Knight Commander Traum's gaze slid over Buren in the lineup, as impassive as it did over the others. For a fleeting moment, Buren wondered if Traum had forgotten or moved past their shared history. But he quickly dismissed the thought; Traum was simply masterful at controlling himself.
Aside from the two of them, who maintained a palpable distance and acted as though the other didn't exist, their party comprised two Knights, three novices including Buren, and a missionary. This minister, whom they were tasked to escort and protect on his journey, was the only one who stood distinctively in his white robe and unmasked face. The rest, in line with the Faith's expectations, concealed their identities beneath robes, armor, and helmets that seemed to weep with the weight of their purpose.
In his quest to symbolize the purging of his own perceived impurities through self-denial and pain, Buren had laden himself with as many physical encumbrances as possible. Weights bore down on his shoulders, wedges under his feet bit into his soles with each step, and metal chains with hooked ends dangled from his waist, dragging behind him and hampering his stride.
The novices were responsible for preparing the wagon for the expedition. On the road, they would handle most of the mundane tasks. Buren busied himself with harnessing the two sturdy steeds to the cart, ensuring for the third time that their shoes were fit for the journey ahead. Sweat dripped from beneath his helm, darkening his robe. The added weight he bore made the already strenuous task of loading provisions and weapons from the storage into the wagon even more taxing. Yet, he knew such overt displays of dedication wouldn't go unnoticed. He yearned for every ounce of recognition and the subsequent elevation it might bring, especially with the looming sense of an impending catastrophe weighing on him, more oppressive than any physical load.
Once their supplies were meticulously inspected by both Traum and the quartermaster, they boarded the coach. A novice took the reins for the first leg of the journey, steering them out of town via the North gate. They followed the main road until it branched into several smaller paths, choosing the one leading Northeast towards the mountains.
As they ventured further, the cultivated landscapes of the town gave way to wilder terrains. Through the flapping canvases of the carriage, Buren observed the land's untamed beauty, untouched by civilization and its diligent farmers, miners and woodcutters, a testament to a world that had once been submerged eons ago. The horses navigated them over rolling hills and through deep valleys, passing beneath verdant rock arches. Geologists believed these formations were the result of powerful, ancient floods eroding the bedrock. The gorges resembled dried riverbeds, the hills mimicked sand dunes by the sea, and the mountains, though their rough edges had been smoothed over time, bore circular caves. These caves were the result of relentless grinding by boulders and stones against the cliff faces, powered by ancient currents.
The flora of this region was a relic of that bygone era. Dark, leathery weeds carpeted the ground, interspersed with tubular trunks of varying sizes. Some were as petite as daffodils, while others towered like mighty oaks. Instead of branches and leaves, these plants sported tendril-like coils that stretched out in all directions, like the points of a star, billowing in the wind. These tendrils, in a riot of colors from fiery reds to deep purples, were reminiscent of ocean corals. Natural philosophers posited that as the great Flood receded, some marine vegetation adapted to terrestrial life, a theory bolstered by the significant water reserves found within these plants. Their marine cousins, it was believed, retreated with the waters to the deep abysses of the oceans.
Upon death, these plants left behind solid, hollow trunks that served as shelters for various creatures and smaller flora. Vines, eerily similar to seaweed with their large drooping leaves, wound around these natural columns. Mushrooms, still retaining their bioluminescent properties from their oceanic ancestors, illuminated the surroundings with soft yellows and pale greens, casting an ethereal glow in the dark.
The trail meandered around ancient trees and clusters of jagged rocks, their surfaces punctuated with sharp protrusions that resembled hands with too many fingers sprouting haphazardly. These clusters, ranging from the size of a child's plaything to vast rolling hills, were remnants of deceased local flora, leaving behind their sturdier components. The forest's microclimate was peculiar; either the vegetation emitted a warmth of its own or they had simply ventured into a milder zone. Snowflakes danced down from the heavens but melted before they could kiss the ground. The landscape was a marvel, but it demanded respect. A momentary lapse in attention could result in a treacherous fall or a nasty cut from a razor-sharp stone. And that was without considering the potential threats posed by the forest's other denizens.
"Blasted wilderness," the missionary grumbled. He was a diminutive, wiry man, evoking images of a ventriloquist's puppet with his oversized head and slick, dark hair. His large, unblinking eyes furthered the wooden doll comparison.
"I eagerly await the day we muster enough strength to level this eerie expanse and sow fields of wheat and barley," he continued. "This place serves only as a haunting reminder of the Flood and the monstrous creatures birthed from its shadowy depths. Such lands are meant for them, not for us."
