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To Consume the Heart

~His heart I would eat first.

I flex my hand.

Fire and brittle ice collide in my bones, shattering up their lengths and jumping joints, from the tips of my fingers all the way to my shoulder. I gasp at the pain, but pull in no air. My lungs are a sucking void, screaming silent in the dark.

Then my eyes open. Staring into the sky, all glimmering with stars, and I’m trying to breathe but there is no breath.

It hurts.

Sitting up, I lift my hands. Stare at them, slicked in black blood. I look down to the earth beside me, at the grass growing there in nighttime shadow. Everything in gray. I touch the grass, but I cannot feel it. All I feel is jagged, brittle pain like saw teeth.

Bending my head back, I stare into the stars. I stare long, letting ice-water memories trickle down my spine. The gnawing teeth. The slashing hands.

Balthazar vanishing before my eyes while I was eaten alive.

The ice and the howling and madness.

With the feeling of bursting blisters, my lips peel back from my teeth and I scream at the sky. He made me promises. I made him promises in turn. I am dead, and Balthazar too will die.

***

My feet shamble weak beneath my legs. My body is taken by tremors, as though the disparate parts of it are trying to shake themselves free of one another. I fix my eyes on the lights of the tavern, then the two figures standing outside. Watching me.

“BALTHAZAR!” The sound spills out of me like a waterfall, rising from my bowels to my throat and tumbling out. “WHERE IS BALTHAZAR?”

“Who is asking for him?”

“I am Freydis the Undead.” I feel my voice reverberating through my body more than I hear it with my ears. The senses are nothing to me now, except for the pain. “And I want Balthazar.”

There are whispers in the air—some giggle sharp like glass and joyful like children playing in spring. I hear it and I shudder. My body wants to pull itself to pieces.

More voices. My head snaps to the side, the bones of my neck clicking and grinding against each other. A tremor runs through my body as I watch people pour out of the tavern. Not one of them adorned in feathers, not one of them a bird. I open my mouth, teeth bared, and snarl at them.

“What do you want with Balthazar?”

Whipping around to this voice, I set my eyes on him. Some features begin to take form in the gray. The voice is familiar. Long robes, deliberate steps. Ansel. “Priest,” I snarl.

“Yes,” he says, “you know me, Freydis.”

A laugh rumbles in my chest. My hand pulses like a heart around my dagger. “Your god is not real,” I growl at him. I feel flashes of Sveas, cruel and horrible, tearing through me a tremor takes me almost tumble to my knees. “I have died. I have looked on the face of god and it was not your god I saw.”

“But we’re still friends,” he says, extending a hand to me.

I watch the hand—out, then in, like a beckon. I briefly recall him putting himself between me and a Malefic just the night before.

I remember Sveas’s hand outstretched, the push like howling wind at my core and the pull from behind. Being torn apart.

“She doesn’t want me,” I croak out, my eyes on fire in their sockets. “I looked on her horrible and beautiful—and she still doesn’t want me. Because of this!” I hold out my arms, force him—force all of them—to look on the horror that I am. “Because he did this to me!” I turn on the gathering crowd and watch them flinch back. “WHERE IS BALTHAZAR?”

“What do you want with him?” Ansel calls to me.

My head snaps around, and I lurch forward and scream. My feet drag through the grass, toward the priest who circles out of my reach but holds out a hand to signal all the gathering southerners to stand down.

“We’re still friends,” Ansel says, gesturing to the space between us as though there were a bridge there.

“Friends!” I throw my head back and laugh. “Friends.” I grip my knife. “I have no friends.” I run toward him, slicing the air and as he dodges back, turning on another who is close at hand to slice at them. If they cannot give me Balthazar, perhaps I should take them all instead.

“What do you want with Balthazar?” Ansel is asking, shouting at me as people lunge out of my way, panic-stricken and drawing their swords. He tries to wave them down. “What do you want with him?”

“I made him a promise!” I scream back.

“And what was this promise?” Ansel asks.

“I would be honored for you to eat my corpse.”

“I promised I would devour him,” I growl, my legs lurching me towards the priest, “and I am so hungry.”

I swipe with my blade. It glances off shields and scrapes through fabric, but fails to find flesh and I scream. Someone grabs me but I dodge and I parry, I slip and slide away until suddenly there are hands on me, holding me on my knees in the gray light of the tavern.

Their hands are a thousand shards of electric ice and glass—and my stomach is tearing itself apart. I bend under their grasp, my back arching with brittle snaps and pops, my skin pulling at the seams, and I scream. Their swords strike me in a dozen brilliant bursts of flame, but they cannot kill me.

***

There was a place I remember him going, where he took Sir Connor and I. Where I watched him cast his circle and weave his magic. It was horrible, and beautiful—as horrible things so often tend to be.

This is where I am, where my memories have drawn me. I stand here in the dark, listening to the whispers in the wind. Despair whispers, laughing wickedly as the door creaks. I see shadow pass through, and I tip my head. I listen. I hear. His voice.

Balthazar.

I rush the door, slamming it with my hands, with the whole of my body as I scream to him. “BALTHAZAR!” I am so hungry. “BALTHAZAR! COME OUT YOU COWARD!” I beat the door with fists and forearms but he does not come. I hear the voices within and grind my fingertips against the door. “LET ME IN.” Slamming and pulling and gripping and…

Finding the doorknob.

The door wails as it swings slowly open. There is someone blocking the way, and Ansel is here, and—

He is a bright splash of color against the unrelenting gray. Red feathers in a flaming burst. Blue tundra eyes. I break in half.

“Balthazar…” He doesn’t look, keeps his head bowed, his brow furrowed, he closes his eyes. “Balthazar?” My throat creaks weakness. When was I rendered so weak? “Why won’t you come to me, Balthazar?”

“Freydis,” he murmurs, and lifts his eyes. There is such darkness hanging over him. The whispers swirling within them palpable.

I step up, reach my hand over the shoulder of the woman in the doorway—and he takes it. Warm—warm in the bitter, aching cold. This hand that had caressed my cheek, this hand that had beckoned me to dance in the clouds.

Never again will I be beckoned to dance in the clouds.

“You left me.” I hear my voice come out, low and breaking. I feel fire streak my cheeks. I clutch at his hand and I sob. “Why did you leave me? Balthazar, it hurt—it hurt so bad—”

“I didn’t,” he says, “I didn’t Freydis—I came back for you.” He’s gripping my hand now, and the pressure of his fingers is a sweet release from the cascading pain rolling through my brittle skin. “I love you—”

“You never loved me.” The words spill out of me as I remember him dropping me from the sky for being too coy. “No one ever loved me.” I remember my mother’s fists raining down on me in the snow.

