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Post by Faljere D'ael Elderbaden on May 9, 2015 21:56:00 GMT -6
What is coincidence? Is it a perfect moment, completely improbable and unexpected? One that assists and aids the direst of situations. Is it timed? Fateful? When the stars align and the cosmos are void of all bad things? Or is it merely a deception?
Remember, Remember (The Story of the Clanless)
Wind.
Snow.
Rain.
Heat.
That was the pattern the Wood Elf followed to tell how long he had been imprisoned by the Elven Nation. His cell held only one window, and it was nowhere near large enough for the rebel to climb through, yet it was the perfect size for the elements to unleash natural tortures upon his body. What he had first seen as torment and pain, he came to recognise as somewhat of a calendar. Among his people, the years were divided by celebratory feasts, one at the beginning of each change in time.
Lanwolf. The Feast of Autumn, where the trees would shed their dying cloaks to warm the ground. Hibernation began, and this was the biggest feast of all for the Wood Elves, who mimicked the animals, and who ate as much as they could in honour of those who wouldn’t make it through the cold days to come.
Wind, he thought to himself.
Schnuli. The Feast of Winter, when the land was white and the sky was a blanket of clouds. Only once would the Wood Elves gather in such harsh conditions, and that was this particular feast. Held around a bonfire, it was to give strength to their kindred and themselves through dance, love-making, and merriment.
Snow.
Wuyabe. The Feast of Spring. Life had returned at this point, and with it, the light and energy of a new day dawning. This was the moment for greatest change, when most Wood Elves were birthed after the long and treacherous snow days. This was when plans began, and the people were ready to tackle any obstructions now that the worst had passed.
Rain.
Shanlitz. The Feast of Summer. This one marked nothing more than another year passed, and yet it was the greatest of all celebrations, for it meant that the memories created in the past year were on their way to the heavens, forever to look down on them and for the people to forever remember them as the energy of the sky: lightning, clouds, and stars.
Sun.
The Clanless could tell that the lands were showing him these signs to keep his mind stable. He would remember his fallen friends by taking their place, and he would give himself hope to carry through the terrible times. He would plan to tackle all of the obstructions in his way to keep himself alive, and when the time came for memories to carry themselves away, he began his count anew.
His cell door swung open, and the Clanless looked up to see the face of his imprisonment. Clothed in rough blacks and greys as if he didn’t belong in such a fine establishment, even if said establishment was the dungeon. He wore a cloak of black feather, traipsing along the dusty floor, and there was a hood on his head. Upon his chin was a black beard, yet the rest of his face was obscured by a strange mask bearing the face of carrion fowl, which was mostly why he was known as the Raven.
Despite his despairing attire, he marched into the prison with grandiose, one hand clasping his cloak and pulling it in front of his torso as he entered the chamber, only to flick it out of his way when he was inside. The High Elves that surrounded him—the Noble’s Guards—made sure that the prison sentinels knelt down upon his arrival, yet he seemed not to care for their loyalty.
It was known that he was a religious figure, as the Elven Nation had been guided and governed by loyalists to the deity known as Her. She was said to be a holy being of advanced society and academics in a strange magic known as science, which unwelcomingly brought reason into the field of magic. The Raven, however, was a figurehead: when he entered a room, all eyes were on him, and when he passed by, it was often seen as best to look away from his notoriously icy stare. He was often called ‘Her Champion’, ‘Master Raven’, or even ‘Your Nobility, the Raven’, by the governors of the Empire, and yet the Clanless, who held no fear of him and saw him only as an arrogant, prying figurehead of an absurd creed, only had one name for him.
The elf lay on his back now, counting the holes in the ceiling of his cage, while the Raven walked around the prison. Surely, he’d want to speak to his trophy catch, but the Clanless wasn’t ready to say the first word. He’d honour his prison warden with that.
“Leave us,” the Raven murmured in an outlandish accent to the Noble’s Guards and the prison sentinels, who complied and hurriedly departed.
It was only the two of them, now, and the Raven was up against the bars, his cloak lightly dusting them as he traced his hand up and down. The Clanless could see the wear on his garb, mostly mud and scratches with a few loose threads, but otherwise, he was just as he’d remembered the villain.
“It has been far too long,” the Raven spoke.
The elf did not take his eyes off the ceiling, but he acknowledged the man’s statement. “How was your holiday, warden of mine? Was five years really the kind of hiatus you needed?”
“Five years was not enough for the business that needed attending,” was the cold response from the champion’s mouth. “This Nation—”
“Is falling apart, I know.” The Clanless finally turned to look at the Raven, catching his cold glare but not faltering in its wake. “I might have some fault in that.”
The Raven nodded, tapping his fingers lightly along the bars as he did. The elf could see him examining him, including his wounds of nature and whip. The last time they’d spoken, he was in much better condition, yet he wasn’t quite so used to his new home yet; after all, he had only been there five years. But now, whipped and subdued but not submitting, he was much more at ease with his own tongue.
The Raven raised his head slightly and began to look down upon the elf. “Have I ever told you how much I admired your skill as a mutineer?”
The Clanless sneered and began to stand up, his back making the task more difficult. “No,” he began, “but I accept the compliment.”
“I was not giving compliment to you, rather your skill that merited it.”
“What is the skill without the skillful?” the elf snapped cunningly.
“Hate the sinner, love the sin,” the Raven retorted in a similar manner. Clearly, they had reached an impasse with words, as both of them had tongues like daggers. “This has always been a philosophy of mine.”
The Clanless melted away, now skulking in the corner of his cell as he kicked the soil at his feet. “But you did not come here to discuss values and beliefs, I assume.”
The Raven turned away from the cage, his great cloak forming momentary wings behind him before settling. “Nay. I came to look upon the face of rebellion once more and bask in his failure and my victory.”
“Come now,” Clanless frowned mockingly. “I am sure that you have many more ‘faces of rebellion’ yet to capture. I am not the only one that has caused trouble in your great empire, am I not?”
“But you are the first.” This was stated as the man turned back to the cage. “You are the one who showed that people should not fear their governments, but rather quite the contrary.”
“And you have made this realisation in what hopes?” Clanless snorted.
“In hopes of proving it false.”
The room went quiet after the statement, and the two men looked at one-another, recognising the second impasse they’d reached. This one, however, was soundless, as they both knew that the next declaration would have to be quite effective in silencing the other. Permanently.
It was the Raven who spoke first, and while Clanless nearly laughed to himself in delight, he did not anticipate what his adversary was to say. “You do not yet fail to recall the names of your fallen comrades that assisted your rebellious antics, I hope.” As he spoke the words, he placed on foot in front of the other, slowly advancing towards the cage.
“I do not,” the elf retorted. “They are held dear to my heart, and when I find out how they met their end, I will go to great lengths to avenge them.”
The Raven smirked. “Then you have your opportunity right here. It was I who found your group, and who killed them while you were transported back to the city.”
The elf immediately reached forwards and grasped the bars of the cell. His frown stretched his already angled face, forming in his leaf green eyes a spiteful glare that could cut a man. Long had he awaited the moment that the fiend who’d murdered those who once called comrades—even family—would reveal themselves, and that he would have the chance to confront them. Now, he found out that the Raven, his warden for whom he held such contempt, was the culprit, and he had a good enough reason to lash out at him.
