What was a Paladin?
A defender of faith. A soldier against corruption. A stone wall of defense.
A pawn used to decimate unwitting common folk in some obtuse dynastic clerical power struggle. Putting both civilians and well-meaning reformists to the sword.
Calaf trudged along as the cool and gentle slopes of Autumn’s Redoubt gave way to the harsh rocky outcroppings and sandy dunes of the Firefield desert.
What did it mean to be a ranking member of the church faithful?
To provide gentle guidance to the faithful on their pilgrimage?
To groom and manipulate the heartbroken into committing sinful acts in the church’s good name?
The Squire’s armor felt sticky, ill-fitting on Calaf’s person. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want this extra level, either. If he could give it back. If he could have headed home after the Battletower, nay, just shirked that crusader’s call and traveled straight back to Riverglen. At least the blood wouldn’t be on his hands.
Yet even now duty called out to Calaf. Someone had to have done it. Someone’s soul would have been stained with guilt. It would itself be a sin to let someone else experience that tragedy in his stead.
His Interface had reverted:
Name:
Calaf, Wayfarer.
Rank:
Squire
Level:
41
Status:
126/126 (Crestfallen)
Gone was his ‘crusader’ designation, as the job was done. He was back to just a wanderer, traveling the route with no set purpose.
The sun grew higher in the sky as he marched, alone, through the dunes. The high desert’s temperatures only grew worse in the off-Pilgrimage season. Still, Calaf followed the path, empty this time of year though it was.
At least Jelena made it out, he thought. And that miracle child. At least it wasn't for nothing.
The sullen Squire lost track of time as he wandered along in a fugue state. But at some point in the first day, he reached a watering hole. A few squat buildings in a local adobe style awaited, as did a well.
Calaf walked over and drank from the well.
“Oi, that will be five gold for the pleasure,” said a water merchant.
Indeed, three enterprising water merchants stood near a second well, each evidently the master of one of three watering holes on the property:
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Name:
Iosef, Water Merchant
Rank:
Trailblazer
Level:
28
Status:
79/79 (Smug)
Name:
Rolo, Water Merchant
Rank:
Stalwart
Level:
34
Status:
90/90 (Haughty)
Name:
Glenn, Water Merchant
Rank:
Trailblazer
Level:
30
Status:
84/84 (Conceited)
The trio were not locals to the desert, having more of a Port Town and Plains Junction countenance about them. Settlers, offering a small trading post right before entering Autumn’s Redoubt.
Calaf paid the gold. He was still numb, and he had no shortage of coins on him. Despite the merchant’s racketeering, it was practically charity. They didn’t have much out here in this lonesome abode.
“Pleasure doin’ business with you,” said Glenn.
One last sliver of hope remained in the Paladin-aspirant’s mind. That recording. The testament of Cayo and Joan’s noble but doomed crusade. Had it gotten out to the masses?
“Excuse me,” said Calaf, still parched. “Did you receive any strange Systems Messages from the north? Maybe in the form of a moving picture?”
Iosef nodded. “Yup. Saw the whole thing. Couple parties headed Firefield-ways saw it too.”
“Is that so?” Calaf’s spirits rose, hopeful. “So, the testament. Of that Bishop, and the refugees trapped in the battle? People know of it?”
“Yeah. Those hunters sure shishkabobbed them right and proper!” Rolo said to uproarious laughter from the other two.
Calaf’s face broke, adopting a neutral stance. It wouldn’t move, try as he might. He walked a few steps past the well, aiming to move on and keep moving until he reached Firefield.
“Heh. My daughter went off to some mage’s college and started spouting them funny ideas,” said Iosef. “Went on about ‘true historical record’ contradicting the sermons and the like. Sure wish the church’d go inquisition that lot. Wipe their smug grin right off their faces, it would!”
“Y-your.” Calaf struggled to speak, parched such that he was. He turned to face the merchants once more.
“Yuh? You were saying?” Glenn asked, oblivious.
“You saw the fighting. How refugees with nothing to their name were killed without hesitation. You want the inquisition to come for your own daughter?”
“What of it?” The desert yokel tilted his head like he didn’t even notice anything wrong. “Won’t even talk to me no more. Said it was a sin just to own this place. I kicked those unbranded desert nomads out of this watering hole fair and square. Wouldn’t be thinking that if it weren’t for them haughty taughty mages puttin’ funny ideas into her head. Yeah, weren’t for them professors, she’d let me see my grandkid!”
“Your own daughter…” Calaf repeated.
“What’s it to you?” Iosef looked offended. “With them church hunters after her I bet she’d come cryin’ back home singing a different tune is all. Teach her not to open her purdy mouth, it would. You’re a soldier ain’t ya? Surely you know how it is with these high-minded learned folk disrespectin’ the church.”
Calaf felt a full-body shudder convulse from his toes to his head. A migraine flared, like a war hammer to his temple. His arm felt sweaty, sweltering in its shoulder pauldron.
Behold, the good people of the church! Some part of him said. The flocks of faithful to be defended. Their common wisdom to be commended.
An old, familiar voice cropped up in the Squire's head, last heard in that dank hollow beneath the Port Town lighthouse: I’ve heard you. Seen your story... from the hollowed eye socket of a dire-camel outside of Firefield.
Yes, there were many ways to perish in the desert. None would ever know...
His left hand tightened its grip around his Redstone Spear of the Desert Nomads. The watering merchant’s scarcely noticed his internal struggle.
... And the only thing holding Calaf back was the desire not to grant that fetid thing another six eyes by which to see.
The spear trembled, unsteady, as he held it by his side.