“Freydis—” There’s a frantic panic in his eyes now, and he pushes toward me, looks to Ansel and the woman standing between us while the darkness looming behind him giggles sweetly. “Let me go to her!”

I don’t hear what Ansel or the woman says, I only hear his voice. Only see the bright color of him—the cream of his flesh, the brown of the stubble on his jaw. I grip his hand and pull, as though I can pull him through his woman, this—

A scream splits me in half as I yank at him, then slam into the woman, bringing the knife I’d forgotten I had to her throat. Her body goes rigid and she bends back as I pull her with the blade, pull her to force her to look up into the face of Freydis the Undead. I stare down at her—stare into one white, dead eye. I recognize her as a Njord—then, through the furs and the armor—recognize the sigil of Benalus on her breast. Traitor. My whole body quivers as I press the blade to her throat—I see her lips moving but all I hear is white-noise screaming. I could end her now, she who turned her back on us, I could end her and have Balthazar—

His grip is loosening on my hand. I feel myself slipping away. No, no—he’s all I want, he’s all I’m here for—

I lose my grip on him. My veins are submerged in ice as I tear away, pain flooding me. I turn on the first person I see, wanting nothing more than blood to pay for this pain. I fall on the stranger, all open mouth and screaming teeth and hungry tongue, and I am swinging, catching shields and arms and scraping flesh and drawing blood and—

I am struck. And again. And again. I am descending into the darkness and in the darkness there are whispers and icy laughter. The Miracle, I tell the whispers, and I don’t know how I know, but they’ll tell him to come.

I will have Balthazar’s heart tonight.

***

~Should he die, I would lay his body out and peel his skin back from the muscle beneath.

Somehow, from somewhere, I hear them come in. He is not alone, but that does not matter. I open my eyes. In the darkness of the church, all I see is the rich color of his being.

~I would make gentle work of it, and savor the last remnant of his scent off the nape of his neck.

When he sees me, already walking toward him with feet I’m barely aware of, he stretches his hand out to me. Gratefully, I take it. The heat of his skin pushes back the pain. I sigh.

~I would do it while the blood was still hot in his veins so that it would slip warm over my fingers.

“Freydis,” he says softly, “I’m here.” I kick aside the chairs that stand between us, so I can be closer to him. Stepping into the aura of his color and his heat, the pain begins to dull. “I’m here,” he says. “I love you.”

~And I would take the flesh from his bones with care—but not before I reached into the hollow of his chest and wrested free his heart.

I kiss him. Ice melts away. Fires are doused.

I slit his throat.

His eyes widening as a stiff shudder of shock rushes through his body—it is exquisite. I cannot recall having ever seen anything so beautiful in all my life—save for, perhaps, the sprawling snowy tundra of my homelands. Balthazar DiCarvagio—tumbling to the ground, his life spilling bright and red from his body, as beautiful as the tundras of Njordr.

I fall on him. His blood on my hands makes me feel alive again. I can remember what it feels like to live. Thank you, I think, frantically breaking him open. Thank you thank you thank you. The pain subsides though my stomach is broken glass grinding from within.

~His heart I would eat first.

Descending, I sink my teeth into his open chest cavity. He is so warm. His heart still fighting to live, up to the very moment my teeth break into it, and its bursts, bloody and hot in my mouth. I cannot stop—cannot stop the chewing, the gulping, the ravenous swallowing, cannot stop….

Until, suddenly, I can. Stomach no longer wailing, pain no longer bristling the length of my skin. I sit back, looking down on him, on the fading glint of light in his bright blue blue eyes.

All else falls away. Soft. Quiet.

I smile at him as the light dims, and the darkness descends.

What is this strange peace?

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Chapter 6: Faith and Duty; Death and Despair

Faith and duty; the two words he clung to with desperate strength. Faith in Mithriel and Benalus that he would survive this trial; Duty to do what must be done by the directives of his dual services to the Church as both Templar and Priest. These two words were the only things that held him together through the Despair.

In his lucid moments, gained only fleetingly through on his Oath of the Champion, was he able to see through the smog of an emotional weight rarely felt. It was ever present, threatening to bury him under his own inadequacies and failures. This feeling was not alien to him, but its strength was monumental and crippling.

He had journeyed back to the Blood Fields province to resolve the Charnel Fields that had festered there since the close of Summer. The autumn rains had beat down upon him and his steed as they had slowly traversed the trails to the front lines. Every step had seemed a weariness for the mount that bore the rider who bore a greater weight. The banner he’d completed was drenched from the rain and hung limply from the haft of the spear clutched tightly in one hand. The banner’s ability to inspire the most shaken troops and remove a deep-seated fear could not shake him from the foul cloud that clung to him.

When lucidity allowed him to reflect, he could identify when he first felt this way shortly after the death of his family all those years ago. His home sacked and destroyed by his own Shariqyn kin. His father and mother, taken from him in smoke, fire, water, and magic. His life felt now like it did then; in a mire, and though in a dream.

Reaching the front lines, he had found that the troops of Dame Blackiron were already in position and settled. The crowned skull against black device of the banner proud despite the weather and situation with the Kaurlites not very far off. A cry of greeting had reached him, and he lifted the banner with as much strength as he could to signify that he’d heard the call as his horse continued. A man had come to greet him, calling himself John ‘the Butcher’, inquiring what purpose Renatus had coming to their encampment.

Renatus had answered with as much strength as he could, “To bury the dead of war and give them rest, lest they rise again and punish us for disrespecting their warrior spirits. I do this act as a triumph sworn Knight Errant of the Most Vigilant Order of Templars and Father Superior of the Mithrihim.” The Bains troops had seemed to nod in understanding at his words and had welcomed him into the camp, taking his horse to be fed and cared for and providing him a place to rest, recover, and reside as he did his duty.

Ash…fire…pain…death…it all seemed a dream to Renatus. Returning to life with an incandescent fire coursing through his veins…a memory glimpsed through the dream, with pain following muted on its heels before slipping back into the morass of despair. The smiling face of Luca in his straw hat digging a hole into a heart that felt like it could stop at any point…and then nothing again as things blurred into a colourless swirl of lost time and perception.

Over the next few days as he gained his bearings, he’d come to know the character of the men with whom he camped. It seemed that these men weren’t of the greatest character of men, for their quarrels and disputes seemed to number as many as they were. Wherever he had walked, Renatus could tell that there was significant respect for him and his chosen office, for such disputes seemed to quiet until he had passed them by. He could almost feel the sins of Wrath in this place as waves that would crash against him. There were men here who had doubtlessly never atoned for deeds done, and he felt strangely at home. He had served on the front lines with such men before and in doing his duty he had felt a level of peace and contentment in doing what need be done to save the souls of men. After the first week in his free time not digging, he had taken to going from man to man and ministering to him in a quiet fashion, seeking to learn of them and try to correct the wrongs and issue atonements for sins done.