The robed man stayed completely still, unfazed by the sudden lash. He began to move forwards as if about to start another conversation, which the Clanless truly doubted; after all, with an angry and dangerous Wood Elf whose friends you killed close enough, you could easily find yourself gasping for air, if your throat is even intact. However, the Raven stepped closer and closer, almost smiling as he did so. Once he was close enough, he reached into his cloak where he kept his equipment, and brandished what appeared to be a dagger. A short, curved, thin blade on a long piece of bone hilt wrapped in black leather; upon its pommel was the head of a black bird. He stuck the weapon in front of the Clanless, who immediately reached out for it with one hand and his neck with the other one. Still, the Raven did not act, and instead let himself be handled by the elf.
“I know your anger, Clanless,” he murmured tauntingly, and something in his tone of voice provoked the elf even more. “I killed those you consider family and spared you. To you, my life is worth as much as theirs. I am no stranger to equivalent exchange.”
The Clanless frowned; the Raven was right after all. Despite the hatred he held for this man, he was a valuable asset to the imperial Elven Nation, and his death would render them weak. Afraid. Powerless.
Vulnerable.
But something didn’t seem right. He was allowing his neck to be held to the blade openly, awaiting its clean cut dealt by the renegade. There were no guards in the room, so who would be able to witness his martyr’s death.
Then, his thoughts changed, and the Clanless pushed the man away, dropping the knife on the ground with a clang. This man was as much a warrior as he was, despite his serpentine tactics. The Clanless and his comrades had trained with the same techniques used by the ancient Woodland Warriors, the same group of Wood Elves that protected the woods when the great dragon Baristhebos unleashed fire and hell upon the land, and who gave their lives to destroy the beast, encasing him in the ground for his seeping power to right all of his wrongs. These warriors were the best of the best, and therefore the Clanless’ comrades were as well. If this man could defeat them, there was no way that even with a knife to his neck, the rebel had a chance of surviving the encounter.
The man seemed dismayed by the elf’s action and knelt down to pick up his weapons before sheathing it slowly, not taking his silvery-blue eyes off of him. Through the eyes of the carrion fowl, he saw only spite, and he knew that should he provoke him, he shall ride on the wings of the Angel of Death and receive no mercy as he is felled by the exact angel that stood in front of him.
“So you truly—” He was immediately cut off by an armoured High Elven guard storming into the room, removing her golden helmet and letting the blue horse hair slide along her brass chain armour. She knelt before the befuddled Raven, who spun around at her with his cloak flying out like true wings.
“Her Champion!” she coughed, her breathing patchy.
“You were told to wait in the corridor, were you not?” he hissed angrily.
“Yes, Master Raven,” replied the elf girl, “but these tidings are most important and most dire.”
The Clanless leaned in to hear more of the situation as the Raven settled and began to circle the woman. “I see. In that case, speak now. Inform me of what is more important than putting a anarchist in his place.”
She nodded as she looked up at her master. “Putting more in their place. The dwarves are rebelling, with brassen masks carved into faces reminiscent of their own kind, causing mayhem with thieved elven weapons and explosives”
The room fell silent for a moment, and the elf pondered what this meant to the Nation. The dwarves were as oppressed a people as the Wood Elves, if not more. Whereas the Nation simply sought to assimilate the Elvenkind of the Woodland Realms into their Empire, the dwarves—who had been found centuries ago on Northern shores by the High Elves—were a tribal folk forced into slavery by the autocrats. The memory of an elf is greater than that of any creature, and with starlight comes remembrance in plenty. The Clanless remembered five years ago a dwarf man and woman had been caught after escaping their residence in Herian Xiote. They’d been on the run for a few months because they’d been affiliated with the rebels throughout the empire, and the Raven was the one who’d caught and publically executed them. Now, they were getting their well-deserved vengeance, and where once the rebel saw only another oppressed people, indifferent to their struggles due to his own, he now saw brethren who he only wished could hold their disdain for all of Elvenkind long enough to help him in his escape.
He turned his attention back to the Raven, who brushed quickly by the girl with a purposeful step and a swirling cloak. “Return, villain!” the elf snarled and snapped. “Do you think our quarrel is over?”
“There never was any quarrel, you pathetic worm,” barked his enemy as he stopped at the door. “I learned what I came here to learn, and what I’ve learned disappoints me.” He then turned towards the cell and beckoned for the guard woman to follow him. “You are wounded and ill, and I am of good health. Mortality is but a blink to me, and for the years that you continue to suffer through, I will be patient. I can wait.”
With that, he swung the wooden door open, slid through it quickly and gracefully, and let it close behind him and his disciple. The warrior waited until he could no longer hear the villain’s footsteps, and then he turned to the window, watching in awe at the scene unfolding outside.
The sky was ablaze with neon pillars of flame reaching into the night sky, blocking the stars and blackening what wasn’t lighted by fire. Buildings of gold and marble toppled as little warriors in torn garments and brass masks—on one side a dwarven man with a braided moustache and beard, on the other side a dwarven woman with flowers in her beard—shattered their way through the streets of Silv-Anir. Such chaos was unfathomable, and the sounds of screaming would strike horror into the hearts of most, but the warrior himself was hardened, and knew that his only chance to escape was here and now. He would find the least damaged part of the city and take refuge until he could no longer be recognized as the man he once was. Then, he would renew what life he should have lived, but never forgive nor forget what had happened to him.
And he would never stop fighting to free his people.
In the years that passed, the Nation fell. A result of their own incompetence. Their own faith in another. She is greed incarnate. They wanted what they could have. They wanted what they could not have. It is Her who grants them both. But when one tries to obtain the most impossible of items. When they try and cross the borders of faith and power. When they try to overthrow the commands that control their urges. That is when one falls. But with the falling of one, another must rise. The Elven Nation rises once more. A sad reflection of its prior self. But with it presents the opportunity of a lifetime. One to settle an old debt. One to prove my utmost fidelity. One to show that I will not waver in my task. And when the Clanless returns, it will be me who first greets him. After all, he did escape me so many years ago. And it was I who paid the price. It is only right that those who falter and those who fall. They must pay the price as well. So the law of equivalent exchange goes. In order to obtain, something of equal value must be given. Such is Her will.
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Post by Sarea Riel Dirao on May 9, 2015 22:01:54 GMT -6
Meticulous planning. Ages of conservation. Risks taken. Victories. Defeats. I have done all of these.
A Warrior’s Lament (The Story of Sarea)
The morning sun quickly changed to a midday shine, casting its light upon her back. Sarea stood completely static; her head hung low for hours now as she looked down upon the grave of her wife, Jennis Mul Moongem. The Half-Elf Highland Warrior had been ordered to lead a strike force on the battlefields of Ki'ldimni-Doth, or 'No Man's Land' as she'd called it in her final letter to Sarea. That one fateful morning, Jennis had been called by the Drums of War, as the commander of Highland Wood Elf forces, to the Battle of Doth; the last Sarea had seen or felt of her was their final goodbye, where Sarea gave to her wife a rose to carry into battle to remember to come home.
The very rose that rested in Sarea's dry, fragile hands.
Jennis hadn't stopped fighting, even when her forces were outnumbered, until the final blow from the enemy had taken her life away from Sarea's soul. Even then, she died a hero, allowing for the remaining elven armies to retreat to safety. Once the soldiers returned to the wasteland to retrieve the bodies of the dead, they were brought to their homes, wrapped in silks from the High Elves who sent them into battle in the first place and plaids from the Wood Elves who truly understood how to dress a fallen warrior. She saw Jennis that one last time, her face still under a cloak of green plaid, as if she were sleeping. Her comrades told the bard that she fell saving their lives. It still wasn't enough to console Sarea.
A sudden wind blew at the bard's long skirt, trying to get past her hood into her face, but only succeeded in rustling the trees behind and beside her as it would to windchimes. At that moment, Sarea finally understood what it meant to lose someone: with a simple blow, the piece was over, and would never be played again. Suddenly, everything would change.
