Author: Joshua Randall

Hexxenacht. A time to turn your back to the door, to refuse the velvet hush of night. Yet even when warned, when argued, when pleaded they choose to walk with him. His chilling presence, like a cruel ray of moonlight, unsettled every step. His alabaster robes a draw out the long shadows weighing heavy on all our bones.

Petya watched in mute horror as he moved among those who can not see. Our heroes, our hopes, our hearts, ignorant of their hooded attendant. The fragrance of his impassive consideration hung in the air, a lullaby that clung to souls he marked for his embrace. The nightmare played out in the recesses of Petya’s mind. Ruined and broken bodies cast aside. It leaves Petya with an unbearable weight.

His approach was subdued, an owl to whom we all await. His favored, unbeknownst to them, to became his children. Ordinary folk, innocents, and warriors alike, unaware of the fate that was their sheppard. The horrors of war, of monsters and traitors, had already claimed too many lives. Petya recoiled at the thought of innocent souls sacrificed to feed such sinful perversion.

The darkness of our situation deepened, like the ceaseless nights of war. His presence grew constant, fevered, Petya knew that he would not remain idle. That he would snatch any who were too close to sinners, innocent or otherwise.

Wards against malevolent influence, to distract and save the lot of them. A decision, painful, like cutting out ones own heart. Petya searched among the ranks. Petya prayed until he saw the evils that clung to their soul, the fractured artistry of their façade. Petya weighed the sins within their hearts.

Those who had transgressed would be require much attention, he would be forced to care for his broken child as they are ferried into the abyss. It may occupy his attention long enough for God’s light to return, to warm the hearts of humanity. One can not ask forgiveness of such a task, only acceptance. If he came to collect the sinner and demanded Petya as well, there would be no protest, no bargaining, just rest.

Petya had learned in the monastery that the path of righteousness was often paved with thorns. The weight of Petya’s actions, the sin, nearly drove the will from the body, but it was a stone only Petya could carry.

The last bit of dirt fell from his shovel. All that is left for Petya is to work and pray, to seek redemption, knowing that there is no forgiveness, only acceptance. “I swear before the Archangel Lurian, bearer of the fallen, and before the Almighty Lord God, to never harm thee, to protect thy body and thy soul, from this day, until my last day.” The countless, silent graves offered absent gratitude.

Speaking the names of those he remembered Peta felt regret not knowing the letters across some of the graves. The graveyard of Runeheim was already too tragic, too large, too full. In a pleading whisper to his alabaster companion, “In the aftermath of these times, gaze upon the work that Petya’s hands have wrought and wondered who has been my guide.” Their gaze rose and landed on a pile of recent overturned earth out in the forest, a child of Lurian had been plundered.

His hand flashed out smashing into the wall. Petya awoke with a start and yelped. He heard the sudden shift, creak of a bed, and song-sigh of a sword being drawn.

“Saurry. Nitemare” Petya said softly. There was a short grunt of response and the blade slipped back into its sheath. He stared at the dark wall and gingerly touched it. His fingers came back chilled and slick. He frowned to himself, he would not be able to clean up the mess until dawn. The others deserved to sleep, as long as they were able. He rolled over and saw Sir Sven staring at him. The grizzled knight hardly slept anymore. Sir Sven’s eyes caught the flame of a candle causing them to reflect some barely contained malevolence. Petya did not move, like a rabbit who wandered to the wolf without thinking. In that space between heartbeats they stared at each other.

Petya felt his breath begin to tighten and his muscles protest. Sir Sven, he must know. The thought, the spell, the frozen heartbeat freed all at once. A sound of a guttural moan and the idle scratch at the door. Sir Sven stood without word and Petya moved to begin assembling the shell around the knight. They worked for a brief few minutes as the scratching became more insistent. Others stirred and saw the duo preparing, considered the noise, and promptly rolled over and went back to sleep.

Once clad in armor Petya handed the knight his shield and took up place nearby. His eyes wandered over the nearby table of food scraps and noticed a dull knife. With a shrug Petya took the knife in hand and prepared himself.

As they took a step into the knight the night seemed to deepen. The stars pulled away, tucked behind tree boughs and cloud. Petya shut the door behind them as they began their patrol. They moved back and forth. The practiced knight moved as if he had cut their surroundings into their own diminutive territories and was proceeding to check and clear each. Petya rotated, ending up with his back to nearby foliage. He felt the sense of fear and impurity run up his spin before he heard the snap of a branch. Sir Sven moved past Petya and readied himself. Nothing leapt from the bush, no creature, just stillness. Sir Sven took a cautious step into the foliage and then another. Stepping off of the path and out of what little excuse for light existed.