Food was as ash in his mouth; tasteless, powdered, dry, choking. Water likewise felt as though it parched him no matter how much he drank. He forced it down when he had to, knowing without food or water he’d suffer. In this act, he forced further suffering on himself to where it felt like every act was a task only Dumal could accomplish.

In short order however, he was toiling away in the bloody mud. Bodies…everywhere. Discarded accoutrements of war making even walking a careful exercise in avoiding a blade or an ill-timed fall. It took him weeks to dig a grave he hoped would be large enough, and then came the careful task of trying to bring the souls of the men to rest. Here and there he identified badges he knew, some he did not. With every fallen soldier, Renatus’s spirit heaved in sympathetic pain as he hauled them one by one into the trough. The rain was ever present, as though the very world wept for the fallen.

He did not wear the white tabard of the Order while he toiled, wearing only his black under-suit and a cloak given to him by the Bains men to try to keep the worst of the rain off him. The cloud over him never abated, and only seemed to be compounded by events that caused him to stiffen at each unexpected noise. He’d push on after no attack came and no harm befell him, yet it was not easy. Those few amongst the Bains troops who had some measure of compassion in their hearts had asked if they could aid him in his toil, but he had denied them, saying “I thank you for the offer, but you cannot. This is my burden to bear, my duty to perform. Honor your oaths and follow your orders.”

In times where he needed focus, he tried to reach for his sworn blade, and old friend and steadfast companion that had helped him overcome many adversities, only to find it not there. He was sharply reminded how his blade had been damaged and his oath broken by is sovereign and his Templar brother. They’d had good intentions, but it was through their negligence and choices he now bore a mortal sin and a broken oath. This act had pushed a sharp knife into his guts and there it sat, aching, throbbing; a rare, ever present reminder through the dream.

It was when he went to bed at night, weary beyond all right, drained emotionally and physically, that the dream-like state of the ever-present despair would manifest in worse ways. The nightmares that plagued him before were now punctuated by the hellfire that had brought him back. He had been placed on the Miracle to come back to do a duty, to continue to serve, yet every night…he prayed for peace that never seemed to come.

He had been brought back to life and he was thankful that he could yet serve Benalus and God…and yet…in his darkest moments after being awoken in the middle of the night by the faces of the slain and burning memory of his rebirth that paraded through his mind’s eye as his own personal torment and punishment, weighed down by the despair of broken beliefs, lost friends, and sin forced upon him by those he trusted…he’d try to push aside the thought that threatened to undo him and practice the lessons of resolve and courage Azzam had taught him and focus on a word or phrase to try to push through; “Deus…Vult…”

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Introspection

It’s been a long time since I’ve organized my thoughts like this. Getting it down on paper makes me think about it, much like transcribing the Testimonium. I envy the true writers, though. I fear my own efforts, if they are ever read one day, will be deeply boring.

Hezke is gone for a few weeks. She told me what’s been weighing her down, finally. She’s chosen a dangerous path, but I’m committed to helping her and if we succeed it will be our life’s work. She told me she’s committed to resisting temptation and I trust her. I only hope she can trust her chosen ally and resist her enemies long enough to succeed. I’m happy, though. She trusts me and relies on me. Having someone really believe in me is the strongest feeling in the world.

The long work of getting Stragosa on its feet is almost complete. We’ve improved the city in every way except digging a moat- which is absurdly expensive and unnecessary. We’ve built almost every village we can manage and I hope to have a Confectioner operating in the city by mid-winter. At that point we’ll have all the food we can produce and it will be up to Reinhart to stabilize things with the military. Father apparently brought two thousand spearmen. I’m not sure he’s ever engaged in war himself before, but even I know what a waste that is.

My current frustrations lie with Silbrin and Borso. Both would be solved by transparency, but I’m also not sure how much I can trust either of them.

The Baroness exaggerates the status of her city to aggrandize herself. ‘A second district has been built’ means that a second district is being built- that sort of thing, but it’s constant. As far as I can tell, Silbrin is struggling due to far too many people and no infrastructure to feed them. In contrast, Corvo seems to be learning quickly. He’s started building villages for them, and has even discovered that such villages operate well on hills as well as plains- a boon to us all. They’ll probably need more villages and to tax them strenuously over the next year, but I believe Silbrin will survive. Hopefully they take my advice and leave some of their markets unused to slow their growth.

More personally, the Baroness and her strange Paladin companion originally claimed that she was no longer human- a fact that was disturbing enough that many were sharpening knives. However, in mixed news that was proven false when her Paladin killed her (later resurrecting her on the Miracle) and found Wrath on his soul and his Covenant broken. Those things would not have happened without her being human- happy news. Unfortunately, Areteus now is burdened by his Mortal Sloth and Deadly Wrath- a situation as dangerous as Suriel’s a year or more back. We will have to watch him closely. I hope the atonement from the Bishop is enough to heal him and the community.

Borso is another sort of problem. My fears were confirmed by a masterpiece song he commissioned and I heard in the morning at forum- his greatest drive is Greed for more gold. It affects every part of his interactions and I have fooled myself into thinking there might be something beyond it up to this point. I had hoped that gold was just his chosen method to help others and advance Mankind. But it is not so. He tempts the people with ‘silver for their pockets’ knowing that it will come back to him and what he pays is only a tenth of what he receives for their labors. He exploits the Princess’s generosity in using her lands for far less than any other noble. I have seen his ‘lack of coin should not get in the way of a good deal’ contracts- they indenture people, especially nobles, to him for years and cost three times the loaned amount to buy out of early.

Deep breath. I want Hestralian economics to work. I want to see how competition works toward innovation. But I don’t see it yet and I’m not sure Borso is the man to do it. I hope he can be convinced to do the right thing and set aside his Greed soon. The goal is to bring everyone together. But so far he just seems in it for himself.