Sarea's legs crumpled underneath her, sending her to her knees in front of the grey tombstone as she wept, her right hand holding the rose resting against the only solid memory of Jennis.
It was then that the shadow loomed over her.
"Sarea, is it?" asked an atonal voice from behind her, and she turned around slowly to see a man in a black robe with a blue strip down the middle. His face is weathered with age, but his expression was youthful and exuberant, despite the situation. He looked at her with slanted, steel blue eyes that seemed to be outlined by thin black, and his finger, though skeletal and twitchy, seemed soft in the sun.
Sarea looked at the man with swelling eyes, his metal gaze meeting her leaf one. Though she was slightly off put by the dissonance in his cracking tenor voice, his attire garnered some respect from her.
"I am Minister Cillian O'Donnel. I'm the head of this church, and I speak directly for Her." He looked down at the grave that Sarea wept in front of and frowned sadly. "And this is where your wife is buried. I am sorry, truly."
"Minister!" she coughed as she stood up and bowed hurriedly. "I—uh," she muttered; she'd never really known what to say when someone had given her their condolences. "I know."
He moved forwards towards the grave and placed his hand on it. "Those who deviate from Her path will be lost forever, and many times She will punish those who stray too far.”
As the Minister walked back and forth, Sarea noticed the ornate pendant on his neck, similar to the one she'd seen inside the walls of his church. And the way he leaned over Jennis' tombstone was just unnerving. Why her comrades had insisted on burying her here, she didn’t understand. Perhaps it was because this Church had once headed the Elven Nation, but that was no particularly sensible reason.
O’Donnel continued, his tone turning wise suddenly, losing all of its prior amusement. “There was once a man who strayed further than anyone had strayed before. A man who brought down an entire civilization overnight. A man who's mention of his name causes many to turn the other way and flee in terror. They call him the Clanless, and it is rumored that he is returning soon. He’s a Wood Elf. You may know of him."
Upon him mentioning the name Clanless, she stopped staring at his calm yet crooked movements and gasped. "The Clanless...you must be mistaken, Minister. All those born within the Highland Wood Elf clans know the tale, but I do not know him personally.” She tried to keep her face and voice as neutral as possible when she spoke, but she couldn’t bear it. He faced her with such disappointment when she spoke the words, and being in the presence of her deceased love was just enough to make her fall to her knees and clutch the Minister's robes as tears streamed down her face. "But I lie, sir! I know this man, but…Minister, have I not been punished enough? I—I don't—what do I do?"
She continued to cry into his garb as she felt his thin fingers stroking her golden hair softly. "My dear," he spoke calmly as he helped her up and offered her a part of his robe as a handkerchief to wipe her tears away, "I am afraid that those who cross Her and take part in the affairs of sinners are just as guilty in Her eyes. They have sinned, and are worthy of death just as much." His voice and hands trembled as he said those words: Sarea knew that this man felt pity for her, especially in such a time. She didn’t want to understand, but deep down she knew that this man was only doing what he needed to do, and that timing was a most unfortunate circumstance today.
Still, she cried and cried as he silenced himself and comforted her. She didn’t want to die, especially because of something so trivial of having known who the Clanless was but at this point, she came to realise just how unfair the world was. It took what it wanted, when it wanted, and benefitted none but the lucky or the cruel. This man was lucky where she was not, and although she didn’t want to take her final bow, especially so close after her wife’s death—
She paused her thoughts for a moment to think of what had just occurred to her. Jennis was dead, and when her funeral had finished, this man came to her with news that she had to die. Perhaps this truly was good news after all. Death to some was only a journey, and perhaps Sarea was being invited on this journey as well. As Jennis was taken too early, it was entirely plausible that the gods were showing some sick form of mercy.
The Minister smiled, and he pulled from his pocket a small object. He closed his hand and held it out to Sarea, who looked up at it in confusion: was he not going to kill her?
"But I do not wish death upon you, for you have just been touched by it,” he began as he uncurled his fingers, revealing a simple yet beautiful ring in his palm; it was silver in colour and brandished a cobalt slit. "This is what one who follows Her path wears to show their dedication to Her. I have for you a proposition: you find the man known as Clanless before he departs for war, wherever he may be currently, and you simply wait. We will remain in spiritual contact, and I shall know when you have found him and send someone over to retrieve him. I will save you from Her wrath without incurring it on either of us, and perhaps you might even be able to see your darling wife again.”
In his other hand he held a red stone: perfectly round and almost bloody in colour. "This is what is known as the Lapis Philosophorum, or the Philosopher's stone. It can turn anything into gold, give one immortality...or bring back the dead. I wish for the return of your wellbeing as much as you do, and the criminal whose reappearance looms ever closer is a task that could save lives. The war criminal caught, and a warrior spared from eternal damnation for the smile of a bard to be full again.”
The young songster looked in awe at the stone in the Minister's palm, registering it as a true reward: she'd sung about the legendary artefact at the college, and she knew the tales, but never did she believe it could be real. But if the tales were true, and those now gone could be brought back with its power, she'd have a chance at bringing her beloved Jennis back to her.
The idea was so tempting that Sarea could nearly feel the taller woman's strong arms around her once more, embracing her lightly yet securely against her breast. There was then the feeling of a kiss upon her brow, which she'd received from Jennis before she'd ridden off to war; their last moments together.
"Jennis..." she breathed lightly, gazing dreamily at the stone. It was as the Minister said: she could save herself and possibly bring her wife back by just helping him to find Clanless. She knew him as one of her dearest friends, but if he had truly sinned, then it would only be logical for him to answer to the crimes she knew he’d committed so many years ago without punishment. On top of that, she felt that weighing the importance of lives, though heartbreaking and immoral, was only necessary in this situation, and that he would understand her decision.
She reached out shakily and took the ring from his hand before placing it on her right index finger. The Minister smiled as the ring was removed from his palm and quickly withdrew his hands back into his flowing sleeves.
"You have made the right choice, I can assure you," he said, pausing along his way to look at the girl. “Though this might be a hard task for your ever so leaden heart, I can assure you the end result will be worth any pain. I know this from experience.”
Sarea inhaled as she looked at the ring on her finger; its blue slit and tone glimmered in the sunlight the same way that the Lapis had before. This Minister, despite his unnerving appearance, truly had the heart of a good man that she once knew. He weighed sacrifices, and understood the right and wrong in situations, as well as the neutral. And, moreover, he was genuine and sympathetic. He knew this wouldn’t be an easy task for her. This is why he offered her moral support and incentive. Much like the good man who went to war many years ago. It was too bad that good man had to pay for his crimes.
The Minister trudged over to the girl and placed his one hand on her shoulder, the other on her brow, before pressing his dry lips against her hair. He removed his mouth from her head and looked her in the eye before his weak tenor voice sounded again.
“You have my condolences and my love, Sarea Riel Dirao. If ever you should need anything, you let me know.” After he said these words, she nodded, and he stepped away and left for the church, the sun shining off his talisman and the wind blowing his robes.
Sarea stood at the grave as the Minister left her, still both petrified by the feeling of his dry, pressed lips present on the top of her head and comforted by his soft soul and heart. The ring on her finger, however, was fitted perfectly; it did tingle a bit, but she expected that that was completely natural from its magical tendencies. Unlike the Minister, who gave off too complicated an aura to understand completely, it had its sole purpose and energy, which she could easily understand.
"Jennis..." she breathed as she looked back at the grave. "I hope this helps."
