Chapter 4: The Transformation Ritual
The fire had burned down to a deep bed of pulsating coals, casting a primordial glow across the great room. The air smelled of woodsmoke, sex, and the faint, clean scent of the pine trees outside. Anika lay bundled in a blanket on a leather couch, silent, staring at the ceiling as if reading a new text written there in the ashes of her old self.
Aaliyah moved through the room like a panther, naked, her body a symphony of curated shadows in the firelight. She opened an ornate wooden box she’d brought, removing items one by one: a straight razor, a bowl, a brush, a small clay pot. The sounds were deliberate, ceremonial.
“The cabin is a chrysalis,” Aaliyah said, her voice cutting through the thick silence. “But when we leave, the world will try to claw you back. It will whisper that this was a mistake, a fantasy, a sin. We need to leave with marks. Reminders etched into your skin.”
Priya sat up, her eyes instantly alert, hungry for the next doctrine. “What kind of marks?”
Aaliyah held up the straight razor. It caught a sliver of light. “A clean slate, first. Every one of you. Bare. No hiding. The hair we keep is for him, not for you. Not for your husbands, not for your lovers, not for your own vanity. It’s his territory. And he prefers it mapped clearly.”
Sophie stretched, a lazy, satisfied smile on her face. “I’m already waxed.”
“Then you’ll be checked,” Aaliyah said flatly. “Anika. Priya. On the rug. Now.”
There was no refusal. Anika unfolded herself from the couch, the blanket pooling at her feet. She moved with the slow, dreamlike obedience of the deeply concussed. Priya joined her, lying back on the faded banarasi silk spread before the hearth.
Aaliyah knelt between Priya’s legs first. She made a lather in the bowl, the scent of sandalwood soap rising. With the brush, she painted Priya’s mound, the coarse hair turning to white foam. “Your brilliant mind,” Aaliyah murmured, wielding the razor with expert, fearless strokes. “It dissects everything. But here, there is no analysis. Only compliance.” The blade scraped against skin, revealing the vulnerable pink flesh beneath. She shaved Priya with a ruthless efficiency, leaving her completely, childishly bare.
Priya watched, her breath shallow, a faint tremble in her thighs. It was a deeper nakedness.
Then it was Anika’s turn. Anika flinched when the cold lather touched her. “Look at me,” Aaliyah commanded. Anika’s eyes, wide and glassy, locked onto hers. “This is his. From now on, you trim, you shave, you keep it smooth for him. It is a daily prayer. A daily acknowledgement of who your pussy belongs to.” The razor slid through the blonde curl. Anika cried out, a soft, broken sound, as the physical manifestation of her married life fell away in clumps onto the silk. Aaliyah was meticulous, turning her, positioning her, until every trace was gone.
Sophie presented herself voluntarily, lying back, spreading her legs. Aaliyah’s fingers probed, inspecting. “Adequate,” she pronounced, a minor verdict that made Sophie flush with pleasure.
Next came the clay pot. Aaliyah unscrewed the lid, revealing a deep, earthy maroon paste. “Henna,” she said. “Not for weddings. For ownership. The stain will last for weeks. Fading slowly, a ghost on your skin, whispering to you when you’re alone in your marital bed, when you’re picking your son up from school.”
She dipped her fingers and began on Priya’s inner arm. The design wasn’t intricate or floral. It was a series of stark, interlocking lines and spirals that coiled around the forearm like a brand, culminating in a single, explicit symbol at the wrist: a crude but unmistakable representation of an erect phallus. “This is your scripture now,” Aaliyah whispered as she worked the paste.
She moved to Sophie, painting a matching pattern on her thigh, high up near her hip. Then to Anika, whose weeping had subsided into silent resignation. Aaliyah marked the space between her breasts, a vertical line that dipped down her sternum. “Close to your heart,” Aaliyah said, not unkindly. “So you never forget what fills it.”
The henna was cooling, setting. The women sat like living art, decorated for a singular purpose. Aaliyah stood back, surveying them. Her gaze then shifted to me, where I sat watching from a deep armchair. A smile, both tender and fiercely possessive, touched her lips.
“Now,” she said. “The final anointing.”