On a brighter note, I continue to meet good people and grow my relationships with old friends. I met a huntress named Daciana at forum and hit it off immediately. She is so enthusiastic with how our little brotherhood operates that I feel like it must be Cyaniel himself guiding us together. Adrian approached me and wants to work with us more closely- I think he’s starting to see that what really unites us is the good in our hearts. That means a lot to me. He came from a pretty rough world before coming to Stragosa and it makes me happy to watch people grow. I met another young woman named Saiorse, a farmer who was going to help staff our Dairy, but she ended up going to Silbrin instead. Strangely, I’m at peace with it despite the strain on our resources. She is doing it to help those most in need and that’s admirable. Reinhart, Kirsa and I are getting closer. I love my brother, but I often kept the other nobles in our group at arm’s length to give him his space. I miss him, but his absence gives me the opportunity to know everyone a little more personally. Speaking of, Lord Volksnand is a godsend. I hope I’m not being completely deceived, but he feels to me like a good man wearing the clothing of an evil man. It makes me laugh when he speaks of villainy while selflessly helping everyone around him more than himself. As efficient as Bakara was, and the right man for the job at the time, Volksnand has added something we previously lacked in our ruling council. Ansel, Sif, Heinrich and Lysander provide me with a strong spiritual environment. It’s nice to finally talk with others who understand as I do and want to learn more about the philosophy and theology of our faith. Alonzo and Sif made me very proud this forum. Sif was knighted by Dame Rundelhaus, Ansel’s mother, which is a big commitment for her. She’s going to be an excellent Templar. I also got to know Alonzo better and he has gained a new passion for purity of action. I’m not sure I understand him fully yet, but he’s a wonderful artist and I look forward to sharing his enthusiasm. The Beggar Kings also deserve praise for bringing him closer to God with their beautiful music.

I could go on all day with the good people in my life, but I’ll save some for the next entry, I think.

Father is here in Stragosa. He is upset at his daughter for disowning the family name. Sebastian and I knew he would be, but it seems I was left holding the bag. I defended her choice as well as I was able- and as I had sworn to do- but Father was set in his purpose. He has cut her off from the brotherhood. I have mixed feelings. I want Father to reconcile with his daughter and meet his grandson, but at the same time I feel he is justified, politically. If I could choose the resolution it would be that Alexandria makes her own way, on her own merit, but that she and Father can treat each other as family again privately and spend some time together while he’s here. I pray for neither full support nor enforced distance from our brotherhood. She was never fully invested, more than materially, in the work we do and that’s ok. But she deserves credit for the help she has given us and I want to support her goals when they are good ones.

I had a revelation on Saturday evening. I used my Sacred Blade to face the plague wraith once more. The Lazarine who tricked me appears to be controlling it now. But my blade did not seem to do lasting harm to the creature, which made me think. The blade isn’t intended to defeat Malefic- it’s intended to defend against them. I drove off that creature and only one very tough Njord got sick and was subsequently healed. That is an accomplishment. But I’m not a monster slayer- monsters aren’t meant to be slain. They’re meant to be helped. Realizing this will help me work better with the Nuranihim. I can watch their backs while they help these lost souls and that feels pretty good.

Overall, I feel like I’m growing every day. I read a book on the Age of Heroes and even in there, before the time of Benalus, there is wisdom to be gleaned. One thing that resonated with me that I read from an ancient leader’s journal excerpt was that people sometimes need someone to more forcefully guide and train them into being good people. You can’t expect children to make all the right choices. That’s what parents are for- teaching them the hard lessons learned by generations past so they can stand on our shoulders and be even better. I can’t just present the information and avoid conflict anymore. I need to start really teaching and taking responsibility. I don’t know how I should do that or what it’s going to look like yet, but it feels like time to learn.

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Miracle, or Curse?

They call it the Miracle. We know what it does, and some of it’s limitations, but is there anyone who truly understands it?

My feelings on the miracle have always been mixed. If this was something God truly meant for us to have, why does its very purpose fly in the face of everything I am taught about death? I perform the healing rituals and beseech Lurian not to take a soul. While we are sad when someone passes, particularly violently as seems to be the norm here, we are also happy that Lurian has called them to God.

There was much turmoil, and no doubt been more in the past, regarding who should be brought back at this last forum, or at least the first time I’ve been part of it. Who makes the decision? What is the criteria used? Are the rules set in stone, or are they completely subjective? Much of the trouble was knowing what a person would want. I do have the ritual to ask the question, but if the ritual isn’t successful we’re left trying to figure it out. What happens if we get it wrong? Have we doomed a soul? If they die again, will God and Lurian turn them away because they wrongly thwarted Lurian’s will?

I have met a couple of people who have been brought back. I have for the first time witnessed someone coming back.They seem just as they were before, at least on the outside. I can never really know what goes on in their mind and soul.

The Miracle has been deemed a holy relic. I can’t help but note the wording given. Not Benalian Holy Relic, just holy relic. Splitting hairs maybe? The White Church being careful in case it turns out to be a curse and not a blessing? At the very least through all this, I know what my answer is to this question: Do I want to be resurrected by the Miracle?

No. Without question, without hesitation, no,

If I die, the it was because Lurian has made it so. I will not stray from God’s will. I have to hold myself up as an example, as my father and mother instilled in me, in being as faithful and pious as possible.

To that end, I have proposed to the city that the Lurehim be the keepers of the last will and testaments of the citizenry of Stragosa. All information will be private and consist of two documents being what to do with the worldly possessions they leave behind, and what their wishes regarding the Miracle will be. Hopefully we never have to agonize over this again.

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A messy, if deliberate, ramble

I was seventeen when my Charismata was discovered. Most are found much earlier than myself. A member of the clergy may notice a particularly gifted or peculiar youth and have them checked by a proper paladin. We can sense each other, I’m told. I’ve never tried. I think I feel normal.

That I was able to go so long without being discovered is strange, especially given my circumstances. My father died when I was quite young, and in his place Father Clypeus helped my mother raise me. He said that his closeness with me blinded him to it. I’ve not known him to lie. When we went to convocation, my mother always seated us close to the door. She hates crowded spaces. Reminds her of the pens, she says. Nobody spoke to us much, except for Clypeus. My mother was always clearly “other,” be it the way she dressed, spoke, or behaved.

People were never mean, mind you. Just quiet. Conversations had a way if dying when she entered the room. She said it was because she was a “Shar’Aslan.” Desert lion, I believe. My knowledge of Shariqyn is broken at absolute best. She was an outsider. I suppose that’s all people could see her as. And I am her son. The boy who speaks with an accent despite not knowing any other languages. The silence that followed her had a way of clinging to myself, as well.

I was still a “Proper Gothic Man” despite my origin. I grew up on a ranch. My mother was quite talented at tending to horses. She says it’s because, in her oldest life, she was a “Rakib.” I don’t know what that means. Her skills were valuable, though. I didn’t understand them the way she did. I always enjoyed working the fields, though. The slow transformation of a barren patch of dirt to a rolling field of golden grain will always be my gospel. To create food from nothing but work hard work. The kind that leaves you sore at the end of the day, that makes the night’s sleep all the more enjoyable. It is my passion. My trade. Often times, I find myself thinking that I am more farmer than Paladin.