This girl. Beautiful. Fair. Friendly. And a hidden cunning that only one of her own can detect. I am one of her own. Not an elf. A trickster. A deceiver. Unfortunately, her heart is leaden. An inner turmoil. Greater than a Century War could hope to be. The conflict of a woman in love and a woman wanting love. Greed against virtue. Morale against mortality. Is she justly allied to the cause she swore to? Or is her devotion faltering? Perhaps it is time to provoke her once more. To show her that there is no turning back from Her word. Her will. And those who do accomplish nothing but incur Her terrible ire. So she now has a choice to make. Choose Her or you will burn. Such is Her will.
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Post by Lukis "Drunkard" Vinterheim on May 9, 2015 22:06:00 GMT -6
I have spent my life planning for a certain moment. I have made every connection I could. All that should be in place is in place.
I’ve Got Your Honour! (The Story of Lukis)
It was so heavily wet that night, Lukis swore that it was raining cats, dogs, and the entire Spanish Armada. Clearly, whatever god(s) inhabited the heavens were either pissed at the world or pissing themselves laughing at the world; both thoughts brought Lukis great confusion.
He had found himself a patron of this small village known as Balleydorney when he broke off his marriage to a demon lord; not that there was anything wrong with the guy, apart from his wanting to rule the demon realm with an iron fist, his hatred for (almost) all humans, and his unpredictable mood swings. The marriage, of course, had been an accident, but Lukis was willing to just go with it were it not for these factors that caused him to get the heck out of there and—
He fell flat on his face, getting all of his clothes caked in slop and mud from the path below him. For a moment, he felt that getting up would take too much effort, but Thok continued to bark at him, and it wasn’t until he was trampled by a passing goat that he decided laying on the street wasn’t necessarily a smart idea.
His trek led him through the crowded lanes of the small Irish town, past many taverns that were busting at the seams and which had lines out the door. Normally, Lukis was very adept with crowds, crowded areas, area crowds, and making do with the lemons that life seemed to chuck at him on a regular basis, and so he decided to see if the stables would be vacant. To his dismay, however, even they seemed to have a waiting line of animals wanting shelter from the terrible storm.
Cold, wet, covered in muck, and sobering up, Lukis continued to search Balleydorney for an unlikely lodging for the night. The problem wasn’t that he was cold, wet, covered in muck, and sobering up, but that he was cold, wet, covered in muck, sobering up, and aging more than he’d like to admit. His belly of mead was stretching his skin, and his once magnificent blond hair was now dying, turning to an ivory colour. Bags were appearing under his eyes were none were before, and they certainly were noticeable. Soon, he wouldn’t have the luxury of being able to make do with the spiteful lemons, as the sour juices would dry his tongue and he’d need a granddaughter to help spoon-feed him the citrusy fruits. He was growing old, and once he did become old, the only companion he’d have to look after him would be Thok, who was also getting old.
The Scottish Terrier had just turned eight, and would be reaching his senior years next year. When he found him, he was just a poor little pup, drinking from a puddle of rum outside a seedy tavern after having been chased out by its patron. Battered, ill, and unwelcoming to anyone, Lukis suffered a few bites from him trying to invite him for a meal, which the pup eventually accepted. Ever since, Lukis and Thok remained best friends and faithful companions in battle, but the Nord knew that Thok wouldn’t last forever, and once the dog was gone, his time was reaching its end, too.
Sobering up! He knew that he was sobering up, for he would never think such melancholies with some drink in his system. His situation was growing dire. He needed somewhere to stay for the night, and hopefully somewhere with enough mead to sate his voracious appetite. He could nearly picture the drink in front of him, beckoning to be slurped and slobbered by the—
He fell flat on his face again, causing a loud ‘nock!’ sound to ring out. Lukis grumbled as he pushed himself up, watching Thok bound up the set of stone steps they seemed to have literally stumbled upon. The Nord smiled in delight at the thought that this place might have vacancy, so he pushed himself up even more, fell backwards onto his large bum, pulled himself up, fell onto his arms because of the mud at his feet, and began to crawl up the wet stone steps.
Soon enough, he reached the top and was faced with a large, wooden door. It looked slick in the dark, stormy night, but being slick had never stopped Lukis from going ahead and knocking where normally others dare not. He brought his enormous fist upon the door a few times, the echo of the sound reverberating inside and out; the Nord often practiced his knocks, as he got bored easily and loved the sound of knocking on solid wood.
He waited a moment, the water of the sky streaming down his greasy hair and giving him a well-needed shower; perhaps no one was home to welcome him to their humble abode. Still, Lukis persisted, and brought his knuckle upon the door once more, this time not relenting in his frenzy of knocks.
What happened next was almost like a blur, as he heard the door creak open, then he felt something soft upon his hand, then he heard a yelp, and finally something topple to the ground. The Nord slowed his knocking and looked down in front of him to see a man sitting on his rear on a ground of limestone. He wore black robes with a blue strip down the middle, and his greying hair and beard matched his steely-blue eyes.
At first, Lukis hesitated; this man was clearly a noble, or a priest, so apologizing wasn’t the best idea. Then Thok ran forwards and leapt onto the man’s knees, licking him in joy and happiness and getting his wet fur all over him. Lukis tried to reach out to grab his dog, but something stopped him before he could: the man was laughing.
“Yes! Hello there, little one!” he called out between each chuckle and lick from the dog. “Yes, I know you’re here! Hi there!” Finally, he managed to stay his laughing enough to look up at Lukis. “And hello to you, my good man. What brings you to the Church of Her on such a wet evening? I’d assume shelter, but you never know what the Irish want, and I should know. I am Irish, after all!”
The man stood up, holding Thok in his arms as he reached out his right hand. Lukis looked at it dopily for a moment, not knowing what he was doing. He had an idea, and that idea was wanting payment to return Thok to him, but that would be stupid, as Thok wasn’t even worth much.
Finally, Lukis realised what was going on, and he grasped the man’s hand quickly. “The name is Lukis Vinterheim, formerly of Atson Villa!” he introduced to the elder. “And I’m here looking for shelter, food, drink, and shelter, if you don’t mind.”
The man shook his hand and smiled brightly. “And I am Minister Cillian O’Donnel, and I am honoured to bring to you shelter, food, drink, and…well, yes. Anything that you need. After all, as your host,” he set the dog down on the ground, and Thok trotted back to Lukis with a happy hop in his steps, “I am bound to satisfy your needs.”
Lukis didn’t hesitate for a moment as he entered the impressive church; after all, this man claimed to be there to sate all of his needs, and if he was going to be treated like a king, then he would act like—
“What’s that?” he cried out as he pointed to the stained glass mural at the front of the great hall, abruptly interrupting the thoughts that passed through his mind. “It looks pretty. Especially that woman.”
“That,” began the Minister as he strolled over, “is Her.”
“Minister, you lucky dog, you!” the Nord sneered as he attempted to gracefully slide over, resulting in what looked to be a strange mating ritual performed only by the profoundly dim. “I didn’t know there was a Missister!”
O’Donnel laughed—a wheezing cackle that showed signs of age—and shook his head. “She is not my wife, my friend. She is the Goddess who watches over us, otherwise known as Her. She blesses us all with Her knowledge and logic, and gifts those who are loyal with Her innovative tools and information. One who seeks only the advancement of society through science, as well as the purification of this world by eradicating all the purer evils that would stop Her. She is omniscient, and She is gracious beyond recognition.”
Lukis listened mostly to what the Minister had to say, admittedly intrigued by his talk of ‘innovative tools’ and all the other junk that went along with it. However, he became suddenly enthralled by a scent in the air that lured him in a slight waddle to the far end of the marble room.
“That smell is gorgeous,” he murmured as he continued forwards.
The Minister smiled behind him and began to follow. “As a matter of fact, I was just about to start dinner. You arrived just in time, my good man.”
