The Spring sun had just begun to creep beyond the temple of Mentillian, throwing its light upon the calm morning waters of Starathens’ southern bay, when Misinos finally found his squire reading a letter amidst the scurry of dock workers and refugees. The knight of Mentillian had initially been relieved that his squire knew his letters and numbers, for those were usually the largest barrier for squires from rural towns. Now there was scarcely a day when Misinos couldn’t find the squire truant reading from his growing collection of letters, and it was growing frustrating.

Of course, Misinos couldn’t blame the lad. The old knight had been in love many years ago, and even though the romance had passed, he still felt it tug on his heart strings.

Such is the way Virtue created our feelings. Misinos thought to himself as he slipped through the river of people to his squire at the edge of the dock.

“Ynguinian. We have a ceremony to attend. Letters can wait. Isn’t that the point of them?”

Ynguinian looked up to Misinos sheepishly, quickly tucking the letter inside his vest. He wasn’t particularly tall for a knight, he was actually a few heads shorter than Misinos and most other recruits. The squire had short black hair, his skin was almost brown as bark, and he was deceptively scrawny except for his barrel chest, a blessing of having grown up in the high Harinese. What the Ynguinian lacked in raw strength, he more than made up for it in endurance and dedication.

Virtuously stubborn. Misinos recalled the recommendation for squireship that Raluros, a longtime friend and knight of Ralarusian had given him.

“I apologize, sir Misinos, I did not see any holiday listed today when I left.”

Ynguinian and Misinos began to walk along the crowded streets, at points holding on to the other’s arm to weave through the citizenry without losing one another. The sides of the cobbled paths were filled with wallas and beggars to which Ynguinian tossed the occasional coin before scurrying to stay even with Misinos who kept a pace to rival his own.

“Well Ynguinian, did you consider that some ceremonies are not holidays?”

A carriage shot through the market square, nearly hitting the two men.

“I checked before I left. I’m not on-duty for anything.”

As Ynguinian and Misinos drew closer to the center of Starathens and the looming temple of Mentillian the buildings now were stacked upon themselves, as if cramped mounds of stone and wood, shadowing the narrowing streets. What greeny was left on the sides of buildings had fallen ill, burned, or grown gnarled and dark.

“Then you have not heard news of Huronos, I suppose.”

Pushing through the constricting and snake-like streets (rebuilt in a hurry in the past few months), the two men emerged into the seemingly-pristine District of the Twelve with its pillars and buildings of white stone, claimed to have been carved by Urostrian himself.

“Someone takes an oath today?”

Misinos could sense a hint of enthusiasm in the squire’s voice as the two walked briskly along the brick-laden streets of the District of the Twelve, Ynguinian oblivious to the subtle disrepair around him. Yet, Misinos not only saw it: he sensed it deeper than love, or grief, or joy, or anger, or hatred. Something was wrong, and Misinos did not doubt that the death of Huronos, knight of Daristian, was related.

Starathens had once been a beautiful place, before the war, but now the temple of Mentillian and the devotees of other saints were in a losing battle to maintain the Nature and Beauty that had once graced the city. Even the majesty District of the Twelve, home to Mentillian’s tower, had begun to fade in small, secret places. The stained glass windows of the smaller shrines had lost their brilliance. Paint from the frescos that adorned the portion of the temple that belonged to Ralurusian and Memory had begun to leaf and fall silent to the ground. Even that famous white stone held small dirty blemishes behind trees that bore secret illness. That damnable war, it seemed, had brought more to the land than conflict’s typical woe.

“Yes. Tirainon is to be one of Daristian’s twelve.”

Ynguinian’s enthusiasm faded slightly, but if the squire felt any negative emotion he kept it to himself.

“It is an honor to have trained with her.” Ynguinian spoke, closer to whisper, as the men found themselves walking under the humbling archway of Mentillian’s towering monument.

The floors of the temple were laced with silver, platinum, intricate details depicting the creation of the world and the anointing of all thirteen saints. Yes even her, whose name men fear to speak lest they bring woe, waste, and withering upon themselves. That floor created in a dream of Beauty’s saint, however, was a mere trifle in comparison to totality that was the dwarfing temple of Mentillian.

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A monument dreamt by the second saint, to create the grounds where all saints and all patrons could be worshipped as equals. To eliminate dispute, and to hold higher above all things Order. Order of kingdoms. Order of knights. Order of people. Order of law. Order of saints. All were equal subjects, and all found themselves represented within these hallowed walls, which to experience such could only be subscribed as sublime. The feeling of being utterly diminutive before a storming cloud of thunder, or staring downwards upon the nightscape of a metropolis so expansive that it disappears over the horizon as one realizes that each of those glittering stars of torchlight represent a life so full of wonder that to imagine each and every one would take until time itself fell into Decay.