I fear that I may be rambling. I was already a man in my own right when I was discovered. I was expected to soon start a family of my own. My place in life was set. Or, rather, I thought it was set. Back then, if I’d been asked what I would be doing in seven years, I would never have said “repelling Malefic in a cursed valley.” In a way, I mourn for my old life. For the version of me that stayed in Woefeldt. What would he have been like? I don’t suppose I’ll ever know. That version of me is dead.

I don’t know why I’ve written this. Azzam told me to practice writing each letter a hundred times, but I’ve already done that. Perhaps I just wanted to get the thoughts out of my head and on paper. Jurnaling? I’ve just asked a clergy member, turns out it’s spelled Journaling. Maybe I should start, now that I can write. Hopefully my next entries are less dour than this one.

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On The Importance of Self-Forgiveness

The sounds of shouting were far behind them now, and the only thing left was for them to make it to the woods and disappear. Declan and Liam had already made it past the tree line with Orla and Brody not far behind them. Niall was lagging behind carrying the bundle of supplies they had lifted from the caravan and Conner behind him to watch his back. “Oi lad we’re home free I can’t believe we pulled this off.” The young Dunn grinned brightly at his best friend as the sounds of his heart pumping in his chest started to drown out everything around them.

There was a brief moment before his reply that Niall thought to himself that it was too easy–a split second where the colors of the world seemed more vibrant, and then almost thunderously the silence was shattered with a grunt of pain. The look of wide eyed shock on Conner’s face as he fell forward burned itself permanently into Niall’s brain. The bright red fletching of the arrow sticking out of his back a stark contrast to his yellow tunic. Niall froze in place watching his best friend crawl up to his knees, his muscles tensed as he prepared to move towards his friend.

Before he took a step Conner’s voice boomed out across the field, “Niall MacCraig don’t you dare stop running!” The archer that had shot him from the watchtower was lining up another shot if he acted quickly he could get them both out of there. “Get home Niall. Don’t let them get the both of us mate.”

He wanted to argue, he wanted to rush forward and shield his friend from further harm, he wanted to make sure he would have to tell Conner’s parents that their son wasn’t coming home. His body had other ideas however and his legs were pumping carrying him towards the forest as if commanded by Conner’s order. He couldn’t even bring himself to look back as his friend’s final pitiful cry echoed in the empty field.
—
Niall woke up with a start clutching his chest. He’d had this dream every night since the events of Night Lord’s Feast. Watching his best friend die every night was starting to wear on his state of wellbeing. The sun was starting to raise over the horizon and rather than attempting to go back to sleep Niall carefully crawled out of bed as to not wake up Fiona. Moving around the house quietly as he could Niall got dressed and left for the necropolis. He found himself there more and more lately; well there or the nearest tavern drinking more ale than he probably should.

He found himself on standing amongst the very familiar gravestones in the cemetery and headed to his favorite spot among them. It was nestled in a rarely traversed part of the cemetery and had a small circle of trees nearby to sit under and get lost in his thoughts before the tavern opened so he could start drinking.

Setting up under his favorite tree Niall gave a deep sigh watching his breath frost in the cold winter air, “Gods I’m fucking pathetic…” he muttered to himself for what felt like the six hundredth time this week. He couldn’t help but think of what Conner could would say if he saw him now wallowing in depression. He could almost hear the sarcastic voice of his fallen friend.

“I didn’t die so you could sit around feeling sorry for yourself MacCraig. Now get yourself together and go be the man I know you can be. The hero I know you can be.”

A small smile broke onto Niall’s face, even if it was in his own head hearing Conner’s voice was a small comfort to him. He wanted to make his friend proud—to keep his death from being in vain. Clutching the Lionem that Conner had forged for him for his birthday many years ago Niall made a promise to himself. He would claw out of this hole he was in and forge a legend for himself that would be spoken of for years, and he’d be sure to tell the tale of the man that sacrificed himself so that Niall could become a man worthy of the title hero.

He wasn’t ready to forgive himself just yet, and the Malefic that cornered him had been right he would never outrun his guilt. But if he kept doing well, if he kept using his strength to save people and protect his friends maybe that would start to outweighing the heaviness in his soul. This was something that he was going to be living with for a long time to come, but like Father Heinrich had told him he had done a lot of good since the follies of his youth.

“One day I’m going to show the world what you saw in me Conner.” Niall muttered closing his eyes and picturing his friend in his minds eyes, “I just need to see it in myself first.”

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A Crisis of Faith

Aquila, The Cathedral of San Corvo d’Aquila di Cyanihim

How old was I when I lost my faith? Fifteen? Sixteen? Or was I younger? The Testimonium teaches that we are a brotherhood. That all of mankind is Of God. It tells us that all that is wrong with the world, and with mankind, are holdovers from a broken world, ruled by the followers of the Triumvirate, or by the Witchkings. No, I think I was younger.

The Cathedral stands at the center of the Church District, a massive landmark, dwarfing all around it. It rises 230 feet into the air, and the duomo even higher still. It is a monument to the glory of God and a testament to the ingenuity of mankind. Outside, members of the Ordo dell’arte operate small puppet theaters, putting on morality plays or tragedies. Not far there is a circle where they perform mummer’s plays, their faces hidden by the elaborate masks they where. The walls of the cathedral are adorned with murals, painted by masters of the craft, they depict stories from the testimonium, and tales of the many venerated saints. Most notable among them, my namesake, the patron saint of Il Ordo dell’arte, San Corvo d’Aquila. Light filters in through the stained glass faces of holy men and, the images of angels carrying out their mandates from God almighty. The light is warm and it paints the interior of the church in hues of green and blue, and yellow and red and I would be lying if I said that the entire thing weren’t beautiful. Rumors filter through the city that the cathedral is riddled with secret passages and false walls which lead to rooms, repositories for all of the secrets that the Cyanihim have learned, and those they keep to safeguard mankind on the path to a perfect, sinless world. It is all beautiful and mysterious, and though I feel small in the near empty cathedral… I am not moved. I do not feel the ever watchful gaze of Cyaniel upon me, watching me, and why would I?

As I sit in silent contemplation, staring up at the masked visage of the archangel,I hear another enter through the heavy cathedral doors. I hear the footfalls long before she comes to take a seat beside me. She is tiny by comparison, her dark ringlets cascade about her shoulders and frame her face. She smiles softly and that smile brightens her face, her green eyes, shrouded in charcoal dust as is customary in our homeland, sparkle like polished emeralds. It is all a stark contrast to the elegant black dress and the high collar which she wears. She is my closest friend, practically my sister. We have known each other for ten years now, and few make my heart swell the way Lady Genevieve Baines does..

