Shit.

There wasn't much else to think about their predicament, Riverwood was in a state of panic. Popular convention stated that any moving water could stop the undead. Not a rumor, but something accepted as fact from the mouth of the priests and bishops. The 'Bel' river splitting the empire in two was considered sacred, something blessed by the clergy. Priests of the House of Water would perform all sorts of daily rituals on the river to keep it that way.

That's what they said, turns out there were loopholes to damn near everything.

“My lady.” Rorik bowed at the waist. He was a competent and able bodied man. Muscular, even in his later years, but for the budding paunch of a gut come from relaxed living, giving his breastplate an awkward fit. Gray in the hair, hard in the eyes, a veteran. A legion man too, still flying the moon sigil as was his right, Alex was glad to have someone like that, but... “What's our plan?” Rorik asked.

“A plan?” Alex asked. “What about the paladins? It's the job of the churches to fight the undead, I'm just a mage, and...” She could tell them that help was hours or days away, but she wouldn't. Such a thing would freeze them in the moment where they needed their faculties most, undead surrounded Riverwood and had dammed the river with their own bodies. All of the surrounding villages had fled for refuge nearer the capital, but these men of Riverwood refused to flee. They couldn't, in any case, stuck as they were. Amistad had offered the aid of a handful of mages... And Jartor had denied them, confusing her yet further but giving her a real and true lesson on the kind of man that he was.

“We will fight, my lady.” Gallin, the most senior paladin at the church bowed as well. Alex was a college mage, but she was also the daughter of a count. Not just a count, but an arbiter, those respected most by the church despite being outside the faith. Paladins viewed them as the penultimate form of their vocation, the embodiment of law regardless of their denomination, and the bishops often had need of their services. “There are only two of us... Father Kurt has done what warding he can, but this is a small town. Excuse my candidness, but I'm not sure what more we could do...”

Then we are lost... Alex sighed, planting her hands astride the map detailing the region. Riverwood had walls now, and that was good. Courtesy of Tyr, apparently, a name all of the villagers kept bringing up until her ears were ringing with it. It wasn't the fact that he'd showed such selflessness to these people that was most surprising. Tyr was complicated, and calling him a confusing individual was an understatement. Those deferred taxes had seen their town built up, more prepared for a siege than it would've been not so long ago. It showed incredible foresight, which incensed her further, convinced that he wasn't such a fool after all. Standing up to his father like that and pulling authority on the local baron out of nothing more than care for these random commoners.

Rorik had explained well enough, waxing on about the prince's 'valor' and offering his sympathies regarding their circumstances, but refusing to write him off as a bastard – nor did any of them believe the rumors that the prince was dead. Not that Alex had asked, but the old man liked talking. Without taxes, these lands flourished. If every inch of Haran could be like Amistad if they put the mages to work, why didn't they...? She couldn't stop thinking about it, but they had bigger fish to fry in this moment.

“No matter how many times I mull it over...” She stared at the map, unable to passable solution, expected to battle a seemingly infinite number of undead with four hundred fighting men. “We're in a bad spot regardless of what scheme we concoct. All we can do is hide as many women and children in the church and hope the priests are worth their salt...”

“I disagree.” Rorik's voice came from the rear, he did not join her at the table as the other 'advisors' had, even in the legion he had only been a captain. He knew his place, and was happy for it, to fight in the van, first in and last out. This was where men should be, and after all these years his thoughts regarding that had changed very little. He would die for his nation, for his primus, for the once-prince, even. Higher station was a luxury that had not gotten to his head, still humble and familiar with all those around him. “We have you, don't we?”

Alex snorted in amusement. “You pretend that I won't flee as soon as things get bad, your faith is misplaced. I've no reason to stay here, and less reason to die for you lot.” They laughed. All of them. Rorik and Gallin slapping each other on the back, Riverwood Micah leaning against the doorway and slapping his belly. Men who were facing the foulest of all dooms, and they took her completely serious statement as jest. “I was not kidding.” She clarified for them all.