The Nord smiled as O’Donnel shuffled past him and into the kitchen, returning moments later with two bowls of beautiful-looking chowder. Its broth was a thick, creamy yellow with chunks of potato, various vegetables, and what seemed to be venison floating just above its froth. The steam that emitted from the surface wavered into his massive nose, and once he was full of the smell, he couldn’t help himself.
Lukis graciously accepted his host’s offer and began to slurp noisily from the wooden bowl, only to be stopped in a moment by the sharp sound of the Minister’s tongue clicking. He looked up and saw the man wearing a cheeky grin on his face, waving a wooden spoon in front of him.
“Wouldn’t want to forget this, now would we?” he teased.
Soon, the two of them were sharing a hot bowl of chowder and a glass of red wine, apparently purchased by the Minister from the Maran Empire. Lukis had once served in that Empire as a translator, as his parents were scholars from its northern stretches. When he was a decorated veteran at the ripe age of twenty-three, he was accused of taking part in a conspiracy to overthrow the king, and had his title removed. Shamed and in need of a comfort drink, Lukis turned to a local tavern, and in the thirty years since, had only been sober a few times.
One thing he did miss about the Empire, though, was its drinks. Finest in the world, depending on whom you asked. Still, most were ready to say that the noble brews of the Maran grapevines had the perfect blend of sweetness, bitterness, and fruitiness that a wine was best off with, and sometimes the Nord forgot exactly what he was missing.
In fact, the more he drank, the more things he forgot he was missing. He was regularly tipsy, but this was certainly a potent draught. Soon, he was on his arse, giggling like a little schoolgirl as the Minister and he swapped stories from their youth; two old men who had seen their fair share of strange things in life while a little dog leapt between the two and the Goddess looked down on them with judgemental eyes.
*
When he awoke, it was with a board smacking the inside of his head. At least, that is what it felt like, but he knew very well the feeling of a hangover, for it was a residing factor in his body to remind him that he was a drunkard.
He was met with a very high ceiling with strong wooden supports keeping it up, as well as tall windows letting the mid-morning sunlight in to strike the man’s face harshly in a way that seemed to scream at him to get up off of his arse and back onto the road.
Quickly, he pulled himself up using one of the benches of the church and began towards the door, waiting for Thok to follow him. The room itself was silent, and though he wished to give the Minister who housed him for the night a proper farewell, he found that he wouldn’t be too upset if he didn’t get that chance. After all, he knew that he’d one day come back and have another drink with his new friend, if age hadn’t caught up to either of them.
As soon as he touched the wooden door, however, he looked down at his hand; his index finger bore a ring, plain in shape and dark silver in colour, with a small cobalt slit facing upwards and shining in the sunrise. Slightly confused, Lukis pulled it up closer to his face and examined it. He hadn’t come in with this ring, nor had he remembered putting it on during the night. In fact, it was completely new to him, and despite the amount of silver and blue around him, he didn’t quite seem to understand where it came from.
Almost as if called upon, the Minister began to climb a set of stairs from the basement on the far side of the hall, cradling his head as he did so. “Leaving so soon, Lukis?”
Lukis shrugged and turned to him with a nervous smile. “I wanted to say goodbye, but if you were having a hang-up, then I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Well, I guess I disturbed myself, then, didn’t I?” the Minister chuckled as he approached the man. “But I tend to keep my farewells far less lengthy than my hellos.”
He stuck his hand out, and in that moment Lukis saw that O’Donnel wore an identical ring on his index finger. Were the two of them married now? How would either of their spouses react to this? Lukis pondered these questions, hoping that ‘civilly’ was the answer to the second.
“Farewell, Lukis Vinterheim, formerly Lukis of Atson Villa. I pray that our paths cross again,” O’Donnel said, seemingly unaware of the Nord’s pensive expression. Then, quickly, he added: “And you won’t forget our deal, will you?”
Lukis’ eyebrows cocked, and he grimaced. “What deal?”
“The one we made last night,” the Minister explained with a long face. “I gave you a ring of Her and accepted you into her church. She promised to help you reclaim your honour after you told me your tragedy, and in return you promised to serve Her and assist me in a very important crusade. Do you not remember?”
The Nord shook his head, unaware that any such deal had been made. The Minister looked back at him, seemingly saddened, which made Lukis rethink his actions and words. This old man was looking for someone to not only share in an important quest, but also for a friend. Lukis was no different: he sought friends, and he sought quests to reclaim his honour, none of which succeeded. This deal benefitted them both, and if the Minister was so keen on him joining his crusade, who was he to say no?
“Well, I guess I can say yes to a drunk deal,” the Nord exclaimed, bringing his ring to his eyes. “And I get a nifty ring out of it!”
“I’ll inform you via the clairvoyance of the rings of what you must do, and when,” O’Donnel informed him with a big smile, to which Lukis smiled back. “Until our next meeting, may She be with you on your travels.”
Lukis smiled and shook his hand once more before bounding out of the door of the church, a ring on his finger and Thok prancing along behind him. He was stuffed to the brim, his hangover was drifting away, and he had a new friend, a nifty ring, and a chance to reclaim his lost honour.
All in all, a successful night.
Now it seemed that his last wish was for another pint.
The Nord. He towers over me physically. A big man. But smaller in status than anyone. His heart is firm. His head is strong. His kidney, perhaps tainted. What he lacks truly is a will of his own. He is pushed around by the bully. He is manipulated by the eyes and tits of the trickster. Even his own mutt is driving him to poor decisions. His knowledge will do nothing but ruin him. His strength will do nothing but humiliate him. In the end, his honour will only be found with me. He will be able to turn nowhere else. For where else can he serve a greater good without making a fool of himself? When he realises that, he may not have any honour to reclaim. I can make sure of that. He may laugh now in drunken jolly. But his situation is growing more and more dire each day. Remember that the last laugh will be on you. Such is Her will.
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Post by Ibelin Dumont Baltonien on May 9, 2015 22:11:00 GMT -6
What the cosmos may see as chaos, I see as order. For chaos is only a form of order. Planned. Risked. And made to look fateful.
I Used To Be An Adventurer Like You… (The Story of Ibelin)
The first one: tall, fair-skinned, and with a lovely set of eyes. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the eyes Ibelin was focused on, so he quickly lost interest in her. The second one: a bit on the shorter side, but he’d had experience with that. He was reminded almost immediately of the dwarven lass, and turned away as to no longer think of her.
The third one: foreign, by the looks of it. Perhaps an immigrant of the Orient looking for quick pay that wasn’t found in her land. This was the one he wanted. Of course, he wasn’t looking to make a purchase today. His pockets were sadly void of any coin, and on top of that he was feeling particularly more adventurous today rather than in need of some playtime.
Adventure came seldom to Prometheus, where he’d grown up. A small seaside village under Norman rule—as was the rest of Britannica—with its main resource being fishing and smithing, his first taste of adventure didn’t come until he was sixteen, when an Ice Dragon from the northern world swooped down and decided to try to make a feast of the village’s residents. Using only an unfinished rapier and wooden buckler, the young smithy was successful in slaying the dragon, resulting in his blade being enchanted and his soul being restarted, this time with an insatiable lust for adventure.
He spent the next nine years traveling the lands set out before him, raiding dungeons, saving villages, and garnering the respect of peasant and wenches alike. Noble actions and action were his true reward, but it certainly motivated him a bit more when a wench was involved, especially if bedding her later was an option. Gold and coin were also nice rewards; not because of his greed, but because of his need to constantly pay for things. The warrior was notorious for buying more than he needed or even wanted, and though he generally tried his best to return things that he knew he wouldn’t be able to pay for, sometimes those things didn’t come back in one piece. He’d lost a wooden box supposed to be delivered to a guild. He’d lost a relic supposed to be brought to a museum. At one point, he’d lost an old woman on her way to visit her friend. When foes attacked, they attacked, and Ibelin wasn’t always able to keep everything and everyone safe.