“Corvo, mIo caro amico,” her time in Rogalia has not changed her Hestrali accent, “I think this is the last place I expected to find you.”

“Si… Mi bella, amica, it’s good to see you. I didn’t realize you’d returned to the country.” I smile warmly as we share a hug, “It is good to see you. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Corvo. How is Marco?” she asks as we separate from our embrace.
“Marco is Marco. He does everything he can to keep himself busy. He hates his mind being idle, he gets bored too easily. Of course I am the same way.”

“Is that why I’m finding you in a church? Because your mind hasn’t been idle?” She smirks, but her voice betrays only the slightest hint of concern,

“No… maybe… I just wish I knew what determined if we were worthy of their attention or not…”

“Corvo, why would you think that?” suddenly, her smile is gone, “Why would you, of all people, think you aren’t worth the attention of the divine? Before my father acknowledged me, when I was living on the streets, you made sure I was safe! You made sure I had food and clean water! How could you think you’re not worthy?”

“Do you remember when I told you about why I came to live with Marco?” I fold my hands, head bowed slightly as I look at them as I that night.

“You told me your parents had died in a fire.” Only the slightest hint of uncertainty edges her otherwise sympathetic voice.

“Si… they died in a fire.” I say the words and it’s as if I’m once again that ten year old boy, “What I didn’t tell you is that I was there, in the house when it started.”

Genevieve’s face is serious, her eyes are like cool jade stones, as she fixes me in her gaze, “What are you saying, Corvo?”

I turn my head to face her, “I had been downstairs, working on my letters and my numbers and… I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, I was drenched in sweat, and there was fire everywhere. At first I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. Heat and light and smoke… it was all so disorienting. I heard mama scream for help and… I ran to the stairs. The wood collapsed between the stucco. I heard papa yell down to me, to go get help.” My voice cracks, and I try to swallow the lump in my throat. I barely register the tears that threaten to spill over, staining my face, as I continue. “Immediately I ran from the house. I pounded on the doors of the neighbors, I screamed for help… people came with buckets as quickly as they could, drawn from the well or from rain barrels… but it wasn’t enough. I kept trying to run back inside and people held me back. I screamed… I begged God to do something, anything. I pleaded to help them but they held me, grabbed my wrists and refused to let go. It’s likely the only reason I survived that night at all.”

Genevieve’s face is still, but in her eyes, I can see the shock, Only a handful of people knew the story, and she is only the first to know who is outside of my family, and the church who’d taken me in, “I’m sorry, Corvo… I didn’t know. Is that why you feel like you don’t… deserve divine help?”

I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, “How can I think anything else? If a ten year old boy, begging God for help to save his parents isn’t worth the attention of God or Angels, why would it be any different when that same boy is grown and is more capable?”

“I suppose that makes sense,” she said, smiling softly and she placed a hand over mine, “For what it’s worth, God’s never given me anything either. All the good anyone ever did for me came with prices attached, or it came from people like you. People who gave a damn.”

“Marco… he’s the same way. When I got here, he told me not to lose faith in God, not to abandon the church or it’s teachings, but to recognize that we cannot depend solely on God. He told me that each of us, by virtue of action or inaction, are responsible for the state of our souls. Our salvation is ultimately our responsibility.”

“It makes sense,” she said as she placed her hand on my shoulder, “What do you say we get out of here? I’m supposed to meet my father for dinner and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind hosting one of the ‘infamous’ di Talmerin family.” She stands and offers me her hand up, I take it, gratefully.

“Si… I think I’ve spent enough time in the church today.” Rising to my feet, I clear my throat, and smooth my coat, before we make our way outside. Stepping out into the early evening air, we can see the sky is painted in hues of pink, orange, and violet and it silhouettes the ships down in the port and the isles of La Sorelle in the distance. I cannot help but smile at the beauty of that sunset as a voice, obscured by an ornate mask drifts over to me.

“Perhap then, these tragedies which strike us, seemingly at random, are actually the hand of blessed, all seeing Cyaniel, setting our feet upon the path we are meant to tread, that without such a push we could not have found.” Genevieve and I look to where the voice is, and we see a pair of masked men at a puppet stage. The stage adorned by pebbled painted white, against a deep blue backdrop, and one of the puppets alone on stage, monologuing. The two of us share a look and look back to the puppet show. I wander over and drop a handful of silver into their donation box.

“Grazie, signore. May Cyaniel guide your feet upon the path.” whispers the masked priest who, for the time, is not acting.

“Buona sera,” I say, turning away. “I think I’ll take my chances on my own,” I leave unsaid as we leave to join Count Baines for supper.

-FIN-

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A Crisis of Faith

Suggested Listening:

Aquila, The Cathedral of San Corvo d’Aquila di Cyanihim

How old was I when I lost my faith? Fifteen? Sixteen? Or was I younger? The Testimonium teaches that we are a brotherhood. That all of mankind is Of God. It tells us that all that is wrong with the world, and with mankind, are holdovers from a broken world, ruled by the followers of the Triumvirate, or by the Witchkings. No, I think I was younger.

The Cathedral stands at the center of the Church District, a massive landmark, dwarfing all around it. It rises 230 feet into the air, and the duomo even higher still. It is a monument to the glory of God and a testament to the ingenuity of mankind. Outside, members of the Ordo dell’arte operate small puppet theaters, putting on morality plays or tragedies. Not far there is a circle where they perform mummer’s plays, their faces hidden by the elaborate masks they where. The walls of the cathedral are adorned with murals, painted by masters of the craft, they depict stories from the testimonium, and tales of the many venerated saints. Most notable among them, my namesake, the patron saint of Il Ordo dell’arte, San Corvo d’Aquila. Light filters in through the stained glass faces of holy men and, the images of angels carrying out their mandates from God almighty. The light is warm and it paints the interior of the church in hues of green and blue, and yellow and red and I would be lying if I said that the entire thing weren’t beautiful. Rumors filter through the city that the cathedral is riddled with secret passages and false walls which lead to rooms, repositories for all of the secrets that the Cyanihim have learned, and those they keep to safeguard mankind on the path to a perfect, sinless world. It is all beautiful and mysterious, and though I feel small in the near empty cathedral… I am not moved. I do not feel the ever watchful gaze of Cyaniel upon me, watching me, and why would I?

