"Although we had understood that many men had fallen in search of faith, destroyed by the unending search for purpose; still we raked the land for signs of lost gods and ancient wisdom. In my younger days I too searched, albeit with skepticism and bored intrigue. In the end I did find them, only they weren't gods— and I found no faith."
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Nivre thought of himself as a man of conviction, unshakeable faith no matter the adversity. He remained steadfast when his family was burned for witchcraft, stone-faced and utterly devoted to his creed.
He was stalwart in his belief as his faithful common townspeople were stoned under the old king, flogged and carted around the streets in a sick parade.
Now he was faced with yet another trial, another chance to kowtow and stay strong in belief.
He sat behind a man named Alexander, stout and well-built; light scruff spreading across his chin and down his neck, disappearing as it neared his cheeks and instead wrapping along the jaw bone.
The chaplain fiddled with his medallion, splotches of Haulder's blood sinking into the wooden splints that held together two aged copper halves. His heavy robes flowed over his courser's haunches, embers chewing the hems like moths in an old closet.
Smoke clogged the air as the scouts hugged the river and skirted the Northern Forest, the rain returning and hissing against the molten townscape.
Nivre looked to the captain of the scouts, his foreign twang not remaining unnoticed. His well-pressed uniform covered in an expensive cloth coat, head held high and proud. Not local that's for sure, Nivre pondered, must be some Eastern dialect, they've been getting awfully snobbish since the capital moved.
***
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***
Ben moved carefully along the Boræthin, scanning the river bank for allied patches; knowing the bodies that flowed down from the border fort had to settle somewhere. He would not allow his countrymen to rot and fester in foreign lands, alone with no one to guide them to the Next Life.
The forest seemed uneasy, quiet and yet active; animals scattering out of the woods in steady intervals, racing for cover in the low brush of the plains bordering the forest.
He scratched his chin and reassessed his map, scratching out parts that didn't seem to match; retracing over and adding notation in the language of the land.
His new companion concerned him, duty coming at odds with honour. His unit plodding along, they hoped the border would stop burning soon; the glow growing ever brighter as it tore through the verdant countryside of Sullea, broken only by the slate cliffsides leading into Broghe.
His message seemed to become less important, the further he travelled from the border; like a nightmare that fades as you wake into the morning, falling away in pieces before it leaves entirely.
The unit looked weary, increasingly ragged and homesick; running low on rations, morale beginning to teeter.
He ungloved his hand and ran his fingers over the map, eyes closed as he committed it to memory. The land here was green and dense, its grassy knolls careening into hideaways and crevices.
Different from the unending alpine mountaintops of his home, the dew seemed to peel off of the fresh grass in layers here; the sweet smell of nature juxtaposed by the malevolent smell of death underpinning the environment.
***
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***
Alder exited the forest, sun on his back as it sank low below the horizon. The deep wood had proved unhelpful, his mark leaving traces all the way around the barony; the strong sigil that had been drawing his attention now broken, unclouding his senses.
Darkness encroached from every extremity of his gaze, the crawling feeling of his power that crept in every direction running into a roadblock at every turn— extinguished by a cold embrace of the void, a chill running from his ears to his chest.
Ser Gavin approached from behind him, tired and still in full harness; the muck in his armour creaking at every articulation. He walked slowly and bent down at the river, running his hand through the sludge that now coursed through the Boræthin; staining the banks with its accursed energy.
Kemp pulled a heavy coin purse rom his cote, turning and offering it to Ser Gavin.
'Your payment and more, I believe our mark is moving to a more populated area. They've left places of power all around to distract me.' Ser Alder sighed, eyeing the plumes of smoke stretching out from the South; their foe had claimed Ebbing while it was unprotected.
Selwood took the money, handing it off to his shadow, Ser Caister, lurking behind him. James not too far behind pulled their strong-box from the wagon and opened it at Orion's feet, safely packing the coins in with their precious few.
'We should head for Alstowe. We need to resupply, rest and bring more men; archers especially, my men-at-arms won't be enough I fear.' Ser Gavin spoke brusquely.
Alder conjured an image of Alstowe in his head, the small village still occupying a fond place in his memory; the great swathes of raw honey that flowed endlessly as mead and sweets.
He felt a great knot of energy to the East, twisting and contorting into a whirlpool of malice. Trickling through the river, it leaked into the land and corrupted the very soul of it. Centring in on the city just a few days ride away.
'I have a terrible feeling Ser, like I'm missing a piece of the puzzle. There are machinations in the shadows we have yet to uncover, its eyes yet to meet ours.' Alder said to Ser Gavin, gripping his wounded arm.
'Tell me young man, how much do you know of the occult?'
Ser Gavin Selwood thought on the question, taken aback slightly. He removed the gauntlet from his right hand, tucking it under his arm.
'I believe that under God, no other may imitate His grace.' He said, posturing as he recited his childhood teachings.
Ser Alder smiled, rolling up his sleeve and revealing the intricate wound that carved its way down to his wrists. Deep cuts spiralling into web of old wounds on his palms, twisting into a curved twelve-pointed star.
'There are many things under God that he doesn't see, or perhaps they are simply darker reflections of His presence,' his wound began to move, pulling and tugging at his skin before becoming strained and pale.
A burst of light appeared in Alder's palm and settled into a small flame; bobbing in the air, flickering and pulsing from bright to dim and back again.
He rotated his hand, Ser Gavin watching as the flame followed— tracing through the air. Kemp gritted his teeth, biting the tip of his tongue. The flame grew larger, the size of a small ball; it grew too in density, no longer a weak flame close to being extinguished.
'I could show you if you'd like. My master was cruel, but he was ingenious; brilliant, even.' The flame died down and the physician clamped his fingers closed, extinguishing the ember with a subtle hiss.
Ser Caister gripped a wooden idol 'neath his undershirt, carved in the visage of the Son. A silent prayer crossing his mind, James Cully absentmindedly sifting through the company's pay.
Gavin stepped before and closed his hand over Alder's, looking up into the clouds.
'You'd do well to keep that a secret between us, my men won't be as discerning as I am. To them you would be but an extension of the very creatures that now seek to bury us, creatures which quite frankly are entirely alien to them.'
Ser Alder nodded, pulling his hand away and shuffling his sleeve back over his wounds. Not entirely against our ways, he thought to himself, He might be more useful than I thought.
He watched as Ser Gavin walked away with his two best men in tow, his eyes temporarily switching into monochrome; picking through the mess of threads that surrounded the trio. Alder couldn't find anything particularly interesting before they escaped his sight, humouring him all the same.
He looked down for a moment, gazing at the cut ends of his threads; leading nowhere, attached to nothing. An unspooled ball of yarn thrown through the grinder, stuck back together with elbow grease and ignorance.
His master's voice rang out in his head.
**
'You are my greatest creation boy, my greatest weapon, my second chance.' Master Aquinas sat in front of the young boy with a stern look pressed into his deeply wrinkled face, rolling a wooden staff through his hands; skipping it across the polished stone floor.
'You may resent me. Hate me, I care not. But know that I have made you a god amongst men, you will be my key to reshaping this cursed land; banishing it of lawlessness and petty squabbles.'
His unblemished hands rested on the arms of the boy, marred by intricate designs cut into the skin; emanating a ferocious power that made even the master's hair stand on end.
'And so I have made you...'
**
'...Man become death.'