“We know, Lady Goldmane, it's in the honesty of your words. But your house has held a place in my heart, and all my kin, since I've been a child. It is a gift just to have you with us for as long as it may be. Our women and children will be safe, Father Kurt has sworn it, to fight by your side is an honor and we'll all give our lives happily in your stead. We know that the primus has not abandoned us, and will come.” Rorik smiled at her gently, not daring to touch her as he might have the prince in this situation, and Tyr was still very much his prince, Jartor always had a plan, that was but one of them. “Let's hear your ideas.”

Alex was astonished by their bravery, humbled by their willingness to subordinate themselves before her. Gideon, her father, had always spoken so highly of the commons, but her mother – Asha – had been less... prone to compliment. In any case, neither parent was particularly present in her youth, most of her formative years spent in the palace with Tyr. It was not what she had expected... Men smiling while an undead horde milled about outside, laughing in the face of danger. All her life she'd thought... Less of them, and for what?

“Alright.” She swallowed the lump of saliva in her throat. Her hands were shaking, but she steadied them. Alex was more experienced that half this lot, if not more, especially against the undead so common in the easterlands, time to make use of all that studying. “Let's begin.”

--

Grunting, Daito and Tyr cleared a fallen tree from the road. As he'd explained, patrolling wasn't just about killing, few things ever were. Killing was necessary at times, but fairly uncommon from the day-to-day perspective of an adventurer. Tyr was just... Different? They'd cleared the roadways of similar obstacles, scared off a few predators, repaired some ward runes, something that Tyr was actually good for. Otherwise, there was no combat to be had, this was their job. Normally, he'd have pelted off into the forest, chasing down the creatures they'd seen until they tired and could no longer run.

“I still can't believe that this is what you consider adventuring in Lyra.” Tyr grunted, it had been near constant. Daito would pull brooms or steel rakes out of his dimensional ring to clean the roadways and ensure that any leaning trees were taken care of, anything that might halt the path of merchant carts.

“It's not glamorous.” Daito inclined his head toward the starry sky. “But it's necessary. Patrol is patrol, you can go weeks without a fight, and most hope they do. You might think it impossible – but that's because of the person you are. Or, perhaps, the person you were forced into thinking you should be. Fights don't happen every day, men can go their entire life without killing a single thing. It's not normal to have seen so much, for any living creature. We do this because it is a necessary service, and like I said, they pay well for it – what more reason do I need? It's the summer, young man, at least the weather is nice, gets much worse in the winter time.”

“Mmm.” Tyr pulled the tree aside and lay it in one of the ditches framing the road. He'd thought to burn it into charcoal, but apparently they just let the tree decay so as to benefit the environment. He had no rebuttal to it, as inconvenient and boring as it was, everyone in the republic was a public servant, one of the few similarities they had with the northern empire.

Notably, it was driven largely by selfishness. In Haran, people would do it simply based on the idea that it was 'the way'. Helping their neighbors without expecting hand outs because their pride told them that they could ask for benefits, but they didn't. And this was some kind of... Moral ground that they took? 'I could have asked for it, but I didn't, making me a good person'? Tyr didn't know. The doing of a good deed was well enough for them, no rewards needed. After all, in the future, one would expect a good deed done unto them, it was just the way things worked for the commons.

In the republic, everything was for money, but that was just the way it was. He could smell the scent of goat shit and charcoal on the air. Pitch burners in the hills, most like. But there was something else, the cloying smell of burning lantern oil mixed with body odor. “We've got company. People coming, six at least.”

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The road wasn't much to look it, just an impossibly long stretch of paved stone off into the middle of nowhere, clear of near any obstacles by which to hide or set up an ambush. Unless one wanted to throw themselves into the scrubby nettles that wouldn't do much to cover a grown man.

“Oh?” Daito's interest was piqued, but he didn't ask how Tyr knew it, the captain had already sensed them some ways off. He was calm and composed, insisting they wait in place until their guests arrived, it was near six whole minutes before they made themselves known by the glow of their lanterns. Tyr had been right, counting with no use of mana nor spira, there were three lanterns and twice as many men. “All armored, mounted... Weapons at their hips... Twenty silvers says they're guild members gone rogue here to rob us. How about it?”

Tyr clucked his tongue. “Not one for gambling, but I'll take that bet.”

