Michael, Marcel and Abraham had always been told that they were strong for their age; a strength that came in handy when it came to lugging sacks of mushrooms from the depths of their town up to the ancient post by the central courtyard.
Anza’s tall walls housed a hundred or so houses, all constructed from bricks or - most commonly - cut into the mountain itself. For most of the space was not above-land, but dug into the mountain, where the deepest pits held the busy fungus farms where most of Anza’s populace spent days on-end drudging through grow-beds, feeding and harvesting their precious nutrition.
The small, wide constructs inside which most of the population lived, surrounded the stair that led from the top plateau and into the darkness beneath.
The trio knew those stairs well - they could use it to tell the time, at least between the four hours of noon and evening. When the sun stood high above, it illuminated the silent town down to the middle of the gray stair, only for the rays to slowly die as the heavenly body set beyond the walls.
None of them had ever wandered beyond the ancient barrier; that land was wrought with the dangers of the Spawn, or so they had been told. For all their seventeen years alive, none had ever heard of observations so far up in the mountain, nor had they ever heard of bands of hungry bandits looking to raid Anza to survive the long winters.
Not that there was much to steal… Anza had little to nothing except for the impressive farms of mushrooms in her depths and to get to the walled town, one would have to cross tall, naked mountains; a risky path that only the adventurers and caravaneers knew to navigate.
“Lord all mighty…” Marcel muttered as he set the heavy cloth sack down on the granite step of the stair. He, like his brother, were both covered in sweat - reactivating the reek of their well-worn leathers. Michael was quick to join his brother in gripping his knees to heave for air and glare daggers at Abraham with his far smaller bag. Abraham had pulled his hood back, revealing his equally drenched head of black hair. Beads of sweat trickled down his gaunt, narrowed cheek as he attempted to motivate his colleagues: “Take heed, brethren. Lord Bravalle’s eyes look upon those who labor with love!” As much as they all loved the lord, the twins had to resist grabbing one of Abraham’s many charms, pin him down and thrust the Lord’s love into him.
“Can’t you… you know… miracle us? Give us strength? Or something?” Marcel suggested with a hint of a sliness to his smile; well aware that Abraham would never do such a thing… willingly…
Abraham reared his head and glanced about at the empty streets on the plateaus before the houses, before leaning close to whisper: “D-don’t even suggest such a thing! His Miracles aren’t something to use whenever you get tired. That’d be heresy!” Color returned to the apprentice priest’s cheeks as he heard Michael’s warm, reassuring laugh.
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“We know, we know… Besides, this is good for us. Who knows when we’ll have to carry your weak ass like one of these sacks?” Abraham’s mouth formed a strict O-shape; angered at the abrupt rudeness of the twins.
“I am no sack and I can carry my own weight. You might have ample brawn, but I am an agent of the Lord. Your sword and spear means nothing to me.” Michael rolled his eyes, finally angering Abraham enough to raise a finger towards the slightly taller of the two golden-haired twins.
To anyone not keenly observing the finger, one might’ve thought Abraham snapped the air - judging by the sound of a loud click. But Marcel saw it; that flash of pristine, bright blue that shot from the mysticist’s fingertip to strike Michael’s groin - collapsing the young man into violent retches. With both his hands at his crotch, Michael looked up at the confident priest-to-be with mindless fury, questioning what happened to all talk of heretical use of Miracles. But the time for debate was over - Abraham could feel it. The taller twin had murder in his eyes.
Marcel was left staring as Abraham set up the stairs in a frantic sprint, followed shortly by Michael whose hands seemed determined to weaponize the humongous sack over his shoulder.
The rage had stilled by the time they arrived at the plateau - or perhaps the plateau itself was the reason for their experience of sudden calm. The tall granite-slate monastery’s bells had long since been silenced, yet staring up at the tower, a well-wandered adventurer could almost hear the heavy, rusted instruments echo in a sermon. To the right, coming up the stairs, were the stables; now mostly empty, save for a pair of starved Mountainhounds resting in their booths.
Most impressive of all was the wooden house of the Order resting atop the far end of the plateau, slightly elevated above the rest of the facilities. Dragons, raptorforms and all manner of the Spawn’s hosts had been carved into the rare, precious, aged wood that had survived hundreds of years, sheltering the Protectors of Anza. Despite being empty for the most part, it still stood as an important part of the Mountainhome’s mystery, having hosted entire legions of men prepared to give their lives to defend the sanctity of Man.
Determined not to be the odd one out, Marcel had picked up the pace and had nearly caught up to the seemingly frozen pair of compatriots at the top of the stairs. WIth a mouth tasting of the unmistakable fragrance of blood, he rushed up the final few steps to see that Michael and Abraham were both staring at something by the stables - something in front of the tall, wooden doors… a black shape riding a bullish, muscular, bullhound.
The beast itself was startling - eyes as black as the long coat of its rider and with a saddle to match. But nothing was as awe-inspiring and as fearsome as the honorable Servant striding next to the fantastic Hound. The gobsmacked trio felt the entire town still at his mere presence; that white mask with its permanent, porcelain, sickly grin… The unforgettable uniform of a Ghast.