When Alar awakes the following morning, he feels his body aching strangely. He groans and tries to stretch his body only to fall back on his bed. He feels awfully sluggish, and the room is strangely cold despite the sunlight coming in through the window. He rubs his chilled arms and sits up on the bed. He notices that his belt is on the floor, the belt pouch open and the package slipped out.
A sudden shiver runs through him, his eyes fixed on the open box and the unfurled string. The runes around it are dull as if they’ve been deactivated.
“How in Dagar’s beard?!” Alar falls to his hands and knees as he stares at the open box. He curses everything that comes across his mind. How did this happen? He looks to the window and to the door, but nothing seems to have been tampered. Alar searches the box. It’s open and empty, nothing but air. He recalls Indri recounting how Brynjar had been murdered. It looked like the culprit appeared and disappeared within the room. Could the same thing have happened to him, but instead of getting himself murdered, someone somehow broke in and stole the package’s contents?
He breaks into a cold sweat. He’s sure there was something in it, and it’s impossible to ‘accidentally’ break the magical seal in his sleep. He bites his lip and wipes the sweat off his brow. He takes the box and wraps the string around it again. He’ll just toss this off at the drop point and leave. Nothing good will come harbouring this accursed item around.
With that in mind he quickly cleans himself up and leaves within the hour. He hopes no one will be there to collect the package, because they will surely be able to tell it’s empty the moment they hold it.
Alar shakes off those thoughts and concentrates on making his way to the drop point over at Grand District. He’d have to rely on quick wits in the event that something goes wrong. On the upside, to create a commotion in the middle of the Grand District, no matter how hidden it might be would still attract attention. On the other, it depends on how skilled and quick the other party is.
Alar finds himself approaching the drop point. It’s another 15 minutes of walking from the center of the District before he’d reach. He checks the location as directed to him previously by Brynjar nervously, his eyes looking around. The Grand District is bustling, full of aristocrats, scholars and the wealthy. Occasionally he sees the middle class and once in a while, along with the lower class, mixing in with those of the upper class. It’s a scene he notices here and there, but most of them are gathered around the Imperial Chapel of the goddess Jord, working together to clean and dress the grand main statue of the goddess at the Chapel steps. One would find such a sight a rarity from the class division, but over the years, the Heiress’ passionate and kind influence had positively impacted the city.
Grand District used to be only for the wealthy, and it was an unspoken rule that no one lesser than a scholar was allowed into the District. Ever since the Heiress was allowed to roam outside the Palace, she had voluntarily come up to various people regardless of their class. The Empress had not been favourable to her actions initially, but with persuasion from her daughter, the Imperial family has been more open, even treading to the other two Districts. Commoners from the Urban District and soldiers from the Burgess District were also welcome into the Grand District, and even into the Public Palace Gardens, where it’s said the young Heiress does the gardening herself. Her instigation to mingle with all of the people had led the example and the city people of all backgrounds have begun to overlook class differences.
Such cultural shifts are slow to spread, but Alar can already see that things are changing. Alar had resigned from the Imperial army when the Heiress was still a toddler, but he having heard of such good things of the future Empress has him almost regretting the loss of chance to serve under such a person.
While he ponders over this, a passerby comes up to Alar with a smile. The man is slightly startled at the approach and skittish from his plans and thinking for the day. Alar looks over the stranger and regards him suspiciously. The other has a plain and simple appearance, with average looks and modest clothing. He looks like a mild-mannered scribe or perhaps the attendant of a wealthy household and has an approachable and almost timid face. He is smiling rather broadly at Alar though, which unnerves him.
“Hello,” the man greets. Somehow, the smile spreads wider. “I am here to collect the package.”
“Excuse me?” Alar replies, raising an eyebrow. Acting ignorant may gain him some information from this stranger.
“The package, please,” the unnamed man repeats politely. His expression does not change in the slightest. He doesn’t look intimidating or anything special, but that smile puts Alar off. He decides not to be baited.
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“Not sure what you’re talking about,” Alar says in an unfriendly manner and immediately walks away. He doesn’t want to be questioned and the stranger isn’t giving him a good vibe. Fortunately, he doesn’t follow Alar, allowing him to complete his job. Alar takes extra care to make sure he isn’t followed and eventually reaches the drop point.
The alley is surprisingly well kept but it’s the norm for the Grand District. It just makes the concealing of a package harder. After finding a decent spot to hide it, Alar quickly steps away from the area, eager to wash his hands off the job. It would probably be a good idea to get far away from the city and lay low as well.
