Michael had never been one for the defensive arts. Thusly, the young twin had not been selected for the honorable duty of sparring with Abraham - not that he minded. His balls still ached from the controlled lightning jolt to his groin a day previous; a heretical discharge he would be sure to repay when the opportunity arose.
In the middle of the dusty arena, Marcel and Abraham were engaged in a battle of wills and physical strength. On one side, Abraham looked fantastically frightening; his hair defying the forces of gravity by floating in the air. Sparks of blue crackled in the atmosphere around him as he held his right hand up towards the shield pressing against the shield in front of him, suspending it at a stand-still. Both were covered in sweat, having held their ground for nearly half an hour.
The steel kite shield was nearly as impressive as the invisible force holding it at bay; a beautiful, ancient, blue-and-gray construct - said to have been handed down to Bear by the previous Chaptermaster, himself.
Michael considered how far they’d come since those early days; days in which Abraham could scarcely form the barrier in the first place and where neither he nor Marcel had been strong enough to raise the metal to their defense.
He threw a glance to the lines drawn in the sands just behind the combatants’ heels and found his mind traversing time, back to the town’s freshest guest. A Ghast… They knew what he was, of course. Everyone did - the children had heard the tales of heroism; the legendary accords of the Behemoth-slayers - capable of felling even the grimmest of Spawn. His long, sleek body had seemed so frail, but Michael had no doubt he had an impeccable technique to compensate. Or perhaps he was a mysticist - capable of summoning vast storms of lightning to unleash Bravelle’s vengeance upon them.
Disappointingly, the masked man had ignored the three gawking youths, not even stopping to return their straight-backed salutes. He had headed straight for the Monastery grounds, swinging his coat behind him as he left, briefly baring the legendary silver sword. It was smaller than Michael had thought they'd be - he’d always heard that the Ghast’s silvers were as long as their bodies. But perhaps it eventually boiled down to a thing of preference - that he compensated for the short reach with swiftness or strength?
A hollow clang of steel to a skull pulled Michael from his profound musings and he diverted his attention back to the empty arena, where Abraham sat clutching his forehead - groaning, grunting, and whining.
“Bravelle’s balls, Marcel! What’s wrong with you!?” Marcel’s golden hair was black with sweat. He stood wincing and heaving, staring down at his colleague’s pained form, before suddenly taking an interest in the old granite benches around the sparring field.
“If you were running out of juice, you should’ve told me, you idiot! I can’t read your mind - I can’t even see this barrier-thing you’ve got.” Marcel spoke to his defense and took a step back, dropping the shield to protect his groin from any reparations.
Michael rose, yawned, and stretched, hoping to avoid laughing at his dismayed colleagues. “You’re finally done?” He spoke with a hand over his mouth, more to conceal his grin, rather than his yawn. Marcel rubbed the back of his head before helping his partner back to his feet. Already, a monstrous, red bump was forming on his forehead.
Marcel muttered: “Looks like you’re growing a horn… maybe your powers aren’t coming from Bravelle, after all?” Abraham’s glare spoke volumes of his bemusement over the jest. Michael glanced around the arena, only to sigh with a slight disappointment - followed shortly by his two compatriots. Abraham continued rubbing his forehead and, still soured from the love tap, questioned the golden-haired twin: “Seriously? He’s got better things to do than watch a couple of idiots train. He’s a Ghast. What are you expecting? Him to come down here, see us, and select us for the Order?”
The brethren both looked down to the dust with shame. That was exactly what both of them had dreamed would happen and, despite his negative disposition, Abraham had harbored the very same hope. “N-no, not at all… I mean, it’s like you said, he’s got important business to tend to, right? I’m sure he’s already working on the troubles we’re having. They don’t all go purging Hellspawn all the time.” Marcel spoke as he shambled over to the roofed rack of training weapons to drop the shield off.
Michael folded his arms and looked up at the monastery’s ancient bell tower. “I just wish we could do it, too… what’s the point of training all the time if we can’t fight?” Marcel seconded the statement with a nod. Abraham, always the voice of reason, spoke up and wiped his dark brow and accused: “Right. Because we’re strong and skilled enough to go out there and start fighting the Spawn. Bear's right, you know. You could stand to lose some of that confidence.”
Michael snorted a laugh and raised a thumb to his chest. “Of course, I can. If Bear would just give us a chance to prove ourselves, I think he’d find we’re more than ready. That shield-thing you do is amazing - that, alone, would keep them at bay.” Abraham remained skeptical.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“I’m sure the thousands of us they’ve killed thought the same. I’m not saying we should be afraid of fighting… I’m just saying we should be careful what we wish for, all right?” Before they could devolve into another fight, a familiar, cracking sound stopped the conversation dead. The three stepped towards the arch overlooking the paved arrival plateau at the unmistakable sound of the gate opening.
