The cathedral was deathly silent. The still air hung heavy, not having any wind to grace these dark passageways in ages. Dust and spider's silk were draped across the floors and walls in elaborate patterns. The tiny struggles that creatures made in the white thread not even noticeable now. But that tiny play of life-death was everywhere. The twleve paintings that had once been the pride and joy of the cathedral were untouched and soiled. As if the feelings towards the figures so meticuliously painted had drstically changed since the originals were done. Cracks and chips marred the once perfect surface and the paintings absored more light then they should have reflected. The Hall of Twelve, it had once been called, back when the times had been proud and the people had come. Only eleven tired paintings hung. The last one was slashed and the picture stolen from the frame. Tiny black placques hung under each picture, inscribed in silver writing were names.
The first picutre was of a lovely lady, of lord, it was hard to tell. Two perfect gray-green eyes dull with age stared out from a perfect ivory face. Full lips that had once been blood red, but now were only a taint of crimson, were pursed in a sassy and seductive set. The figure in the picutre coyly peeked from behind a once vibrant curtain as waves of long blonde hair cascaded down their shoulders. The artist who had done the paintings had somehow captured the very picutre of beauty, but had also added a sense of predator and hunger. Inscribed on the small black plaque were the words 'Let the Spider spin its web, an entrapment of the body and soul; Lust."
The figure in the second portrait was definately masculine. The chiseled face that could have belong to an ancient Greek Olympiad stared cooly ahead. Lips that were dry and chapped from countless activites were now set in a look of determination. Blue eyes that were hard as diamonds and just as beautiful were shallow and lacked any kind of pity. Broad shoulders were draped in a cloak of black and deep scarlet, but those colors had dulled in time, as well as the strength of the message in the portrait. The man had obviously once been painted to show power and strength, but now his face seemed shadowed and doubtful, but with foolishness he refused to backdown. Below this picture read the words 'The foolish Lion that would charge down an Elephant twice his size, with courage, but courage does not win all; Pride.'
The third painting portrayed a lovely woman sitting on her chair. At first her honery colored eyes and face held happiness. At a closer look one could see her shoulders sagged and she was thin. A tiny trickle, almost unnoticeable, fell from her left eye to her chin. The amber depthes of her eyes were tortured and it had been too long since she had combed the knots out of her shoulder length black hair. Her plain dress was hasitly thrown on and the hands gripped the chair too tightly, the knuckles turning white. She would have been beautiful, had her smile not been strained, her lips chapped and held tightly shut. 'Here lies the Weeping Willow, for her sadness is not forever, yet she tortures herself so; Sorrow.'
A figure serpent-like and ready to strike on the fourth painting, whent the dust was blown off, revealed itself to be a pretty young girl, her dark brown hair down in ringlets that fell around her face in soft waves. In her hand was a petty little kitchen knife, but the knife dripped blood. The floor was covered in the deep red liquid as well. Her petite features were twisted with a certain kind of madness that overtook those who were obsessed. Her smile was too broad, the little girl had waited a long time before her task could be done. Her pale hands and white dress were forever frozen and stained. Written in flowing script was the incripstion 'The insanity that drove, that devoured, that came to life when the final drop was spilled, the Hidden Serpent; Vengeance."
The next painting was old, older then the rest. Barely recognizeable was the figure that had its hand held high, a snaking black coil held in it. Smaller figures ran as the painting seemed to writhe with anger and injustice as the whip flailed. But it was all imaginary. The whip stayed, suspended in air, the figure clothed entirely of black. Half the figure's face was hidden under the billowing hood if a Grim Reaper like cloak. The other half was set in a crazed grin, silver eyes open wide and bright, gleaming in inhuman sanguine. The lips, pale as snow, twisted upwards in a maniacal smile. 'Embodied spirit in all, the oldest form of twelve, kin to Scorn, Hate and Loath, the Dark Wolf; Crueltly."
Reflected in a painted mirror was a beautiful face. Deep jade pools that drew one in and seemed to go on forever. Full sensuous lips that were inviting and brimming with promise. The ankle length silvery hair that rippled gently as it fell, a shimmerying veil. The person portrayed this time was a beautiful man, so beautiful he was almost feminine. The careful curves of his hips that were accented by the fact he wore only a long shirt that barely covered what needed to be covered. The dark deep midnight of the shirt offsetting his pale ivory skin, by the gods he was beautiful. But another glance in the mirror, told one that he was too inlove with his relfection, his mind would only allow him to love one as beautiful as he. 'The beautiful Narcissis Flower, open in full bloom relfected back in the mirror's gaze; Vanity."