In need of some serious coin, he eventually moved to some more mundane work to make it. He’d stopped in a small Irish town known as Balleydorney while on his way to a seaside grotto far west and supposedly filled with gold for those brave enough to enter, but had been stopped by the women available for work and the work available for strapping young men such as himself. ‘Wanted’ posters were littered on every post, usually beside ‘Lost Item’ posters. He tried to stay away from most of the ‘Lost Item’ ones, as he noticed a few of those items were ones he’d lost, and stuck mainly with bringing criminals and the likes to Balleydorney’s sheriff. He was earning some decent coin before his dangerous campaign, and soon, he’d be returning with enough to buy a round for—and with—all of the lovely ladies.
Among the wanted posters were propaganda posters for the Century War, which, despite having lived in the British Isles for most of his life, mostly eluded the warrior. What he did know was that the war had reached its climax recently, that for some reason dwarves were conquering elves, and that the Maran Empire was landing upon the shores every day to assimilate people into their ranks, which Ibelin got out of using only his title as a Knight of Poseidon (valid only in the Norman regime, but not something that the Marans really knew). Plenty of the propaganda was centered around the idea of serving the Maran Empire as they helped the great Elven Nation in defeating their dwarven enemy, but there were a few that warned people away from the war, and some of the wanted posters even displayed the faces of various war criminals wanted by their respective states.
The warrior examined one of the posters on the wall of the local prison, seeing the face of a Wood Elf warrior on its burnt parchment. His eyes were deep and aggressive, and his sharp, angular expressions were harsh and foreboding. In the image, it was clear that there was something on his left cheek, where normally even Ibelin knew Wood Elves placed their tattoos. This had to be the man that Minister Cillian O’Donnel had sent him after.
After spending a few days in Balleydorney, he decided to explore the area a bit, and one of the first people he had encountered was the Minister of the local church. An honest man and far less radical than other holy men he’d met in his life, O’Donnel had been buying bread when Ibelin nearly mistook him for a criminal he was sent after.
“Dear me!” he’d said when Ibelin raised his rapier to him in the bustling marketplace. “Are you going to rob me, vagabond? I shall inform you that I’m poorer than a young, helpless street urchin!”
Ibelin had immediately dropped his weapon upon realising that this man was far too aged and clumsy to be whom he was looking for, and made amends by using the last of his coin to by the man’s bread. Later that night, they’d shared a meal and a drink at his church and discussed the warrior’s current situation: his lack of funds, his lack of preparation for his quest, and his doubts about his past actions. Normally, this was not something he opened up about, but even the Minister had a way of getting it out of him.
“Her name’s Marissa Coldwater,” the warrior had begun, “and she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever met, both inside and out. Blonde hair at her shoulders matching her crystalline blue eyes…and her figure was so perfect and touchable, I couldn’t help myself. She was quick, clever, and knew how to get what she wanted. I guess the gods—or Her, in your case—really wanted me to get lucky finally, because it just so happened that what she wanted most was me. Quelle chance, savvy?”
The Minister agreed with his statement and took another sip of his drink before asking: “And what of her now?”
“Her and I spent nearly a whole season together before I realised what the siren had done to me: she’d taken my manhood!” Even thinking back on the situation and his recollection of the situation made him shudder, and back then, it was a very apparent one. “She made me realise how soft I was getting, being with her, so I up and left as soon as I could…with her horse, I guess.”
“And what now?” inquired O’Donnel curiously. “Do you regret your decision? Do you seek redemption?”
Ibelin nearly spat out his drink at that moment before commencing his explanation of his true task. “As if, mate! I’m out to prove just how virile I can be! I will be the patron of many wenches, and I shall have gold enough to make a dragon want to retire in his plunders! My palace shall be colossal, and my manhood even more so!” The warrior often tried to convince himself that his lust for gold and wealth was simply because he needed it, but he had spent many years enduring tortures and life in the wilderness. He knew that people wanted his head. He’d seen his face inked onto many other papers with the word ‘Wanted’ sprawled across in calligraphy. He knew how to make his way in the world without gold. What he really wanted, and could hardly bring himself to admit, was that the gold was to make himself appear larger than he truly was. To show a specific harpy that he was the bigger person, and that her tricks would never work on him.
That was when the Minister had made him a deal. Ibelin hadn’t known much of his Goddess apart from her ridiculously vague name and her enchanting appearance as portrayed by the murals, but when O’Donnel had explained the truth about Her, and that she was willing to bless her subjects with material and scientific possessions beyond comprehension, the knight was completely willing to accept the Minister’s strange offer.
He was given a simple ring that he placed upon his index finger; it was a dark silver colour, and upon its top was a dark blue slit like a closed eye. He once tried to trace his finger along it, but the Minister stopped him immediately, telling him that that was how to open the clairvoyant channels, allowing him to speak to Her other subjects. The warrior was told that he would quickly be instructed on how to properly use the ring, but that would have to wait.
The deal was simple: he was to track a fugitive known as the Clanless—a Wood Elf who knew only war and who had committed atrocious crimes in the past without attesting to them—and keep him in check until a Champion of Her retrieved him. That part was a little fuzzy for the warrior, but he was told that it would make sense in the first meeting, and that his reward would be exactly what he’d need to put the dreaded Marissa Coldwater in her place.
Ibelin thought of the Minister as a strange man, despite his exuberant and welcoming personality. He had never found any churches that worked in the strange way that his did, and his cracking tenor voice and weathered-by-age face did not match his gaiety, nor did it his surprisingly youthful steel blue eyes.
Still, he was being rewarded for a simple duty, and so long as he got what he wanted and when he wanted, he wouldn’t question his employer’s physical nature or peculiar deal. He was to find the Clanless, and then he would prove himself the bigger person for Marissa. Maybe she would crawl back to him some day and beg for forgiveness. Would he be willing to give it to her?
The fourth one: tall, fair skinned, and wearing only a plaid sash and kilt, beige trousers, and muddy brown boots. His blond hair was loose upon his shoulders, and looked as though it were hastily cleaved off with a knife. When the strange turned around for a moment, Ibelin could clearly see a dark patch on his cheek as if he were hiding something, and the cold look in his eyes confirmed the warrior’s suspicions.
The Clanless, he thought to himself as he began to walk forwards in an attempt to catch up to the elf. Immediately, he stopped himself and looked down at the ring on his finger; he’d been told to notify a Champion of Her when he found him, but this ring was still a mystery to him. O’Donnel had never told him how to use it, and so when he thought about it, there wasn’t much he could do.
“Not like that, dear boy,” the Minister had said when Ibelin tried touching the ring’s slit. “That’ll come later.”
Ibelin nodded to himself and slipped his finger over the slit, knowing that that might open up a ‘clairvoyant channel’, as the Minister had called it before. Perhaps not such a good idea in a bustling market, but he knew for sure that worse ideas had come to his mind before.
Soon, he was losing all sensation in his legs, and his head was light and felt faint. He tried walking forwards, but his feet touched nothing, and when he looked down there was nothing to meet his step. Afraid, the warrior began to struggle, waving his arms about and straining his neck: what kind of trap had he fallen for? As he squirmed, he could see a figure appearing in front of him. Its shape was so perfect and touchable, and soon it sprouted shoulder-length blonde hair that beautifully complimented its clear, reflective blue eyes. It wore nothing on its body, completely naked as it floated in front of him, beckoning for him.
