she asked softly.

“People come from all over,” Gwen replied calmly, looking up at the woman. “But yes, I am from the North.”

“I’ve been here for months, and this is the first time I’ve seen a Northlander. You didn’t come here alone, did you?” the woman asked in surprise. She then pulled down her headscarf, revealing her own white, coiled hair.

When it was the woman’s turn, she hurriedly took a bowl. The hooded figure ladled a portion of holy water for her, and after giving thanks, she left.

Gwen mimicked her and raised her bowl, but the hooded man’s hand suddenly paused.

“A new face. Who are you?”

The children behind Gwen instinctively took a step back, eyes darting toward the nearby open door.

Gwen blinked innocently and said, “We’ve heard of the great power of the God of Steam and the Deep Sea, and we’ve come to offer our faith.”

She lifted her bowl a little higher.

For some reason, however, the man’s tone turned even more suspicious. “Heard of the god’s power? From where?”

Gwen began glancing around too, preparing to run. “F-from the docks. People there said the holy water here tastes better.”

“Of course it does!” the man suddenly raised his voice. He cheerfully scooped a ladle of steaming hot holy water and poured it into Gwen’s bowl. “Our holy water is the best!”

“Yes, nothing is better than the holy water!”

“The high priest’s holy water is the tastiest!”

“Yes, yes!”

A wave of agreement rippled through the once-silent crowd. The hooded man grinned smugly and waved at Gwen. “Drink it while it’s hot.”

“Thank you, great Earl Hughes,” Gwen quickly said. She looked up at the hooded man, who was still watching her with eager anticipation, and hastily added in a whisper, “...and thank you, High Priest.”

“Go on, go on,” the high priest waved with satisfaction.

Gwen carefully carried the bowl. It was so full the liquid was sloshing at the rim, threatening to spill.

She found a corner to sit down and cautiously took a sip.

Spicy and scalding hot, the soft, stewed rice porridge rolled across her tongue. Just one sip warmed her entire body. She quickly opened her mouth and slurped a few more times before she could swallow.

A warm sensation slid from her mouth into her belly and surged to every corner of her limbs. Gwen couldn’t help but shiver from the sensation.

Some of the other kids had already started eating; others still waited in line, staring at the food with watering mouths.

“It’s so, so good!”

“So fragrant! So hot! But still so fragrant!”

Gwen paid them no mind. In fact, from the moment the first spoonful of porridge entered her mouth, nothing else existed in her mind. She took a sip, stuck out her tongue, slurped the steaming porridge—her face flushing from the heat—but still wolfed it down.

Soon the other street kids fell silent too. For a while, the only sound in the room was the slurping of porridge.

Once everyone finished eating and sprawled across the floor in messy heaps, one child rubbed his belly and sighed, “That was amazing.”

“Yeah, that porridge was really good.”

“What porridge? That was holy water!”

“Hmph, no holy water’s made from porridge—Gwen, why’d you kick me?”

The boy looked up in confusion and saw the hooded high priest standing right beside him, looking down.

The hood blocked the sunlight, casting shadows over his face.

The boy shivered and scrambled up on all fours.

“I’m asking you: what is holy water?” the high priest’s voice came from under the hood.

“Uh…”

“To dispel cold, ease pain, heal sickness, and save lives—that is holy water.”

The priest ladled more porridge into a bowl. “It may not heal illness, but at least it fills your stomach. The people here all fled from the North. All they need to survive is a bowl of hot porridge.”

“This is holy water. Castel’s holy water. The holy water of refugees.”

The high priest pulled back his hood. A youthful face appeared in the sunlight. He was still a teenager, his features showing traces of boyhood, yet his eyes brimmed with the hardships of life.

“My name is Josh. I am the High Priest of the Secret Cult of Steam and the Deep Sea.”