Some would have you believe that the gods and their games do not exist. Some believe that they are dead, or that they are both alive and dead. Others would posit that the divines have been dying for thousands of years, their blood seeping into the ground, into the water, into the air. The very air we breathe, the water we drink, and the ground we tread may all contain traces of this divine essence. And so, the gods continue to exert their influence upon us, whether we believe in them or not. That is the origin of the gift-spark, the curse of Mana.
- On the Prophecy of the Gods, by Gideon de Salavia 376 AC.
For the rest of the journey up to the Rump, not wanting to upset the balance and status quo, I heeded Khalam’s counsel and, for the most part, steered clear of the Crows whenever feasible. Nonetheless, there were instances where I could not completely avoid them, such as when participating in a joint patrol around the encampment at night, or scouting on horseback. Despite this, I tried to maintain a low profile, neither impolite nor forthcoming with my details.
However, there was one event that raised a few eyebrows among the people of the caravans. One evening, tired and unable to deal with the rasping saw that was Kidu’s breathing, I went outside for a bit of fresh air and to enjoy the sight of unfamiliar stars painted across an unfamiliar sky. I walked a little way from the ring of the wagons, to meditate and reflect.
Away from the caravan, for practice, I released my Entropic Aura as I looked up at the celestials on high, wondering if Earth’s sun was among their number. Thus, I remained until sleep found me.
Dawn’s touch, her rosy fingers staining the morning sky, was what awoke me the next day. I quickly rose to my feet, for all around me was a circle of wilted grass and dusty dead earth. Among the dry grey stalks, I glimpsed a small reflection of death. A warning, the voices said in whispered unison. It would come as stealthy as sleep.
Dark understanding hit me, and I stopped my Entropic Aura and retreated back into my wagon on shaky legs. A quick check of Status revealed that my spell had increased in level during the night while I slept. It had been careless of me to leave the spell activated.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
As the days passed, the Rump could be seen, growing larger in the distance. A few more uneventful days and we found ourselves at the top of those hills. Once they had found a suitable place to stop, Laes and Gelgor began to organize their people for the coming rains. Stakes were hammered down, wagons secured, and a great tent of oiled and waxed tarp was erected for the animals. Repairs were made, and I had to treat a few injuries. Dumuzi was among those who had suffered, for a Ruar had stepped on his foot. However, by the Grace of the Goddess, as the Ravens and the Crows had come to call it, my Heal spell fixed his broken bones and bruised flesh, saving him from a future of being lame. A tearful Catalina tried to give me some of what little money she had, but I refused it with a smile, touched her shoulder, and told her that instead I would be delighted if she could cook for me a meal someday. I was sure that, if I played my cards right, I could get something more.
I welcomed all of the requests for healing, as they allowed me to practice my magic and earn a few coins. Not to mention, that the generous use of my spells elevated my standing with the people of both caravans.
The Crows and Ravens were ready now, ready to wait out the coming rains. Steadily, the days grew darker as more clouds, carried by a northerly wind, floated in. In the far distance was a black sky of darker clouds, pregnant with rain. At the edge of that dark horizon was a stark line of bone white, the beginning of the Whispering Wastes.
That same day, under Laes' direction, a sturdy man in his thirties approached me. Because of his long dirty blonde hair, which was really more of a light brown on closer inspection, I recognized him from our evening meals, but this was the first time I had made his acquaintance.
His name was Garven, and he explained that he was the armorer and smith for the Ravens, and that he would be making the adjustments for my looted suit of plate harness. Taking out a measure, he quickly and efficiently took down my sizes on a wax tablet, while humming to himself. I thanked him for his time, and he made off to do whatever it was he had to do. As he strode away, I noticed that the man walked with a slight limp.
Sometimes in the evening, when the fancy took me, I would tell stories from my old world. From the classics like the Odyssey and the Aeneid, to recent pieces of fiction that were popular with the masses. A further adapted version of the story of the “Boy Who lived” was particularly popular with the children. I had changed it into a story of revenge, of a boy’s drive to find vengeance for his family at all costs, which went down well with my listeners.
At first, my audience was just my companions. Next, intrigued, Dumuzi would come to listen. Then later, Catalina would join, and in turn, so too would her friends. They would bring small gifts or food, offerings and payments of a sort for the tales of my old world.