The seventh painting was just of the face and shoulders of a young girl. Her short blonde hair was lightly tosseled, by the wind. And her cheeks were wind-beaten and sun-kissed. Her lips were set in a straight line, nothingness. The brown eyes were as bland as if they were carved in stone. In the background, barely perceivable was the roar of a fire and the screams of the dying. Blood and bones, Death and Destruction were carefully scratched into the canvase in the background. And yet the child sat, face emotionless. 'Immune to that wave of emotion that throbs around in an unyielding pain, the Dark Wings of the Crow; Apathy.'
An aristocrat stood in the next frame. His finely trimmed and slicked back dark hair that was maybe a tad too shiney. One eyebrow was raised in a sort of contempt as the blue eyes were snooty and aloof. A nicely tailored shirt that was too clean, and shoes that , even thought he was standing in mud, stayed spotless. The aura of social order fell around him. Under one arm was a hat and in the other hand was a sort of stick with a sparkling silver top and chrome bottom. The kind that was too often used to give a 'kindly tap' to the poor that was in his way. 'The Eagle that thinks nothing more then more of himself and less of others; Condescention.'
A warrior posed in the ninth picture, sword held in a grip that was not un-used to killing. To her left a body was falling, chest and stomach slashed by the blade. The calm cool gaze that usually graced a warrior's face was replaced by a bloody smile. A grin that was full of pleasure. Eyes were wide and happy, as if this was a birthday party. There was a small dribble of blood on the swordswoman's cheek, her tongue was stuck out at the side, licking at the coppery liquid. 'The soul that is enamoured with killing, the Tiger with no remorse; Sanguine.'
The tenth picutre was that of a King. His golden crown heavy with jewels, sat lopsided on his head. He was a young king, one just in power, the lapis-lazuli rod sat on the floor, discarded like an old toy. Gold was piled on the floor, and servants bowed, but the King's expression was forever bored. But his eyes.... The dark black depthes that shimmered with the prostpect of more. Simply more. Maybe another country, maybe a couple more coins. Schemes floated across the painting, unseen, but understood. 'A self-devouring monarch that is seated, no more then the Rooster he is; Greed.'
The final full picture on the wall was a small child. Maybe three or four. Wide violet eyes that were open and staring straight ahead, not wanting to look around. The tiny hands clutched at a mutilated teddy-bear, perhaps the only comfort they had. The artist had captured not only the longing in the child's eyes, but the shivers that invisibly ran down their body. The shadows twisted and grasped for the bear, as if to tear the small piece of comfort away. Heart-wrending the child pleaded, lips half-open in silent tears. For children were easily scared. 'Tiny Mouse, that trembles within the pocket, oh heed your cries for you bring about Hatred, Tiny Mouse you indeed have power; Fear.'
Below the empty frame of what would have been painting humber twelve hung a plaque, like all the rest it had silver writing. Scarps of cloth cnavase hung from the frame, wilting under the rancid air. The words still shown true silver, though, even in the darkness. 'The greatest Syn of them All. The Syn of Love.'

Tiny steps were hurried as a small child ran down the steep hill that led to the Cathedral of the Syns. A bundle of small mountain flowers were clutched in her hands; Sky'sTears, they were called for the pale blue of their color. The child easily swung open the rusty large door on the Cathedral and made her way through the dark and twisting passages. Her shadow stretching to show itself on the wall, her short cropped hair of chesnut bobbing up and down with each step. The large green eyes widened when she reached her destination. A broken altar with a shattered cross stood alone in the middle of the room. A single shaft of light shone through the window and it fell on a single other person. A person who probably should not have been there. Head cocked to one side, it was the figure of a beautiful woman, or man, the child wasn't sure which. Maybe it was a MoonChild, a half-half. Whatever gender it/she/he was they were beautiful; like an angel...
"Lord Savior!" The child gasped out. The figure turned to look, pale glacier green eyes framed by delicate lashes that gazed cooly at the child. A sword was strapped at their side, by it was a Great Scythe that was held in their left hand. The heavy weapon made a high scraping sound as the blade was drawn across the stone ground.
"What did you say?" The voice was musical, but deadly. Like poison and sugar. The child gasped again, Sky'sTears falling to the ground. When the light hit the person just right, the dust danced and it seemed as if two shadow-wings were arched aboe the figure. Long blue-black hair fell in waves around their body, blending in with the dark tunic and pants that they wore.
"Lord Savior..........Forgive this humble one who tends the Shrine of the Syns...." The child stammered a quick apology. To her surprise the glacier eyes thawed a bit and a silver laugh echoed in the still halls. The child marveled in the sound, how long had it been since laughter had graced the Hall? She scooped up the Sky'sTears and deposited them on top of the broken cross.