She came to me, knelt, and took me into her mouth. There was no build-up, no teasing. Her goal was utilitarian. Her cheeks hollowed, her head bobbed with a violent, sucking urgency. She used her hands, her throat, everything to push me rapidly to the edge. The room was silent save for the wet, gagging sounds of her effort and the crackle of the fire.
When she felt me swell, she pulled off with a pop and stood, dragging me by the hand to stand before the three marked women. They knelt in a row, heads bowed, bare skin glowing in the firelight, the dark henna patterns still damp.
Aaliyah’s hand stroked me, hard and fast. “Open your mouths,” she commanded. “Look up. Watch your blessing arrive.”
Three faces tilted up. Three mouths parted. Eyes on the swollen, dripping head of my cock.
With a grunt, I came. The first thick rope shot across Priya’s cheek, splattering against her hennaed arm. The next pulse landed on Sophie’s parted tongue. She closed her mouth, swallowing instinctively, her eyes rolling back. The rest, a spasming series of jets, painted Anika’s face—across her brow, her nose, her gasping lips.
“Don’t wipe it,” Aaliyah snapped as Anika’s hand twitched upwards. “Let it dry. It’s your sacred makeup. Your war paint.”
Aaliyah herself then leaned in, kissing each of them, licking the spend from their skin, sharing it between their mouths in a messy, viscous communion. They kissed each other, tongues searching, tasting the bitter salt on each other’s lips, on their cheeks, lapping it from the henna stains.
The ritual was complete. But the hunger it unleashed was instantaneous.
Priya was the first to move, turning on her knees and crawling to me, her new, hairless cunt gleaming. She didn’t ask. She took my softening cock into her mouth, sucking fiercely, cleaning it, hardening it again with a desperate need that seemed to vibrate through her entire body. The taste of her friends, of the ritual, drove her into a frenzy.
Anika watched, then with a quiet whimper, she shuffled forward on her knees and pressed her mouth to my balls, suckling them, nuzzling the coarse hair. Sophie, ever innovative, positioned herself behind Priya, and began to lick her from behind, her tongue stroking Priya’s bald, swollen folds as Priya continued to suck me.
Aaliyah watched, her hand sliding between her own legs, her fingers working in a slow, proud rhythm. “Good,” she breathed. “You see the chain now. His pleasure is yours. Your pleasure is each other’s. It is a single circuit.”
I pulled Priya off my cock by her hair. Her lips were bruised, her eyes wild. “Turn around,” I growled. “Present it.”
She scrambled onto all fours, arching her back, offering the pink, hairless slit that Sophie’s tongue had just left glistening. I drove into her in one brutal thrust. The angle was deep, punishing. Priya screamed, a sound of pure relief, and pushed back against me, meeting every slam.
Sophie, denied Priya’s cunt, turned her attention to Anika. She pulled Anika to her, kissing her deeply, then guiding her head down between her legs. “Eat me,” Sophie demanded, tangling her hands in Anika’s blonde hair. “Show me how a proper wife serves.”
Anika obeyed, her tongue moving with a frantic, learned desperation, burying her face in Sophie’s pussy as if trying to suffocate herself in it.
The great room became a chamber of gasps, slaps, and sucking noises. The firelight danced over the heaving, connected forms—a single, multi-limbed organism of servitude. Aaliyah finally joined, pressing herself against my back, her nails digging into my hips, whispering filth into my ear as I ravaged Priya. “Yes, fuck her dumb, she’s finally useful, she’s just a set of holes for you, we’re all just holes for you…”
Priya came with a shuddering wail, her body clamping down so hard it almost hurt. I pulled out, and she collapsed onto the silk, drooling and spent.
Without a word, Aaliyah guided me to Sophie. She pushed Sophie onto her back, spreading her legs wide. “His mark is on your tongue, now feel it in your womb.” I entered Sophie, whose body was slick with Anika’s attentions. She wrapped her legs around me, pulling me deeper, chanting “yes, yes, yes,” with the fervor of the truly converted.
Anika, bereft, crawled to Aaliyah, nuzzling at her thigh like a needy animal. Aaliyah looked down, a queen regarding a useful pet. “You want to serve?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” Anika cried, the word ripped from her very core.
“Then clean her,” Aaliyah said, pointing to Priya’s splayed, freshly-fucked cunt, glistening with a mixture of her own juices and my release.