A minute passed, and then another, quietly waiting by the roadside for the 'bandits' to arrive. Daito didn't seem concerned, and there were few things to make Tyr shake in his boots. If his own father no longer managed to strike fear in him... Maybe nothing could. He was dead to most emotion, and fear was most certainly one of them. What kind of man in a mood to die feared much of anything? Even if he no longer wanted it, not in any totality, he felt as if it had closed off a part of himself. More jagged, after all that work to smooth his edges.

“Hail.” Daito addressed them with a happy wave. Both Hunter's carried lanterns of their own, so it wouldn't be hard to spot them in the middle of the night. The knights, as they appeared to be, approached them with casual strides. Dismounting some ways away and leaving their horses at a safe distance, not a good sign right off the bat but Tyr had never liked staring up at short men trying to make themselves look tall by keeping mounted.

“Hail.” They replied. One of the knights presented a scroll of vellum leafed in gold, a clerical decree from the church. Rarely did that bode well, paladins or witch hunters didn't stop for random men on the side of the road. Entire houses had been put to death at the behest of these and their ilk, Tyr didn't trust them and never had. Even after meeting Brenn, but that man wasn't part of the papacy, just a local paladin of Vestia.

“Pray tell...” Daito sighed, crossing his arms and tilting his head in skeptic accusation. “What is a squad of Varian paladins doing on my land, not enough peasants to abuse back home?” He clucked his tongue sarcastically to enunciate his displeasure. Tyr had no idea what he meant by 'his land', but it was clear Daito was no fan of the churches. Unlike most humans in the various kingdoms, Tyr noticed for the first time that he did not wear a divine sigil or brooch anywhere on his person. Neither man did. Tyr had never been devout, and after meeting a 'god' for himself he was even less so.

In any case, typically every man or woman would wear a brooch, ring, or amulet declaring their patron. It wasn't law, just common practice. Alex and all of the others had worn one, Iscari included, Tyr was the only one who didn't keep a sigil or idol on either his person or in his quarters. He was godless, and his bargain with Thanatos had not changed that in the slightest.

“You'll watch your tongue, westerner.” One of the paladins stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his warhammer. “We are about Her work.” His momentum was arrested by what appeared to be his superior, a significantly larger man with a truly incredible mustache, so vast in its proportions that it became his only recognizable feature in the dim light. All of them were hooded in red cloaks over their burnished plate. Armor too heavy to wear while tramping around the countryside, but it was clear they hadn't traveled very far. These men had been waiting, otherwise they would not have appeared from nowhere, and from the wrong direction given that the city was to the east.

Despite their numerical superiority, dress, and obvious veterancy, Daito was unimpressed. Surreptitiously moving his hands toward his back, palms motioning for Tyr to avoid making any unnecessary movement. Churches were powerful, and their men could be dangerous. There was a saying about it in the republic, darkness conceals but the light reveals. People were people, and more often than not, in Tyr's experience, people were not good.

“Her, you say. Who, then?”

“Lady Indura.”

“We've no shrines to Indura in Lyra, holy man.” Daito replied flatly, but inwardly perturbed. Indura was the goddess of 'truth, purity, and justice' among those who walked the 'path of flame'. A dramatic and passionate lot wholly different than the more humble elemental houses. Light had its flair and drama, but nothing like those of the flame. Only Agni, Kothar, Mako, and Astarte were worshiped in the republic, and for good reason. Where fire tread, destruction came. “State your business then, and pass however you'd like.” Be that as it may, it was a fel thing to goad the fanatics that followed that particular goddess. Daito was aware that all the various gods were real – and they took as often as they gave, he had no interest in becoming the enemy of one.

“Our business is not with you, foreigner.” The loud mouthed paladin with the crescent scar passing parallel to his deep set eyes nodded towards Tyr. 'Foreigner', he'd said, as if they weren't Varian's come to skulk about the republic Daito had been reborn in. “Give us the boy, and we'll leave, no need for you to die as well.”

As well...