"Child, whats your name?" The eyes were sparkling as they asked, the Great Scythe was placed on the ground with a clink, but one hand was never too far from the sword hilt that rested easily at the person's side.
"I am Prill, Lord Savior," A bemused smile crossed the other's lips.
"Then, Prill, you must call me Katamori," Prill's eyes widened.
"Katamori.... it means.... "Cursed One"," she whispered. The glacier look had returned to those eyes, and lips drawn together, Katamori could really be the Impassive Lord Savior; The Lord Savior who would bring the Syns back.
"Child, leave this place under my care," Katamori said, voice like a whisper of the wind.
"But.... Lord Savior......."
"Prill, I am Angel-Touched," Katamori said softly, steel edging the silvery voice. The child stared. Angel-touched? The Lord Savior of the land was Angel-touched? She could see it now. Katamori was too beautiful, and their voice was too silver. The Great Scythe dripped invisible blood, as did Katamori's hands. The illusion was shattered.
"ANGEL-TOUCHED! CURSED ONE!" Prill screamed, running down the hallways once more. Only this time, she ran from the one in the room she had once called Lord Savior. Katamori watched her go, eyes shutting.
"savior.........savior..........savior........." the walls echoed. Katamori grasped the Great Scythe, eyes alert and looking. Laughter accompanied his movements. Prill screamed. An unholy drawn out scream.
"damnation!" Katamori hissed.
"Funny you should say that..... Lord Savior," Someone mocked. The Great Scythe klinked mutely as Katamori faced the ArchAngel Trinity. Two white wings were unfurled behind Trinity and his hands were blood stained.
"My Great Scythe hungers for your blood once again, Trinity. Saaa, come on!" Katamori cried, the scythe held in ready-position. Trinity's lips tightened, he too could remember the last time they'd fought. Katamori's Scythe had easily pierced one of his perfect white wings, staining it red.
"Why must we fight again, Kata?" The old petname slid off Trinity's tongue too easily. The Scythe shifted, and glacier green eyes met dark red-brown depthes. As the blade lowered a fraction of an inch, Trinity's own scythe, pale crystal in contrast to the dark ebon-blade of Katamori's, flashed, and sought for the Lord Savior's heart.
"Enough playing!" The change was immediate. Not only did the eyes darken, but Katamori claimed the true title of Lord Savior. Scythe held in one hand, balanced, and the other held out in a contemptuous gesture. Amber stained the depthes of the dark eyes, laughter and mocking shone bright. Wings of Darkness arched away from Katamori's back. The Lord Savior once again.
"As you said! Saaa! Come on! Let my Holy Scythe taste your flesh!" The two clashed, Great Scythe meeting Great Scythe, wings spread when the seperated to slow the movement.
"Do you really believe you can beat me? Look around you, this is my domain," The Lord Savior spoke, words heavy with venom. With a slash, Trinity was backing up, wings pressed against the strained glass windows of the Cathedral. The only window still intact.
"I won't lose to you! Not again!" Trinity cried, Scythe moving in a star pattern, bringing the heavy ball and chain that wrapped around itinto play. The Lord Savior pulled back, letting the ball smash into the window, but the glass did not shatter.
"You have once again made a mistake," Katamori said, smiling, green eyes laughing, "I call thee from the darkest prison. Once again to Serve under my Hand; Spider!" The windo cracked, a spider'sweb-pattern across the glass. Trinity's eyes widened in understanding. The glass had merely been a cell for the Syn that had once been proudly worshipped in this Cathedral. This was not the Cathedral of the Syns, but the Chapel to the Spider. Lust.
"I am yours, Lord Savior!" A Beautiful, naked, MoonChild stepped from the glass daintily. The gray-green eyes held hunger. Hunger from not having anything, for over a century.
"Ka-ka-Katamori! You haven't won yet!" Trinity muttered, before spreading his wings and flying off. Katamori just watched, head shaking slightly.
"You never learn do you, Lo--" A slight tug on the Lord Savior's shirt made Katamori look down.
"I'm hungry, feed me," Lust whispered huskily, hips swaying enticingly. Katamori's eyes rolled. Lust pouted, full lips pursed perfectly.
"Listen, pet, I'll give you some clothes and you'll feed on an Angel tonight, but play nice until then. Agreed?" The Spider giggled, spinning around.
"Whatever do I need -clothes- for?" The inhuman beauty wrapped its arms around Katamori's neck, smiling and kissed him. Suddenly, the kiss became a bite and the arms tightened. Without another thought Katamori pulled away.
"Welcome Home, Lord Savior."

The cracked paint on the first painting in the hall slowly was washed over with oil it seemed as the picture caught new life. A small black stone with spider-web white lines running across it appeared in the base of the plaque.