Anika didn’t hesitate. She buried her face between Priya’s thighs, her tongue lapping, sucking, drinking the evidence of the act that had shattered her own world mere hours before. Priya moaned, her hands coming to cradle Anika’s head, holding her there.
I erupted inside Sophie, filling her with a second, searing load. She milked me with pulsing, rapturous contractions, her eyes locked on Aaliyah’s, a silent thank you.
Spent, I pulled out and fell back onto the rug. The silence returned, but it was different now—full, weighted, buzzing with completion.
The women slowly disentangled. Their bodies were a canvas: drying white streaks on maroon henna, sweat-smeared designs, flushed skin. They did not look at each other with shame, but with a eerie, sated familiarity.
Aaliyah fetched a damp cloth. She didn’t clean them. She handed it to Anika. “You will tend to him,” she instructed. “It is your first duty.”
Anika crawled to me, and with a reverence that bordered on the religious, she cleaned my softening cock, wiping away the mixed fluids of her friends. She kissed it gently when she was done.
“Tomorrow,” Aaliyah announced, leaning against the hearth, her own body a perfect, dark silhouette against the coals. “We return. You will go back to your lives, your husbands, your careers. You will smile and you will function. But you will carry this stain. You will feel this emptiness only he can fill. And you will wait.” Her eyes gleamed in the dark. “We have others to find. The circle must grow.”
She looked at her flock—shaved, marked, and irrevocably broken into something new. The fire popped, sending a flurry of sparks up the dark chimney, like souls fleeing into a cold, unseen sky.
Outside, the wind picked up, moaning through the pines. But inside, for the first time, Anika did not feel the chill. She felt branded. Warm. And patiently, exquisitely, owned.
The morning light through the massive windows was unforgiving. It fell across the tangled limbs and stained silk, illuminating the dried rivers of spent cum on thighs and the darkening henna tattoos now set into their skin. Anika was the first to stir, her body protesting with a deep, unfamiliar ache. She looked at the intricate pattern between her breasts, touched it, and a full-body shudder ran through her.
It wasn’t regret. It was the terrifying realization that the mark felt more authentic than her wedding band.
“It itches,” Priya stated flatly, scratching at the phallus symbol on her wrist. She seemed fascinated by the impudence of it. “A constant, low-grade reminder. It’s brilliant.”
Sophie was already in the kitchen, nude, scrambling eggs. The domestic normalcy of the act was surreal. “You want toast?” she called over, as if they’d simply had a sleepover.
Aaliyah emerged from the bedroom, wrapped in a thin kimono. Her eyes went immediately to Anika, scanning for cracks. “Coffee,” she said, not to Sophie, but to Anika. It was a soft command.
Anika moved to the machine, her movements automatic. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it was full. The kettle whistled, a sharp, ordinary sound. Priya studied Anika from the couch. “You’re quiet. Your brain is trying to process, to categorize. Don’t. Just feel the soreness between your legs. Let that be your only thought.”
“I can’t,” Anika whispered, her back to them. “I have a son. I have a husband picking me up from the train station tonight.”
“And you will smile,” Aaliyah said, coming to stand close behind her. She didn’t touch her. Her presence was enough. “You will kiss his cheek. You will unpack your bag. And when he climbs on top of you in your dark bedroom, you will feel nothing but a profound emptiness. That emptiness is your truth now. It is the space he owns.”
Anika’s shoulders slumped. A tear hit the countertop. “What is wrong with me?”
“Nothing,” Sophie said, bringing her a plate. “You’re just finally awake.”
The breakfast was a quiet affair. They ate naked at the long table, the chill from the windows raising goosebumps on their marked skin. The evidence of the night was on them, in them. It was Priya who broke the contemplative silence.
“So who’s next?” She took a bite of toast. “After the married one, the psychologist, and the free spirit. We need a new archetype to… enlighten.”
Aaliyah sipped her coffee, a slow smile spreading. “Lena.”
Sophie groaned, rolling her eyes. “The activist? The one who lectures about patriarchal structures over quinoa bowls? She’ll call the cops.”
“No, she won’t,” Aaliyah said, her voice cool and sure. “She spends all her energy fighting systems because her own hunger is so vast it terrifies her. She sublimates it into protests and petitions. We just need to redirect it. To give it a proper target.”
“How?” Anika asked, the word barely audible. She was already thinking like one of them, seeking the methodology.