As I sit in silent contemplation, staring up at the masked visage of the archangel,I hear another enter through the heavy cathedral doors. I hear the footfalls long before she comes to take a seat beside me. She is tiny by comparison, her dark ringlets cascade about her shoulders and frame her face. She smiles softly and that smile brightens her face, her green eyes, shrouded in charcoal dust as is customary in our homeland, sparkle like polished emeralds. It is all a stark contrast to the elegant black dress and the high collar which she wears. She is my closest friend, practically my sister. We have known each other for ten years now, and few make my heart swell the way Lady Genevieve Baines does..

“Corvo, mIo caro amico,” her time in Rogalia has not changed her Hestrali accent, “I think this is the last place I expected to find you.”

“Si… Mi bella, amica, it’s good to see you. I didn’t realize you’d returned to the country.” I smile warmly as we share a hug, “It is good to see you. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Corvo. How is Marco?” she asks as we separate from our embrace.
“Marco is Marco. He does everything he can to keep himself busy. He hates his mind being idle, he gets bored too easily. Of course I am the same way.”

“Is that why I’m finding you in a church? Because your mind hasn’t been idle?” She smirks, but her voice betrays only the slightest hint of concern,

“No… maybe… I just wish I knew what determined if we were worthy of their attention or not…”

“Corvo, why would you think that?” suddenly, her smile is gone, “Why would you, of all people, think you aren’t worth the attention of the divine? Before my father acknowledged me, when I was living on the streets, you made sure I was safe! You made sure I had food and clean water! How could you think you’re not worthy?”

“Do you remember when I told you about why I came to live with Marco?” I fold my hands, head bowed slightly as I look at them as I that night.

“You told me your parents had died in a fire.” Only the slightest hint of uncertainty edges her otherwise sympathetic voice.

“Si… they died in a fire.” I say the words and it’s as if I’m once again that ten year old boy, “What I didn’t tell you is that I was there, in the house when it started.”

Genevieve’s face is serious, her eyes are like cool jade stones, as she fixes me in her gaze, “What are you saying, Corvo?”

I turn my head to face her, “I had been downstairs, working on my letters and my numbers and… I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, I was drenched in sweat, and there was fire everywhere. At first I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. Heat and light and smoke… it was all so disorienting. I heard mama scream for help and… I ran to the stairs. The wood collapsed between the stucco. I heard papa yell down to me, to go get help.” My voice cracks, and I try to swallow the lump in my throat. I barely register the tears that threaten to spill over, staining my face, as I continue. “Immediately I ran from the house. I pounded on the doors of the neighbors, I screamed for help… people came with buckets as quickly as they could, drawn from the well or from rain barrels… but it wasn’t enough. I kept trying to run back inside and people held me back. I screamed… I begged God to do something, anything. I pleaded to help them but they held me, grabbed my wrists and refused to let go. It’s likely the only reason I survived that night at all.”

Genevieve’s face is still, but in her eyes, I can see the shock, Only a handful of people knew the story, and she is only the first to know who is outside of my family, and the church who’d taken me in, “I’m sorry, Corvo… I didn’t know. Is that why you feel like you don’t… deserve divine help?”

I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, “How can I think anything else? If a ten year old boy, begging God for help to save his parents isn’t worth the attention of God or Angels, why would it be any different when that same boy is grown and is more capable?”

“I suppose that makes sense,” she said, smiling softly and she placed a hand over mine, “For what it’s worth, God’s never given me anything either. All the good anyone ever did for me came with prices attached, or it came from people like you. People who gave a damn.”

“Marco… he’s the same way. When I got here, he told me not to lose faith in God, not to abandon the church or it’s teachings, but to recognize that we cannot depend solely on God. He told me that each of us, by virtue of action or inaction, are responsible for the state of our souls. Our salvation is ultimately our responsibility.”

“It makes sense,” she said as she placed her hand on my shoulder, “What do you say we get out of here? I’m supposed to meet my father for dinner and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind hosting one of the ‘infamous’ di Talmerin family.” She stands and offers me her hand up, I take it, gratefully.

“Si… I think I’ve spent enough time in the church today.” Rising to my feet, I clear my throat, and smooth my coat, before we make our way outside. Stepping out into the early evening air, we can see the sky is painted in hues of pink, orange, and violet and it silhouettes the ships down in the port and the isles of La Sorelle in the distance. I cannot help but smile at the beauty of that sunset as a voice, obscured by an ornate mask drifts over to me.

“Perhap then, these tragedies which strike us, seemingly at random, are actually the hand of blessed, all seeing Cyaniel, setting our feet upon the path we are meant to tread, that without such a push we could not have found.” Genevieve and I look to where the voice is, and we see a pair of masked men at a puppet stage. The stage adorned by pebbled painted white, against a deep blue backdrop, and one of the puppets alone on stage, monologuing. The two of us share a look and look back to the puppet show. I wander over and drop a handful of silver into their donation box.

“Grazie, signore. May Cyaniel guide your feet upon the path.” whispers the masked priest who, for the time, is not acting.

“Buona sera,” I say, turning away. “I think I’ll take my chances on my own,” I leave unsaid as we leave to join Count Baines for supper.

-FIN-

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This City Reaps More Than It Sows

The Reaper Festival is over. It certainly feels like things have been reaped. This city of Stragosa reaps more than it sows. More have died this forum. Some tales of those hunting herbs in the forest to a bear spirit wielding a sword, and the personal troubles of the air mage Balthazar which claimed his wife and later himself. Some of the deceased were brought back on the Miracle, perhaps the most important of the reasons this city draws people into its maw, but not all. It never brings back all of the people that venture here and die. This city reaps more than it sows.

Even getting here had reaped the group I started out as part of in Capacione. Having just come from my adventures in Sha’ra, it seemed natural to return to my home country and investigate the court. The trade goods I brought back from the Shariqyn Empire were sold for the money for the proper clothes and proper introductions and my contacts and the spices they provided made me useful in hosting feasts. I gravitated into the entourage of Lady Gale of Rogalia. Lady gale’s entourage was was abit more intellectual than the others, or at least she was, and I was drawn into it. Then, she was called back to Rogalia by her father. She lost many of her entourage then. Locals who had no interest of investiture in following her to Rogalia. It made sense enough for me to venture along as I was as well acquainted with Rogalia as with my home, Capacionne. There, when it became evident that her next destination would be Stragosa, even the Rogalians left. Our party consisted of Just her, her governess, Ramsey, myself, and a few servants. Now, Ramsey and our servants have hopefully left us without saying goodbye. The other option is that they have disappeared like so many others in Stragosa, never to be seen again. This city reaps more than it sows.