Surprising them all, Daito laughed, a hearty and sincere expression of genuine comedy in respect to their posturing. “You've a set of six balls to goad a captain of the Hunter's like that, of which this young man is a member. If you think you can simply ask and be given tribute like I'm one of your fool supplicants come to mass – you're sorely mistaken.” Goading a church was a fel thing, but in the republic... Insulting a high ranking member of an official guild was a thing too, the churches didn't posses the clout they did in other places. Anywhere else, this would've been equivalent to promising violence on a high ranking noble.

Daito wasn't an overly prideful man, he could take his lumps and to hell with them. But it would be a cold day in that same place that he'd allow them to take the boy because that... That man, Jartor, had refused to claim responsibility and act accordingly with his position.

But then, just as he was about to test their mettle, Tyr ignored his quiet order and stepped forward. “Have you ever spoken to your goddess?” He asked the men, relaxed, arms crossed and swaggering. There were two nails now. One for violence, and one for the need of leaf. Withdrawal had not yet sunk in, but it'd been hours since he'd tasted the chalk that Daito smoked. The latter simply watched, very interested in exactly how this would play out.

“Of course! How dare you ask such a question, boy! We hear the words of our--”

“No.” Tyr spoke softly. “Have you ever spoken to her, in the literal sense? Can you confidently say that what she wants is my head? How do you know? Does she even exist? You paladins like to cluck about like so many chickens, but as far as I'm concerned, I'm the only one here who can claim to have heard the words of a god. You see, I've actually spoken to one of those divines of yours.”

“...!” The loudmouth stepped forward, half drawing his sword from its sheathe before the mustached superior stopped him once again. This time, interspersing himself between Tyr and the man. Paladins were venerable opponents, but Tyr did not fear them. If a god truly wanted him dead, would he not just die? Thanatos could certainly do that, he thought, or at least he'd send more than six idiots after him. Tyr would rise again, but they had power on this plane enough to crush him at the very least, if they could truly see through the eyes of their followers as the Shepherd had claimed.

“My junior takes offense at your lack of reverence, forgive him.” Mustache bowed his head respectfully, here was someone with some tact. “But, no, we are but men, and what man speaks to a god? I am not so arrogant to insist that I speak Her words, but it is a thing that must be done – and you know this. Come with us, our cardinal has words for you and you must face trial for your crimes.”

“Why?” Tyr asked, confused. “You wish to execute me, yes?”

There could only be one real reason for them to come all this way. As Daito had said, they were all Varian, easily identified by appearance alone if not for the smooth falcon of house Longinus that adorned their breastplate, something all fighting men of Varia would wear. Mustache nodded again, refraining from a verbal reply, they had come to see to the 'rule of one'. That was, the father and the son, and the son again in Ragnar's case – but he was an obvious exception as a grandfather. Examples of a primus grown old enough to meet their own grandchildren as adults were impossibly rare. Ragnar might be the only one, in all reality, to have ever made it this far, but it had precedent, and Oresund was a long ways away to be pressured by the southern churches.

“Did my father send you?”

“No, lad.”

“Octavian?”

“Primus Octavian, boy, my patience does have its limits. But, no, he did not.”

“Then I'll ask again, why?”

“Because it is necessary. The Codex Aflame says as much, there can only be one.”

“But I'm not a primus. Primus Jartor is not my father, haven't you heard? Therefore, this rule of yours had no bearing here.”

“Mmm... Be that as it may, we have our orders.” Mustache cleared his throat. All of the paladins, save this elder, were clear and ready to dole death. Only he had a look of empathy in his eyes, spurs cooled after decades of service, a man of wisdom and experience. Daito sighed, tugging Tyr back in another shocking display of raw physical ability.

“Do you like music, Mustache?” Daito asked the leader of the troupe, who merely shrugged noncommittally. “Then let me play you something, you paladins who seek to lay claim on what is mine.” Daito slung the leather bound bag from his back and pulled at the zipper of it. A thing of black leather and finely stitched silver embroidery, Tyr had figured it for an axe, but what came from the well oiled leather was a lute. One with a long neck but only three strings. Met with a flat crescent pick cast of rose gold and tortoiseshell.

Tyr wasn't exactly sure what the man was doing. Until he began to play, that was.