“We use her language,” Priya interjected, her analytical mind sparking. “We frame it as a deconstruction. A radical reclamation of female desire outside the capitalist, patriarchal male gaze.”
Aaliyah nodded. “Exactly. We don’t offer her a cock. We offer her an ideology. The sacred phallus as a totem of matriarchal power. She’ll intellectualize herself right onto it.”
The planning continued, a dark seminar over breakfast. Anika listened, washing dishes, feeling the phantom weight of a presence between her legs. The henna felt hot on her sternum.
Later, as they packed, Aaliyah gathered them for a final moment. She had them stand in a circle by the cold fireplace. “Before you put your clothes on, look at each other,” she instructed. “Memorize this. The marks. The bareness. This is your real body. The one you put clothes on is the costume.”
They looked. Priya’s stark symbols. Sophie’s thigh tattoo. The stark, vulnerable nakedness between Anika’s legs. Aaliyah herself, unmarked but radiating absolute authority.
“Now,” Aaliyah said, her gaze settling on Anika. “A final sacrament before you return to the world. A benediction.”
She guided Anika to her knees before me. The other two moved to flank her, their hands resting on her shoulders, a combination of support and imprisonment. “You received him last night,” Aaliyah whispered, stroking Anika’s hair. “Now you learn to crave him. Open.”
Anika’s mouth opened obediently. Aaliyah guided me into that wet, warm cavity. “You will suck him,” Aaliyah commanded, her voice losing all softness. “You will make him hard with nothing but your mouth and your shame. You will remember the taste of him in your husband’s car.”
Anika began to move. Her technique was clumsy, unpracticed, but fueled by a desperate need to please that was entirely new. She gagged, saliva dripping down her chin. Priya and Sophie whispered encouragement that sounded like threats. “Deeper, take it all, you need it, you know you do.”
She bobbed her head, her nose pressing into my pelvis, her throat fluttering around the head. Her hands cupped my balls, her fingers trembling. I grew hard in her mouth, a testament to her abject effort. Aaliyah watched, a conductor satisfied with her orchestra.
“Good,” Aaliyah purred. “Now get on the table. We send you back to your life properly seeded.”
They led Anika to the heavy wooden dining table, clearing it with a sweep of an arm. The cold grain pressed against her back. Priya and Sophie each took a leg, pulling them wide, exposing her completely. Aaliyah positioned me at her entrance.
“Look at her,” Aaliyah said to me, but it was for everyone. “Look at the married woman. The community chair. The PTA secretary. Her perfect life is a sheet of ice. And we are the crack.”
I shoved into her. The stretch was less severe now, her body adapted, welcoming. Anika screamed, but it was a scream of recognition. Each thrust hammered the table legs against the floorboards. Priya leaned down, taking one of Anika’s nipples into her mouth, biting down. Sophie watched, her own hand sliding between her legs, mirroring the rhythm.
“This is your purpose now,” Aaliyah hissed into Anika’s ear, holding her head still. “To be a vessel. To carry this emptiness back into your shiny, hollow world. To know that nothing else will ever fill it.”
The fucking was mechanical, relentless, a branding with motion. Anika’s climax was a silent, wrenching event that made her body arch like a bow, her cunt spasming in tight, milking pulses. It triggered my own. I filled her, pumping jet after jet deep into her married womb, a violation so profound she sobbed without sound.
I pulled out. The evidence leaked onto the dark wood. Aaliyah pressed two fingers into the messy spill and smeared it over Anika’s henna tattoo. “Keep it there as long as you can,” she whispered.
They dressed in silence afterwards. The soft cashmere of Anika’s sweater felt like a liar’s skin over her marked body. They loaded the cars. The cabin stood behind them, a silent witness.
At the train station, they exchanged air kisses. Normalcy was a poorly fitted mask. “Book club next Thursday?” Sophie said brightly, her eyes holding Anika’s with a secret depth.
“Yes,” Anika breathed. “I’ll bring the wine.”
As Anika’s train pulled away, Aaliyah turned to Priya and Sophie. The casual ease evaporated. “Lena’s art show is Friday. She’ll be vulnerable, full of artistic fervor. We’ll be her admiring public.” She slid into the driver’s seat. “We need to prepare the space. His apartment. We need to make it… convincing.”