There, in between the massive, tall walls, the historical barrier of man-thick wood swung open on well-oiled hinges, revealing a monstrously tall shape.
The sun illuminated his dark silhouette as it shone past him and the beast he rode; a fiery red, proud thing with long, floppy ears and wide, wise eyes.
It walked with an unusually gracious gait for a mounted Hound, but then again, the hound itself was most unusual. A field-setter, a beast used for hunting in the lowlands, known for their speed and grace; a stark contrast to the black-coated, white-masked figure riding past the gates.
Logan looked down at his companion and snorted a laugh at the dignified gait, a far cry from the long-nosed, sniffing shambling he usually displayed when they were out of the public eye. “Show-off.” The Ghast muttered. Zeke turned his head and glared up at his partner, jerking the harness just enough to make it noticeable to the wanderer.
Logan had never been to Anza - he had heard of it, that quiet mountain home. Several of the frontiersmen had recommended it; said it was befitting of a holiday, as the bare mountains protected it against the Spawn. But he was not one for vacationing, rest, or relaxation - the idling made him uneasy. But he could not deny its beauty and its unusual anatomy.
From where he arrived, he saw a tall, ancient monastery to his right. Just behind it, he saw the unmistakable makings of a House of Order - a garrison, from back before the reunification of Man, traces of a millennium of now-forgotten stories that none save the elders could or ever would recount. Ignoring the three gawking young men, he turned his head to look down the long stairs leading into the bowels of a mountain - a humongous cave housing their agricultural stations. The city itself seemed built into steps - cut into plateaus of granite, where houses stood evenly spaced. His target, he knew, was in one of those very houses, reminding him of his grim business.
He approached the stable hand and jumped off of Zeke, telling the young, disheveled man: “Excuse me. Can you house my hound for the time being?” Wide, white eyes of terror stared back at him - the usual, he thought. Logan looked to the empty stalls and raised a hand to dismiss his weary companion, sending him to the stack of hay to rest his weary paws.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll stay. I need supplies. Mind if I pay you when I leave?” Logan questioned, only to notice that the profusely sweating young man had wet himself. It wasn’t the first time and Logan doubted it would be the last someone had been frightened of his porcelain face.
The Ghast leaned close and in an attempt to break the man from his petrified state whispered: “Trust me. It’s worse without the mask.”
What the stablehand saw was, in fact, the horrors of the darkness incarnate. An eternal set of bared teeth immortalized in porcelain and a long, black coat concealing weapons he could only dream of - whispering a jest. If Logan had stopped to consider his own frightening nature, he might've thought the better of the tactic as he had already identified the risks it involved.
Logan leaned back as another, foul smell tainted the air. “Did you just shit yourself?”
Before the stablehand could respond, the unmistakable sound of three synchronized salutes sounded to his right. Turning, he saw them: clad in leather armor with the stamped brand of the order on their chest - a hammer slamming into the face of a demonic entity.
Two were twins, he could tell as much. Handsome pair; tall, wide-chinned, and with golden hair. Their friend, however, was less fortunate when it came to exteriors.
The priest-in-training wore tattered long, brown robes with the hood barely covering his long nose, a powerful, black brow, and what appeared to be a boil on his forehead. So far, Logan was enjoying the town - it had interesting people in it, after all.
He returned the salute and briefly pondered whether the trio would soil themselves as well, but when the slightly taller of the two twins broke from his trance, he was relieved to not see piss on his pants. “S-Sir Ghast - w-welcome! Y-you’re not t-the same one t-that came yesterday, are you?” Logan was surprised to hear it. It was odd enough he’d be out there in the periphery, weirder still that there’d be another Ghast there. Alas, it was not his business and he responded by shaking his head.
“No. That boy… is he… simple?” He whispered and pointed back in the direction of the petrified stable boy.
Michael was genuinely confused at what sounded like care in the Ghast’s voice. Everything about him was so different from the man he had met the day before, from the way he carried himself to the two, long, black-hilted blades at his hip. Not to mention his hound - a field-setter… they had never heard of anyone in the Order - least of all a Ghast not going with a warhound. Michael finally snapped from his trance and said: “N-no, h-he’s just excited… w-we don’t usually see Ghasts here… there’s been two of you in two days now.” The dark figure nodded and rose to his impressive height again.
“Thanks for the info. I’ll not inconvenience you for too long, but you seem like helpful warriors. I’m looking for a widow by the name of ‘Wellwater’... do you know who that might be?” It just so happened that Michael did, indeed, know who the Wellwaters were.
“I know of a Mrs. Wellwater, but she’s not a-” He fell silent as he looked into the dark pits of the stranger’s eyes.
“She is now.”