Upon arrival to Stragosa, I was reunited with my old childhood friend, Jean-Duquesne. He and I had grown up together and followed similar paths even to the point of arriving here in this city. We had always been interested in the same things and even took up the same vocations. His family was poor enough that we met due to him stealing sausages so he could eat while mine was a merchant family well off enough to send their youngest son to the Rogalian university. Now I find him in Stragosa and he was the Master of our profession, a Master of a guild, and in possibly even better fortunes than myself. It was good to see him as such. It has been almost a year since I had said goodbye to him when an ill storm moved into the Stragosa valley. The valley filled with the snow and ice that I traveled through a week later to his house. I found the dogs near starved but still alive in the kennels. In his abode, I found his possessions still there, a table set with the food he spoke of cooking after we parted that was never eaten, a fireplace with nothing but cold ash, yet no Jean-Duquesne and no tracks through the snow coming or going or even signs the doors or windows had been opened. It has been a year, and there has been no sighting of him still. This city reaps more than it sows.

So far, both Alexandra’s fortunes and my own seem to have prospered. She is a District Magistrate and I am a Master of my trade and member of the city government. Things seem to be looking up for both of us. However, if Alexandra were to disappear from Stragosa one day, what would I do? Would I flee this wretched city, finally free of it anything that would hold me here. Would I search the Throne to find her and make sure she is still safe and not the victim of some Rogalian plot? Or would I stay till I or it disappears, trying to convince myself that she deserted me here without a word and that this city does not reap more than it sows?

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Darkness, Death, and the Hands of Man

Around him there was darkness, but that wasn’t really right it was an absence of even darkness. Word, Meaning, and Acts spiraled into one another building things around filling thoughts with Form. Aretaeus realized he was part of all of this as things grew, his awareness seemed to be on everything as Existence was. Purpose, spent meaning, intent, the weight of Judgement and the trauma of war slammed into Everything limiting what he was experiencing.
He could feel the weight of God on his brow, the scorn of God in his heart, and suddenly the voice of God to his ear. Even as he heard, he felt himself being poured into Form and felt its limitations, its uniqueness. As Meaning filled as the Form was, it changed his perspective so much, it was hard to think of what he had been aware of just moments ago, and at the same time the Firmament and the land became so much more clear with feet on the ground and the sky above him. The valley around him being defined even as he was watching there were leaves and needles, stones and seeds which more was lost to view as they became parts of trees, mountains and plains.
It was the Valley he Felt himself in, he was not sure when though, Time had yet to attach. All aspects of humanity began to form around him;
– Feet began to walk trails and roads, cross paths where they came together it slowly made something of a grid.
– Mouths and ears shared words, what it wasn’t clear but it felt of laughter, anger, all manner of feeling
– Hands sculpted stone, wrought iron, and worked wood. These hands assembled what was and would be the Great City of Stragosa, what was and would be the Husk of Stragosa. The hands of man swarmed and ebbed building all that would be seen.
Some of these were connected, others were not, feet with no earthly bodies worked off and on to the stage of the area, hands floated free as they did their work. It amazed Aretaeus, but at the same time he was not overly surprised. All too often what he had seen when looking beyond did not fully match what his eyes might see, his ears might hear. Even so knowing it was hard to tell and be prepared for what was real and what was reality.
Aretaeus closed his eyes, to take in all that was around him, and even as he did so the sounds and feeling around him changed and shifted. Ser Percival was beside him, and they were walking towards the Miracle when his mentor brought him to a stop, “Listening and what else? It has been to long since the church has committed to decisive action. You will decide what it is you are committing to, and tell me by evening. “ The Knight masters words were curt but not harsh, but even those shifted at the ends of it flowing into a time at the tavern, “Now is not the time to Act, but to learn more first” Other times began to connect and as chaos started to grow Aretaeus let go a bit with his mind that particular focus and tried to focus in general.
Opening his awareness once more Time seemed more solid, as did the Manor house he often met with the Leadership of Silbran in, still in the valley but no longer where he had stood once moments ago. Splashed colors this way and that showed the touch of magic everywhere in the city. Little stood truly warped, but just looking you could see where colors were off, creating a space that one might expect after enough herb to change the world around them. Entire paths stood out in odd coloration, a concern to the Paladins heart as they lead different directions.
What stood out the most walked into the manor, as the Baroness stepped within mouth moving as she talked to others in to room but that was not something Aretaeus was aware of as he looked on. The colors that made the Lady Drake stood out so much, evne as they were perhaps warped like a spoon in a glass of water, or light through a crystal. Broken, warped, and changed in a way that struck at part of the root of Aretaeus desire for divinity to spread. –How, how do we fix this? To shepherd this lost Meaning back to its purpose and form? Let this not be something that give up on so quickly. What must I do, I have learned as I have felt needed to understand more, what do I do now as the next step toward bringing her back to the flock? What next?-
The world came to a pause, it turned to Grey through area “She Must Die”, and it rocked him to his very core. Still he kept enough mind to try and understand; Did she need to be purged by the Fires that Cleanse? Did the words feel of Ash and Heat? No, the purge of heresies was not the demand. Cold, simple death. That the Gates open before her where all are judged equally. But there was not much more depth beyond the command, the next step.
The cold was around him now not just in him. He felt the oncoming winds of winter, an empty war camp around him and looking on to the Kaurlite stronghold as it stood standing. The Empire had an army at its gates, but it was not clear to keep to his own timeline that he had sworn to. More so Aretaeus was here, an empty camp and not leading the charge. The cutting edge of despair biting into him like the worst of bitter winter winds. Looking around him he saw the Butcher serving children at the edge of camp, but they always seemed further than he could get to and further still as the crest of Lurian fell from his shoulders.
“What else Will I get wrong? When people look to me as a source of direction, what do I show them if I feel lost? You have shown me so much darkness recently. From the Rituals hidden ones are doing through out the city, a follower of Laziel behind me, that my next steps must be a bringer of Death and what else do you give me? A Candle, which might hold the Hope of Man within it? A light that flickers so weakly at times. A light that seems to go dark when needed the most. Being a guide to others, to give them hope and direction where has that gone? Laziel, Tarraniel and Kurian all have sunk their talons so deeply here, surely those of your Intent don’t need the amount of suffering that is here? Do they? How do I show those at the edge that they should come to us and vest everything into the Faith? There is so much Discontentment here, so much for the Thorns to take root in. And … “
Suddenly he realized he was just yelling at himself, angry at himself. The loss, the pain, his own and that of which he had seen in his vision and his experience. A deep sigh came across him, and he awoke with a start, his bed a tussle from fit filled sleep.