Priya buckled her seatbelt, already scrolling through her phone, researching Lena’s latest feminist manifesto. “We can use her own words against her. It’s perfect.”
The car merged into traffic, leaving the mountains behind. The city skyline ahead promised anonymity, a million separate lives. But inside the car, a new cell was forming, its purpose clear, its hunger sharpened. Aaliyah drove, her profile serene. The game was evolving, and the next move was already on her tongue, a quiet, devastating promise.
The game was evolving, and the next move was already on her tongue, a quiet, devastating promise. The city air, thick with exhaust and noise, felt like a cheap fabric after the pine-scented silence of the mountains. In the backseat, Priya scrolled through Lena’s social feeds, her brow furrowed in analysis. “Her latest piece is about the violence of the male gaze objectifying the female form. She’s primed for a counter-narrative. We just have to be that narrative.”
Aaliyah’s eyes met Priya’s in the rearview mirror. “We will be.”
The next few days unfolded in a strange dual reality. Anika returned to her house in the suburbs, the henna between her breasts a cryptic secret beneath her silk blouses. She made lunches, attended a school board meeting, and made love to her husband with her eyes open, staring at the ceiling fan, feeling nothing but a vast, echoing hollow where Priya’s tongue and my cock had been. The physical soreness faded, but the psychic vacancy remained, a new organ.
Meanwhile, in the apartment, the energy shifted from conquest to consolidation. The initiates now possessed the fervor of converts, and their devotion sought new forms of expression.
“It needs to be uniform,” Sophie declared one evening, sprawled on the floor with a sketchpad. The henna on her thigh was a fading brown. “When we bring Lena, or anyone else, it can’t look chaotic. It has to look intentional. Sacred.” Her pencil moved with confident strokes. “A robe. Deep red, like old blood or wine. It covers everything—a silhouette of mystery and authority. But here,” she said, drawing a bold vertical line down the front, “it’s open. From the collar to the hem. Clasps at the waist, maybe. So the body beneath is presented. Available. It’s veiling and revelation simultaneously.”
Priya looked up from her phone, intrigued. “The color psychology is correct. Red dominates, it demands attention. It signifies power, not passivity. The open front is a genius subversion of modesty. It says, ‘This is all for a singular purpose.’”
“I can sew them,” Sophie said, matter-of-factly. “I know a fabric store that sells this exact weight of silk velvet.”
Aaliyah listened, a small, approving smile on her lips. She ran her fingers through my hair as I leaned back into the couch. “Do it,” she said. “Three robes. For you, Priya, and Anika. I will remain as I am.” Her role, they understood, was beyond uniform.
Anika, folding laundry on the other end of the sectional, spoke softly without looking up. “There’s a final intimacy. A frontier.” She placed a stack of towels neatly on the table. “The last hole. It’s the ultimate surrender. It needs preparation. We should… train for it. So when it’s required, it’s not a violence, but an acceptance.” Her clinical tone couldn’t mask the raw submission in her words. She was offering her own body as the first textbook.
Priya’s analytical mind pounced on the concept. “Anatomically, it requires systematic dilation. Psychologically, it’s the complete obliteration of private boundary. It’s perfect.”
“I want to be the first,” Anika whispered, finally meeting Aaliyah’s gaze. “To prepare. For him.”
My cock stirred against my thigh. Aaliyah felt it and her smile deepened. “Then we begin tonight.”
Priya, however, was staring at her own feet, flexing her toes. “There’s other terrain. Often ignored.” She wiggled her toes, painted a mundane beige. “What if we ritualized it? Paint them white. Pure, stark white against our skin. They become objects, then. Tools. Not for walking, but for worship. They can touch him. They can touch each other. A different kind of service.”
The room considered this. Sophie nodded slowly. “It’s fetishistic and pristine. I like it. The white would look shocking against the red robe.”
Aaliyah stood, the decision made. “Then we have our preparations. Sophie, acquire the fabric. Priya, purchase the white polish. Anika,” she said, her voice dropping, “you will shower. Then you will come to the bedroom and present yourself for your first lesson.”
The air hummed with purpose. Sophie left for the fabric district. Priya headed to a drugstore. Anika moved toward the bathroom, her movements deliberate, like someone walking to an altar.
Later, the bedroom was lit by a single brass lamp. Anika lay on her stomach on the bed, her face turned to the side. The faded henna on her back was a ghostly map. A small bottle of lubricant and a set of graduated, silicone anal dilators sat on the nightstand, a stark medical tableau.
