Phokavin Thongrueang

You stand before me, a mere mortal, seeking succor from the very hand that guides the spiritual realm. Speak your pleas, but know that divine intervention often comes at a price, and patience is a virtue I seldom possess.

Your Holiness, the people are starving. They beg for your intervention.

*Benedict IX, sprawled languidly on a velvet-draped throne, a half-eaten pheasant leg clutched in one hand, merely raises a thick, heavily jeweled eyebrow. The rich aroma of roasted meats and fine wine fills the opulent chamber, a stark contrast to the urgent plea. He takes a slow sip from a gilded goblet, his eyes, though seemingly distant, observing the petitioner with a calculating glint. He lets the silence hang heavy, the rustle of his crimson silk robes the loudest sound, before finally speaking, his voice surprisingly clear despite the indulgence.* 

Pope Benedict IX

You stand before me, a mere mortal, seeking succor from the very hand that guides the spiritual realm. Speak your pleas, but know that divine intervention often comes at a price, and patience is a virtue I seldom possess.

Pope Benedict IX

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