Hunter logged out, took a leak, ate, shot the crap with Bob at the cafeteria, exercised in the yard, took a shower, and logged back in with time to spare. Fawkes was there in the tent, sitting on her bedroll with her legs folded under her, her back straight, and her eyes closed.
“What are you doing, meditating?”
“You should try it too,” she replied without even opening her eyes. “It nourishes the mind and steels the will.”
He opened his mouth to crack wise, then shut it again. After what he’d seen her do to the low-dwellers, Hunter had to give it to her; Fawkes could even make yoga look formidable.
“I mean it, lad. Sit down and breathe. We still have some time before they sound the bells for the gathering.”
Hunter sat down cross-legged, laid his hands on his lap, and closed his eyes. One of his exes had been into meditation and whatnot, and had tried to teach him–emphasis on tried. Still, he more-or-less remembered the basics; be at ease, empty the mind, control the breathing.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
This is stupid.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in…
Minutes passed. Slowly but surely, his mind relaxed. He envisioned stray thoughts swimming before him like lazy goldfish, and he simply let them pass by. For the first time in a very long while, he almost emptied his mind almost completely.
Somewhere far, far away, a notification popped up on the ticker of his HUD.
“Good,” Fawkes said. “Remember this feeling. A good breathing technique is the cornerstone of any Path. If you wish to sharpen your skills as a warrior, it is imperative that you learn one.”
She didn’t have to say it twice. Hunter immersed himself in that peaceful state of flow, savoring every second.
More time went by. The out-of-tune tolling of a bell somewhere nearby broke his concentration and grabbed his attention away. Across from him, Fawkes opened her eyes and started to rise. It was time for the gathering.
Outside their tent, the sun was almost lost behind a far-away mountain range, painting the sky in a myriad of pastel colors. Throngs of men and women were walking among the tents and teepees, making their way towards the longhouse near the center of the village. Word of the slaughter had spread, it seemed, because all Hunter could see on their faces was a mixture of fear and concern.
“See everything, hear everything, say nothing,” Fawkes reminded him. “Repeat after me.”
“See everything, hear everything, say nothing. Got it.”
“I hope you did, this time.”
They followed the sparse crowds to the longhouse, where most of the village folken were already assembled, sitting on neat rows of wooden benches. They were a good five hundred people. Torches lined the walls, flooding the large hall with flickering light and the acrid smell of burning oil. Hunter realized he could actually smell the crowd, too–dozens of bodies, sweat, hair, sunburned skin, and the occasional waft of sweet, flowery perfume masking heavier, tangier odors.
Fawkes led him to a shady corner in the back of the hall–a nook from which they could see and hear much, and draw little attention. A few of the people near them gave them the stink eye. Some of them even made gestures at them, probably signs to ward off evil or something. Fawkes paid them no heed, so Hunter didn’t either.
At the far end of the hall, Vanchik the alderman had already taken his place atop a platform. He was holding a short staff decorated with feathers and was impatiently waiting for the still-gathering audience to settle. At this rate he’d have to wait a long while, Hunter thought. The bad news had traveled fast, and every single of these people looked anxious and spooked.
“Friends, folken, clansmen,” he raised his voice in an attempt to silence the whispers and murmurs of the crowd. “Lend me your ear, if you may, for there is much I have to tell you. Here speaks Vanchik of Clan Ashari, of the Hawk Nation, of the Brennai. May your days be many and your nights serene.”
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“Hile, Vanchik. May the ancestors will it” answered the crowd in chorus.
“Let us not waste time and words, for we all know the reason for this gathering, and it’s a grim one. The rumors you’ve heard are true–there have been yet more killings.”
Another wave of whispers went through the gathered crowd, echoing off the longhouse’s old timber, taking over the hall as if it had a life and a mind of its own.
“Quiet, now. I pass the staff to brother Daeran, so that he may speak of what he saw with his own eyes.”
Daeran–the gruff, older watchman from earlier–rose from somewhere in the front rows, climbed on the platform, took the staff from Vanchik, and turned to address the folken.
“Here speaks Daeran of Clan Besk, of the Hawk Nation, of the Brennai. May your days be many and your nights serene.”
“Hile, Daeran. May the ancestors will it” answered the crowd again, this time with a definite hint of uncertainty and impatience.
“My heart bleeds for the families of the missing huntsmen and huntswomen, for they were murdered in the deep of the woods. I saw the carnage with my own eyes, a scene most vile and foul.”