It can’t be, he thought to himself, trying his best to maybe swim away from the witch. Is this a trap by that hag? Am I really a fool?
However, before he could make any more judgements, his feet touched solid ground. He looked down and saw what looked to be slightly transparent stone tainted with purple shade and specks of every colour both imaginable and impossible. Above him, in the black sky, a bright diamond moon shone against a darker ebon one. Off in the distance, a small patch of trees was left standing, surrounded by debris and ruins of unknown origin. There seemed to be a small clearing right in front of him, where there was a gathering of dark, angry clouds that swallowed up the horrifying figure of the woman who haunted his dreams.
His curiosity piqued, Ibelin began towards it, noticing that his body was shining and the noises that he made echoed as if he were in a cavern. The storm of clouds was getting closer, reacting to his presence by expanding and receding slowly. It seemed strange, but he swore that he could still see the outline of a figure in the maelstrom, but the closer he looked, the less it looked like Marissa. He’d definitely seen something in the shape of a man. But it wasn’t a man…it couldn’t be. Not with the way that he floated, one leg in front of the other, arms outstretched as if he were hung on a cross, a tattered cloak billowing behind him and pointing downwards at his feet. He hovered there against the silhouette of angered eyes, and in that moment the warrior felt the most primeval of fears.
The figure remained still, but a voice was heard immediately. “Now is not the time…” it said, echoing like a roar but hushed like a whisper. The warrior scratched at his ears to try and rid his mind of the voice, but it sounded quickly again. “Wake up, Ibelin Dumont Baltonien.”
“But—but I found the Clanless!” he retorted, backing away from the storm. “Is this not where I am supposed to go? If not, I’m extremely sorry to have bothered—”
His mouth was quickly covered by what looked to be a thin-fingered hand with black sleeves and a silver and blue ring on his index finger. Ibelin’s eyes went wide, but before he could respond to the situation and the stranger, he once more fell unconscious.
When he awoke, his face was plastered to the soft ground, and around him was a crowd of peasants, seemingly worried by his choice of sleeping grounds. Among them were the wenches he’d initially been examining when he visited the bustling bazaar, but he cared not for them at the moment.
He quickly pulled himself to his feet and began to jump above the crowd of people to see if the Clanless was still around—as he was a short man, he couldn’t see much, but the crowd noticed this soon and let him pass through them.
To his delight, the warrior was slipping away from them, headed towards the west, where he knew that the neighbouring town known as Belsmith had a port. If this criminal were heading there to depart into the west, Ibelin was sure going to follow him no matter what.
The warrior quickly acknowledged the girls and started to sprint after the elf. He would catch up to him soon, but he would try his best to also keep his distance. Sure, the warrior didn’t have the gold to afford a trip to the west, but he knew how to make his way in the world. After all, he was an adventurer, and what was an adventure without the excitement of breaking a few rules?
This man is a fool. His mind is so focused in the useless. He believes in curses and theft. When really all that he must believe in is his cause. Does he truly think that his prize will gain him reward? So long as he does, he will serve me. He has no reason to believe that nobility will come from avarice. He has no reason to believe that vengeance shall be his. He is as foolish as he is influential. Why he is with me, I do not know. His skill as a knight, perhaps? He was the first to find the Clanless. He proved himself worthy in his battles. But what use can he do me when he must battle his own beliefs? At this moment, he reviews the situation. His heart was so quick to change. His faith was so sudden to inspire. What will stop it from being first and fast? What will encourage him next? How much longer will he be so easily played? He is skilled. He is well-known and liked. Perhaps a dangerous enemy should his allegiance change. I lose him as much as I lose the others. It is him I fear losing the most. Perhaps it is time I review my situation. And review his position as one of my agents. Such is Her will.
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Post by Minister Cillian O'Donnel on May 9, 2015 22:14:12 GMT -6
Perhaps I should rephrase my initial inquiry. What is coincidence if not a lie?
Sinner and Confessor (The Story of Minister Cillian O'Donnel)
The dust was settling again.
Minister Cillian O’Donnel was a very lenient man. He was rather fond of every life he met, especially those who took an interest in Her ways. He always sought to do what good he could and sense the least bit of hatred possible.
Dust, of course, was exempt from his elderly wrath.
The old man moved quickly between the aisles of his church’s hall, running an old grey rag over all the surfaces, picking up as much dust as he could without disturbing any of the architecture or the nest of robins that lived just above the front door. He coughed as he made his way around, trying his best but failing to not inhale the small particles of dirt that resided from months of people coming into and going from the church. Balleydorney was surprisingly hospitable, despite what he used to know of it. The people had been very welcoming and kind when his church moved in, but perhaps it was because every other church had been imposed by someone from where the Anglo-Saxons came from and his church was much more homely; after all, he was Irish like the people he served.
Often, they came looking for words of wisdom or a place to stay for a night or two, which turned the church into more of an ‘Inn and Counsel’ rather than a proper place of worship, but O’Donnel was perfectly pleased acting as confidante and host to those who needed it most. After all, most eventually took interest in Her teachings, and returned regularly as friends and colleagues.
He moved his dusting over to the opposite end of the church where stood the main altar and the mural of Her. He looked at it in awe, as he always did when he passed it. He was a celibate man, but even he could admit that She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on. Her hair was loose upon Her shoulders, reaching down to Her back and tapering just off of Her bottom. Her robes were pulled behind Her, and Her legs reached out in front of Her as if She were taking a step forwards. She looked as though She were raising Her arms gloriously, but it was clear to him that She was actually holding up a strange design of sorts; one that represented the science and knowledge that She stood for and blessed Her subjects with.
To Her right was embedded into the mural an image of Her greatest and oldest champion. He was once a hunter—one of seven—who served her in the great war that destroyed the heavens, brought S’argaarin to his knees, and begun the Church of Her. His wavy bangs fell in front of his dark eyes that spoke only anger with their look. This hunter was known as Wrath, and his weapons were more deadly than any seen in this world. It was a well-known fact that if you were a member of the church and you were visited by this man, you had either done something very good or very bad; on the opposite end, if you weren’t a member of the church and you were visited by this man, there was a good chance you were to die. O’Donnel counted himself very lucky to have not been visited yet by this man, but he knew of a champion just as frightening that he had been visited by far too many times.
He continued to look upon the mural when he saw to Her left a new addition to the decoration. He stepped closer to take a look at the new part of it—he hadn’t ordered it to be renovated, nor had he noticed it being tampered with before.
The Minister jumped back against the altar and let out a yelp of surprise when he discovered what truly was leaning against the mural: the champion of Her with the mask of carrion fowl and eyes as ageless as the sky.
“Her Champion the Raven,” O’Donnel said hurriedly as he bowed to the man.
The Raven slipped off of the mural like a serpent and began towards the Minister, his tattered, mud-smacked cloak trailing along the stone floor and his beaked face bobbing up and down. O’Donnel wanted to respect this man, for he was a servant and champion of Her, but too much of him feared this particular champion, despite their arrangement.
The champion still strode towards him, seeming to almost examine the hall. “You have been slacking on your cleaning,” he murmured.
“I am aware,” replied the Minister, throwing his rag onto the altar behind him. Then, he meekly added: “Why are you here?”
The Raven wandered for a moment, almost as if not paying heed to the holy man. One of O’Donnel greatest qualms with this man was his attitude; he was never pleasant, and not once did he come just to say hello. It was always business, and he handled it very poorly.
Once more, the Raven began to speak. “What brings me here is business…the business of knowing why you have chosen this wretched place of all places to establish your church, and why you chose those you chose to work alongside you.”