He isn’t an ass to be thankful about a friend’s death but it helps to disconnect him from any pursuers of the package. Anyone might be able to connect Alar to Brynjar but he’s sure with how fishy his deceased friend was being, he should not have left traces of their contact. Since Alar has somehow messed this job up, it’s best he just leave and forget about it.
He blends himself into the crowd at the Imperial Chapel to stay out of sight while he plans what to do next, absentmindedly gazing at the marble statue. It was carved in the image of a voluptuous woman with golden hair and soil coloured skin. The priestesses and devotees had dressed her in furs and hide, placed flower crowns upon her head and decorated her with intricate golden jewelry. Her posture is regal as she stands, one foot in front of the other, an arm slightly raised with her hand holding the sun, the other placed gently on the head of a small doe by her side.
Alar is not a religious person, but at the moment he could do with a god’s blessing. The main gods of the Empire and the rest of Solveig are Jord who is the goddess of Sun, Earth and Life, together with her husband Dagar, the god of Light, Day and Justice. These two are praised by all in the realm, believed to be the ones who created Firarheim and all its dwellers. Dagar is the guardian and protector, the avatar of strength and skill so therefore almost all warriors including the Imperial Knights, Hallowed Templars and Divine Blades would naturally pray to him. Alar had prayed to him before, but ever since he resigned from the Templars, he hadn’t thought much about it.
A couple of jackdaws fly down to perch upon the marble sun that Jord’s statue is holding up. They playfully hop up the statue’s head and picked at the flower crowns. Watching them, Alar is reminded of the message he received anonymously last night on his way back. Watch the crows, it had said.
Alar looks up at the sky again. Whether it is a coincidence or some divine sign, he sees a couple of crows flying to the southeast. The sight causes Alar to pause and consider, hesitating on the trustworthiness of the message and the possibility of what it could mean. He looks to the goddess statue again and stares for a long time, before he decides on his plans.
---+---
It’s dusk when Alar is seated on a horse-drawn charabanc with other travellers heading for Jordis. The group is rather large, with three charabancs travelling together. The drivers are accompanied by two guards sitting on each of their sides, and a wagon of luggage and supplies accompanied the group. It is the cheapest form of transportation and the slowest, but compared to magically powered vehicles which are still far too expensive to manufacture, simpler modes of transport are still common and preferable. They would have several stops along the way, as it would take at least a full day or more to reach the next nearest town, Smith’s Brand.
Alar knows of the infamous Nest of Crows forest that is situated right beside said town. It is a vast and mysterious forest, untouched and stayed clear of by the officials and apparently revered by the townsfolk. Alar doesn’t know much else about it even though he’s visited the town a couple of times, but he wonders if the forest has anything to do with the anonymous message he received.
The other charabancs travelling with them are not far behind. Maybe changing carriages might help to ease him a bit. He’s still on edge with the face of the stranger clinging to his thoughts. He has the nagging feeling that he is still standing out too much, despite having concealed his weapons gauntlet and dressed down for travel.
When they finally stop for the day, the sun has already set, torches are lit and the charabanc drivers, who are also the ones leading the travelling group, have the guards and wagon drivers help to set up camp and bonfires. While the land is relatively more peaceful during current times, but there are still bandits who terrorize roads and ambush travellers. Wild animals also prowl the open wilderness, so it is a necessity to bring hired guards along.
The stop means a chance to eat, rest and mingle with the other travellers. Alar has already chosen to keep himself, as he is still plagued by worry and feeling rather restless. He had been in such a state throughout the journey that even a fellow passenger had asked if he was alright. Thankfully, now that they are in an open space compared to the small and cramped seats in the charabanc, Alar has the chance to breathe and stretch his body. He is after all, larger than the other locals whose natural statures are smaller and shorter.
He takes this chance to crawl into his sleeping bag and sleep. He feels mentally exhausted, and hopes that his anxiety would fade soon, or at least, by the time they reach the town. Alar feels a slight shiver run down his spine but ignores it, slowly drifting off to sleep.
In his dreams, an image of two ravens with jet black feathers emerges. They are perched atop a very large tree but it is dead, with dry, grey bark and empty of leaves. The sky behind them is dark but spotted with stars and the full moon hovering by. The ravens are large, and their eyes have the twinkle of human intelligence. Against the moon light, Alar catches the sight of colour on their feathers, hints of purple and red, deep like blood.