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[Just a little something I'm toying with... a militant "pope" who prefers to wear black to connect with his beginnings in a small chapel in the wilderlands of Tivanico (think Spain). This is set in the same world as the other fiction I share in my blog... just a different country.]
The blackness rippled and snapped.
Grasping the edges of his robe the Black Pontiff spun toward the doorway and the corridor beyond, his robe whipping through the familiar, practiced flourish behind him with a quick twitch of his hands. His escort fell in around him silently, searching and scanning their course with grim anticipation of the assassin they all knew would someday come.
The gathered bishops stared after him, faces aghast at such a stark declaration. Whisperings of unanswered questions “had they heard his pronouncement correctly”, and “were they going to live through this” echoed after the Primate.
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