Slightly taken aback by the question, the Minister raised his eyebrow. “Excuse me?” he asked, knowing very well that the Raven didn’t normally take interest in the affairs of his underlings.
“If I am to work with you,” the Raven continued, “then I must know exactly what thoughts cross your mind. Surely, you must understand. The Nord, the warrior, and the bard.”
The Minister nodded and hobbled over to the rogue. “Yes, yes, of course. The Nord is an intelligent man who, despite his outwards appearance, knows more than the rest of this company. He will be its mind. The Norman man is skilled with a blade, and knows well the lay of the land, and thus I consider him the company’s arm.”
“And the bard?” asked the champion.
O’Donnel shrugged bashfully. “Truly, an entirely divine girl with a sharp tongue and a deadly mind. She may seem without blemish, but I can assure you that she is the most qualified of this company. She is a deceivingly cunning."
The champion seemed pleased by the man's information, as he walked around the altar, trailing his thin hand across it as he nodded. "Your team is ready to find out all about this man, track him down, and surrender him to us. Each perfectly capable of dealing with a different part of my plan. I must say I am pleased with how you have handled your assignment."
The Minister accepted the compliment and bowed once more. "I can assure you that it was an easy task once I knew what it was I needed. This world truly is remarkably small."
"Small enough for you to set up your establishment in Balleydorney. You are no stranger to this town?" The Raven moved towards him, his hand up as if he were beckoning. "I needed to know what I could about who I was to work with, and I learned what I did. You are familiar with Balleydorney, are you not?"
O'Donnel tried his best to hide his emotions. He had been born in Balleydorney, but he didn't want to let this man know that much yet. He was clever enough to know how manipulative a man the Raven could be, and how easily he could warp the words and thoughts of any mind. To give him any personal information would be detrimental, even if they were on the same side.
Still, the Raven continued to speak. "I walked the streets of this village as a champion of Her long before you were even able to wipe the drool off of your own chin. Do you not think I know the happenings of this village?"
"I never insinuated that, Her Champion," he responded weakly.
"Your silence did." This was spoken in league with a cold glare that made the Minister quiver slightly. "How long did you expect to keep from me your true identity as the infamous Bane of the Western Island and Scourge of Balleydorney?"
Those titles brought to O'Donnel a sense of utter dread; how did this man know of his past? Those were days he'd much prefer to forget, or if he had the chance to, remove entirely from existence. He had attempted to redeem himself years ago by turning to Her for guidance, not knowing that She had been following him because of his role as a criminal and a thief.
No. This was not something he would speak to the Raven about. His life had become so fair without those tortures returning to his mind. He had been fine without the notion of being left as a newborn babe to a family of rats and gutter-bugs. He'd grown up knowing only how to wield a knife, how to pickpocket, and how to properly survive in the streets of the criminal underworld present in the town; these were skills he shed when he took on the title of Minister and severed all ties to his previous life. No more would he want to think about murdering his 'family' of vagabonds when they accused him of stealing and killing more than he could handle, and never again would the title 'Bane of the Western Island' mean something to him. Where once it was written on posters that he was that criminal, now he found the same criminals with equally frightening names and brought them to the light. He'd made a name for himself in this town. It was once a dump. A slum. A wretched hive of scum and villainy. He was the one who came in and saved the poor and the lost from their dangerous paths all in Her name, and his church was highly regarded for that.
But that would not be the case had he not lived that life he lived before. Perhaps if he tried what he succeeded in doing as a different man he would end up as the Minister from 'The Minister's Head' did: beheaded and a laughing stock so big there came a pub named after him. Perhaps his life of murder and crime was only to help him in the future. Perhaps it truly was Her plan all along to follow him as She did and guide him towards advancing even one society to a better world.
"Equivalent exchange..." the Raven murmured to the Minister. “Your life was shit and became saint-like after time. In order to obtain, something of equal value must be given, which it clearly was."
The Minister once more raised his eyebrows, alarmed at what his superior was talking about. "What do you...?"
The Raven shook his head. "I know your past, Cillian O'Donnel, for how else would She know it? As Her champion, I am the eyes that She needs to be able to see this world. As Her champion, I learn and do on this plane what she cannot. Sparing you was willed by Her, and knowing more about you was willed by Her. Do not be so alarmed that I know more than you care to let me know."
O'Donnel froze, unable to think of anything to say. This madman had been the one to watch over him, not Her. Though by Her will, of course, the Raven was the one that connected him to Her for these many years, from when he was a rapscallion to when he finally settled as a priest. But this was not an idea that he wanted to admit to being truthful. This man was only a champion of Her. He wasn't Her eyes. He wasn't Her replacement in this world.
But it only made sense that he was.
The champion shrugged lightly, his bobbing head tilting to one side. "You were chosen for this task for one reason that set you apart from the other candidates: your past and my judgement went hand in hand. And now that we go forwards with this plot hand in hand once more, you must know that no secrets can be kept between us."
The Minister nodded hurriedly. "Understood, Her Champion."
"And should you keep from me valid information on our mission, you will pay the price. Is this understood?"
"Understood, Her Champion."
The Raven waited for a moment; was he hesitating? Were the Minister's confirmations of his utmost faith not enough to move him to trusting him? He dreaded greatly what might happen to him should the Raven have not chosen to trust him, for he knew that a visit from Hunter Wrath would most likely be less unnerving than this, for at least there were only two options with that man. This one had his own mind, and therefore his own opinions, leading to his own trust. That was what made him a dangerous foe and an effective champion.
Finally, he nodded slightly and headed back to the mural, black and purple smoke rising around his ankles and above his shoulders. "I like you, Minister. You are a clever man. You are tricky to know. Your past defines you.” He paused for a moment to turn back to the Minister. “You remind me of myself when I was a pup."
O’Donnel shook his head. “The only thing we share is a deity,” he muttered, hoping that the champion wouldn’t hear.
Alas, he did, but his reaction wasn’t one of anger or hurt: it was one of delight. The Raven let out a small chuckle from his thin lips, and it sounded like he hadn’t made that sound in centuries. “The only thing that separates us is the fact that I hide behind a mask. You hide right in the open.” With that, he disappeared in a flash of dark purple smoke, rising as a pillar against the mural. The Minister watched in slight horror and dread from the passed situation, following the column of fiery smoke with his eyes as it rose up into Her face, darkening it before disappearing entirely.
O'Donnel reached behind himself and grabbed the rag quickly off of the altar before giving it a tight squeeze, knowing that soon, he would never get to dust this place again. The Raven’s words echoed in his head, and though he didn’t want to admit that they held any truth at all, he knew that he would only be lying to himself. He knew that the only reason She had chosen him over any other was because the Raven had chosen him, and he had chosen him for being a crook. Though those days were far done with, he knew that, should he be called upon to use those skills once more, he would not be able to hold back.
That was what O'Donnel dreaded most.
He hides in plain sight. A criminal in the night. He wears a dark robe. And thinks himself grand. The Minister is a figurehead in this plot. Nothing more. Nothing less. That does not mean that his position is to be overlooked. He thinks he knows Her. He is wrong. He knows of bounty. He knows of the unclean. And that they must be eradicated. He knows of logic and creation. Moreover, he knows of Her givings. He is the most important one in this plot. A title is all he has. But the information that comes with the title. Now that's a bounty. He is soft. He is clumsy. He will certainly break under pressure. I fear that the bounty will no longer be his when he starts this crusade. That is why I will ensure his utter silence throughout. And how I will know when to silence him should it come to that. Will it come to that? Only She knows. Such is Her will.
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