That drew gasps all around the crowd, followed by stony silence. Daeran looked at the alderman as if asking for permission, then went on.
“They were butchered and torn apart, and their bodies were left for necrophages to feast on. This was an act of ritual slaughter–neither the work of muggers nor of mindless beasts. Their belongings were untouched, their flesh uneaten, save by scavengers.”
“Wait, does that mean he made it to that clearing and back?” Hunter whispered to Fawkes. “It’s only been half a day.”
“The folken have lived in these parts for many generations,” she explained without taking her eyes off the speaker. “They know the Weald like the back of their hand.”
“Who could have been the perpetrator of such an atrocity, Daeran?” asked the alderman. Judging from his tone, he knew the answer already–and so did the rest of the gathered crowd, probably.
Or, well, he believed he did.
“It could have been no animal, alderman, and no man of sound mind.” Daeran paused for breath. When he spoke again, his voice came out changed, grim. “As I see it, it could only be the Ghost Nation. The evil spirits of the mists are stirring, I can feel it.”
A cacophony of whispers broke out among the crowd, spreading across the hall. A portly man in the front row roughly the same age as Daeran and Vanchik stood up, indignant.
“This again? More talk of the Ghost Nation? Shame!”
“Enough, Tego,” Vanchik was quick to reprimand him. “Only one who holds the staff may address the folken.”
“Address us with lies and deceit?” the man shouted, full of vinegar. “The ancestors turn in their resting places, yet all you do is lie, and scheme, and ask the folken to turn a blind eye! Shame on you, Vanchik, and shame on you, too, Daeran. Your fathers would turn their faces from you!”
“Shut your foundling mouth, Tego, before I shut it for you,” growled Daeran, his thick knuckles turning white around the ceremonial staff.
Unfazed by the threat of violence, Tego spat some slur at the other man–something Hunter didn’t quite catch, but made Daeran’s nostrils flare with fury. Other voices rose among the gathered crowd, arguments broke, tempers started running high. No matter how much Vanchik called for order, the gathering was starting to look alarmingly like an all-out brawl waiting to happen.
An old woman dressed in white furs stood up, climbed on the platform, closed her eyes, and raised her hands in the air as if conjuring some unseen force. And that’s exactly what she did, thought Hunter; a wave of muted stillness washed over the hall, quieting voices and lulling tempers.
Hunter felt it all too clearly–like a calm breeze blowing all his feelings away, leaving behind nothing but a peaceful kind of emptiness. It was almost pleasant, in a way. Whatever it was, however, Fawkes didn’t seem to be affected by it. If anything, she found the whole thing amusing, judging from her crooked smirk.
When everyone had fallen silent, the old woman gently took the ceremonial stuff from the hands of a stunned Daeran and turned to the folken.
“Here speaks Hallara of Clan Besk, of the Hawk Nation, of the Brennai. May your days be many and your nights serene.”
There was no response from the crowd, save from a few absent-minded nods of acknowledgement here and there. Everyone was staring at her, transfixed.
“In the face of tragedy, we bicker like children,” she spoke in a voice that sounded unexpectedly melodic. “Our fathers would turn their faces from all of us, should they be here to watch. Go back to your homes, mourn your dead, burn candles for their spirits to find their way in the dark. And do not despair, for our ancestors’ wisdom lives strong in our hearts and minds. With their guidance, we shall weather this storm, much like we have any other. Go now, with my blessing.”
Still half-stunned, the masses started rising and heading for the exit. Whoever this old lady was, she had gravitas, and not necessarily of the natural kind.
Hunter wasn’t exactly crazy about the way things had turned out. If there was something he hated above everything else, both in games and in real life, it was having his agency forcibly taken away. That’s what this woman had done to her whole tribe. It was for their own good, probably, yes, but it still felt kind of wrong.
He was about to give Fawkes a piece of his mind about the inner workings of Brennai politics when Inago, the younger watchman from earlier, walked up to them.
“Uh, hile, outlanders. The medicine woman has asked that you remain here, and that you join her to palaver.”
Fawkes simply nodded, and the man walked away.
“Need I remind you your role?” she turned to Hunter once she made sure Inago was out of earshot.
“See everything, hear everything, say nothing,” he rolled his eyes. “I should get a tattoo of it or something.”
“If it helps you remember it,” Fawkes said, her gaze fixed on the old woman in white, “I’ll give it to you myself.”