Two immense windows near the top of the tower, carved in the shape of the crescent moon, represented Borrinean and Luck. Frescos descended down each pillar of the impossibly towering structure, seeming almost as a flowing fire of motion and color. The stories they told represented Ralurusian and Memory, and each brush stroke represented Beauty and Nominian. Along the circular enclosure were unfinished portions of architecture from which grew ivy, flowers, moss, and fruitful trees that descended the walls as a primal tapestry representing Daristian and Nature.

Carved deep into the stone enclosure of pure marble were the hopes and dreams of countless centuries of pilgrims: the youth who hoped to find love, her name forgotten to time; the soldier who hoped to find peace, his life taken by blade. These prayers represented Sirangian and Desire. The pews, a circle of aged wood encircling the central dias , each lattice bent and interwoven as if a basket. These represented…

Who again?

The seventh saint is…

Misinos muttered under his breath.

“The eighth saint is Sirangian, the seventh…”

I must be getting sick.

These represented the seventh saint, whose patron is Ingenuity. The stone, the building, the foundation itself represented Urostian whose patron is Shelter. Lining each bench, carved words, each of the twelve oaths spoken by those saints. These represented Ghalstorin, whose patron is Language. Off to the side, in a small hallway, a collection for those prosperous enough to donate to the sick, the needy, and the hungry of the city. That small wooden box of immaculate make represented Hazlian and Prosperity, for Hazlian preached that true Prosperity was to share with others. Streaming down each pillar of the immense cathedral: ever-flowing water that glimmered in sunlight. This water represented Kalitian and Knowledge. The temple itself, the coalition of saints, represented Mentillian and Order.

One knight, present at all times, kept watch next to the dais. Being human, they represented the highest saint and the most benevolent patron, as neither architecture, nor nature, nor art could represent those. For only a human can represent Paronian and Virtue. Subtly on a wall of a hidden room, a list of each knight deceased, one freshly carved, serving as a reminder that goodness of life is fleeting and contingent. This solemn monument, unspoken, unacknowledged, represented Yuorinis and Decay. All thirteen resided there.

Now, standing in the central dais, was a young woman who held a tome of Daristian’s life. The sunlight filled the entire room, a reminder that Nature and Daristian watched in anticipation of the woman’s oath. Order by order, the clergy, the knights, and the squires gathered in the solemn monument to man and divine as they had for millenia to invoke the ancient rites that sent their souls beyond the celestial sphere to the realm of saints and the patrons. Not all who gave an oath were permitted back to their bodies. Such was the nature of the divine realm.

Paros, the arch-priestess of Paronian, addressed the crowd low and hushed, so only those who leaned in could hear her speak.

“An oath-taking will commence in these ancient halls. Daristian. Nature. I invoke thy aid to this squire’s adventurous song; that her soul’s flight to your realm provides what she needs to uphold you through her oath, and that you deem her worthy of holding such words.”

The priestess’s voice hung on the air and the marble walls as the subtle pitches of her voice became emphasized by echo, warping into the strange harmonies of the celestial architecture. Then, once complete silence was had, the squire took oath in the archaic language of her order.

“Daristian. Nature. Tirainon I be’est. Most vows thou listen, of such length they be. Nay, not me. Each passing day I see thou defiled, sickly, and withering. I swear thusly: to travel northerly, to the Deep Weald, wherein I will seek the elves, and rid thou of this unnatural pestilence.”

Tirainon frothed and the mouth fell upon the dias, hitting her head. Red filled trickled from her blonde hair, but none dared to aid the squire. This was Nature’s judgment alone. If man interfered with her will, then her wrath they would surely bring. If the squire was to die, it was simply the way of things.

Tirainon’s oath, minutes later, still echoed high within the chamber, now only the faint chirping of the cathedral’s partials. Blood, seemingly ever-flowing, trickled off the dais towards the surrounding pews. Still, none had moved, not even the squire. Nature would tell if she lived.

An hour passed until a mass of small purple birds, each with nine eyes and nine wings, flocked through the westward opening of the temple of Mentillian and perched upon Tirainon’s body. The largest bird leaned downwards to the squire’s ear and seemed to whisper. Suddenly with a scream the woman woke, dissipating the flock. Dried blood stained her robes, hair, and face, but not her eyes, whose color was immistakible: the deep purple of Daristian, ninth saint, whose patron is Nature. Within those new eyes, granted by her oath, those close would later claim to have seen pure Firstdread. Something in the realm of the divine had troubled her.

Keeping whatever horrors she had witnessed to herself, the new knight spoke to those gathered within the temple of Mentillian.

“Family. Tirainon, no longer. Siranulos, I be’est. Knight of Daristian, defender of Nature. Tomorrow, I leave for the Deep Weald.”