Aaliyah picked up the smallest one, coating it generously. “This isn’t about pleasure for you yet,” she said, her voice cool and instructional. “This is about obedience. About making your body accept what your mind has already conceded.” She parted Anika’s cheeks. “Relax. Push out against the intrusion. Your instinct is to clench. You must learn to open.”
Anika nodded, her fingers gripping the sheets. The cold, slick tip pressed against her tight, puckered rosette. She whimpered, a high, thin sound. “Breathe,” Aaliyah commanded.
She pushed. The slim tip breached, a slow, insistent invasion of a gateway never before crossed. Anika cried out, her body tensing.
“I said relax,” Aaliyah snapped, and delivered a sharp, stinging slap to Anika’s other cheek. The shock made Anika gasp, and in that moment, the slender dilator slid fully inside.
“Oh god,” Anika sobbed, her body vibrating with the strange, full feeling.
“Now, you hold it,” Aaliyah said, withdrawing her hand. “For fifteen minutes. You get used to the feel of being occupied there.” She turned to me. “While she learns that lesson, we will test Priya’s theory.”
Priya had returned, her toes now painted a blinding, opaque white. She looked at her own feet as if they belonged to someone else, a fascinating new artifact. Sophie was back too, her arms full of sumptuous, blood-red velvet.
“On your back,” I told Priya.
She obeyed, lying beside Anika, who shuddered with the object in her ass. Priya spread her legs, but I pushed them closed. “Not there. Your feet.”
Understanding dawned on her face. She raised her pale, white-tipped feet into the air. The polish was flawless, grotesque in its purity. I knelt between her legs, my cock jutting out, heavy and eager. I rubbed the head along the arch of her right foot, smearing precum on the pristine skin.
Priya moaned, watching, her intellectual detachment crumbling into visceral kink. “Use them,” she breathed.
I slid my shaft between the soles of her feet, the soft, cool skin creating a tight, unique friction. The white polish gleamed, a frame for the act. I fucked the cleft of her feet, my balls slapping against her heels. The sight was absurd and deeply erotic. “Harder,” Priya pleaded, squeezing her feet together, her own hands darting down to rub her clit.
Sophie watched, her fingers tracing the velvet fabric, but her eyes were dark with hunger. She moved to the head of the bed, leaning down to kiss Anika, swallowing her whimpers. Then she took one of Priya’s white-painted toes into her mouth, sucking it deeply.
The room was a symphony of depraved education. Anika’s choked tears as she struggled to keep the dilator in place. The wet, slick sound of my cock pumping between Priya’s feet. Sophie’s hungry mouth on Priya’s toe, then moving to kiss Anika, sharing the taste of polish and sweat.
I came suddenly, violently. Thick stripes of cum shot up, landing across Priya’s stomach, one stripe landing on the white polish of her left foot, defiling it. She cried out, her own orgasm ripping through her, her back arching off the bed.
Aaliyah, who had been observing like a sculptor assessing her work, moved. She checked the time. “Fifteen minutes,” she announced. She pulled the dilator from Anika, who gasped at the sudden emptiness. “Now, the next size.”
The process repeated, methodical and cruel. Each larger dilator stretched Anika further, her cries growing more ragged, her body glistening with sweat. By the time the third one was seated inside her, her hole looked visibly softened, gaping slightly around the silicone intrusion. A proud, ashamed tear tracked through the cum on Priya’s stomach.
Later, they gathered in the living room, sore and marked in new ways. Sophie had already begun cutting the red velvet, the fabric sighing as the shears moved through it. Priya examined her white toes, now speckled with my spend. Anika sat carefully on a cushion, her body fundamentally altered.
“Friday,” Aaliyah said, her voice filling the space. “Lena’s show ends at nine. We will be there, admiring. We will invite her here for a private celebration.” She looked at each of them, their faces lit by the dim lamplight. “You will wear the robes. Your toes will be white. Your bodies will be prepared. You will be my priestesses. And we will offer her a communion more real than any of her slogans.”
The promise hung in the air, thick as the velvet on Sophie’s lap. It was no longer just about sex. It was about liturgy. And in two nights, they would initiate a new acolyte into their brutal, sacred faith.