Petya waited.

The soft squelch of something behind him shifted his attention. He turned to see a hideous, rancid, pallid creature. Its maw gaping wide and dripping with bile. Petya considered calling out but doing so might distract the knight. He stood his ground and leveled the knife. The creature circled slowly as if measuring the meager farmer. In a single motion it made up its mind and launched itself at Petya. He thrust forward and shut his eye tight waiting for the pain to rip through his body.

But the pain never came. He did not feel the creature collide into him. Petya opened his eye experimentally and looked around. The creature was gone. No sign it had even been. Petya glanced around to see if it had run off.

Petya turned to see the figure of Sir Sven towering over him, his features replaced by that terrible creature! It collapsed down on him bent on devouring him whole or in whatever pieces it could get.

His hand flashed out smashing into the wall. Petya awoke with a start and yelped.

He felt the weight of bad sleep under his eyes and saw that the dawn had already come. He could hear the sounds of the others quietly chatting and preparing to break the morning fast. He considered telling Sir Sven about his nightmares and asking his thoughts or maybe Sister Solace.

Regardless, there was nothing he could do right now. He knew what was expected of him and all that was left was to work and pray.

A cruel ray of light pushed past his sleeping mind gently rubbing at the edges of his consciousness. The offending light brought other concerns to his attention. Petya caught the smell of twice-burnt wood just beginning to turn to charcoal, the sound of seabirds and hammers meant they were close to the settlement, and the uneven roll of the cart placed an unbearable pressure on his bladder.

With effort he opened his eye and squinted at the indifferent daylight. Timing the sway of the cart he let the next opportune shift help him roll free from his wedge sleeping nook. A few of the travelers nodded at him as he wandered from the procession and found a larger tree to step behind.

After his relief Petya walked on in companionable silence, rejoining the convoy. He listened to those around him speak of their concerns, hopes, and goals. He wanted them all to find the things they wanted and to avoid the worst of what they feared. Though he imagined that not half of these would still be with them when the thaw came. The nights were growing longer and the fields as stiff as iron. He recounted watching a shovel snap just yesterday. Some of the Gothic born had met the morning with the same vigor they would have back home. They didn’t know that the handle of the shovel needs time to warm from its work. The wood too brittle from the nights-chill.

Petya let his hand continue his idle work. They mindlessly wove back and forth moving a pair of crooked sticks as he knit. He paused looking at his work and with a sigh began to unweave the last few rows. He had not been giving his craft any attention and he had absently switched patterns. Without letting the frustration settle he began his plodding walk once more.

As he walked he thought of all the various things to happen in Runehiem since he arrived. The terrible creatures, wonton suffering, and disingenuous ploys. It was enough to make one turn up their nose and return to lands of proper behavior and understanding. Petya shook his head as if to dismiss the thought. He learned to love God and the Throne. He traced his memories, his time in the Monastery. The contemplative and reserved nature of the monks was often just the moments between great bursts of energy and fervor. It was all one could do once a monk caught that spark of insight to not get caught up in the excitement and pursuit. Petya felt a chill in his palm. The weight, the solidness, the chill of those heavy doors still lingered on in his hands. He may have grown with them, learned with them, and loved with them but always kept separated.

He knew somewhere in the mindful part of his head, that it was not personal. They sought to protect him along with all others of humanity who were not ready for the misadventures of unsanctified knowledge. He wondered if the priests of Zuriel would have come up with a way to prevent his homeland from turning to this fetid stalemate.

A call came out from the head of the convoy. They had reached the stockpile and were going to begin to unload. He moved to start unpacking but stopped himself short. With a calming breath Petya pulled his hand back and stepped off the path. He knelt down on his haunches and bowed his head. The words flowed like a mumbled stream from his lips. The prayers of blessings, favor, hearth and home. The small honorings and chiding of the tiny spirits who only hear in whispers. The calling of the Archangels and their dominions and reverence. Someone leaned in close and briefly placed their hand in his pouch. Petya neither moved nor let the matter distract him from his prayer. Almost as soon as it started the individual removed their hand and wandered away. Petya finished his prayer, standing and stretching. He moved to collect a load to transfer to the stockpile. He felt two weights, one was the sack placed on his shoulders, the other hung lightly from his belt and heavy on his mind. He would have to wait till later to see what he had been given.

For now, all that was left was to work and pray.