He sighed in exasperation. "I should've requested a companion not bound by the vow of silence. I'm going to go mad listening to nothing but my own voice."
His gaze settled on Buren. "You can still communicate with gestures, can't you? Tell me, wouldn't it be better to clear away this overgrowth and cultivate farmlands to feed the masses?"
Buren's response was a silent, unwavering stare through the slits of his helmet, making the missionary shift uneasily. To Buren, it seemed the followers of the Path were insatiable, always yearning to consume and conquer, all while cloaking their desires under the guise of purging corruption. Their professed renunciation of worldly desires appeared more and more like a facade.
As dusk settled, they made camp within a serpentine cave, large enough to accommodate their wagon. It was nestled within a reddish-orange cliff, dotted with tiny plants whose tendrils swayed harmoniously in the gentle breeze. Deep within the cave, they discovered a pond of unfathomable depth. The minister took the opportunity to bathe, while the novices drew water for boiling, replenishing their drinking supplies, and cleaning their superiors' equipment. As night approached, the tendrils emitted a soft glow, attracting moths and flies. Some were fortunate to feed on the nectar, while others became ensnared by carnivorous counterparts, destined for digestion.
Buren stood guard at the cave's entrance, his ears attuned to the forest's nocturnal symphony. The sounds ranged from high-pitched cries to low drones, and a peculiar, wet sputtering noise that he couldn't quite place. The daylight had revealed familiar forest creatures, albeit with the occasional dog-sized isopod darting into hiding. But nightfall ushered in a different set of inhabitants. Nearby, a rock shifted, unveiling a centipede as long as he was tall and as thick as his thigh. Its black carapace, adorned with red warning spots, seemed to regard Buren before it disappeared into the underbrush, leaving his skin crawling all over.
Suddenly, a scream echoed through the cave. The acoustics momentarily disoriented Buren, but he soon realized the source was from within the cavern. Likely the minister. Racing towards the commotion, he anticipated that his comrades, likely unarmored but with weapons within reach, would have already responded.
Upon reaching the campsite, the flickering torchlight revealed the minister, floundering in the water. Buren's initial thought was that the man had accidentally ventured too deep. However, it soon became evident that an unseen force was dragging the minister further into the depths. The other Penitents were on their feet, but Buren was the first to act. As he reached for the minister, he noticed a scaly, webbed hand gripping the man's ankle. The muddy floor beneath him was treacherous, and Buren quickly realized he was at a disadvantage. Instead of pulling the minister, he waded deeper, aiming to confront the creature directly. Plunging his hand into the water, he targeted where a human's neck would be, found his mark, and hoisted the creature into the air.
It was a grotesque sight. Slimy scales covered its entire body, with webbing between its rudimentary fingers and toes. Its fish-like mouth drooped at the corners, and its bulbous eyes stared blankly. Spiked fins jutted out from its head, back, and limbs.
A nixie. Buren tightened his grip around its throat, causing the creature to croak and spew dark green blood, redolent of decayed fish, onto his face. It desperately tried to slash him with its talons, but its efforts were futile against his metallic armor and the thick leather undercoat. The creature thrashed for a few agonizing moments, and as Buren's grip intensified, blood vessels in its eyes ruptured, turning them a murky green. Eventually, its struggles ceased. He released it, and the lifeless body floated on the water's surface, gently bobbing with the ripples.
The minister, having regained the shore, expelled mouthfuls of water he had inadvertently swallowed. He coughed violently, gasping for air.
Knight Commander Traum gestured towards Buren and then to the water's edge, simultaneously directing another novice to the cave's entrance. The directive was unmistakable: Buren's duty had shifted from guarding the tunnel to watching over the pond. Indifferent to the change, Buren positioned himself and arranged a series of torches near the waterline. Throughout the night, he observed shadowy figures lurking just beneath the surface, approaching cautiously only to retreat into the depths. Suddenly, the nixie's corpse was yanked under, never to resurface.
"Ghastly creatures," the minister remarked, his voice regaining its typical tone of disdain after the initial shock. "Legend has it that when the Flood receded, some aquatic beasts were trapped in shrinking water bodies, isolated from one another. Over generations, these isolated creatures inbred, resulting in the abominations we encounter in places like this. Truly, it would be merciful to end their wretched existence."
Buren silently observed the silhouettes skimming the water's surface. Despite their numbers, they seemed hesitant to launch an attack, especially when their prey was alert and on solid ground.
"It's an affront that man should tread so cautiously," the minister declared with contempt. "Once, we reigned supreme over these lesser beings, and with the Faith's triumph, we shall reclaim our dominion." With that, he slogged away and opened his bedroll, then thought again and moved even further away from the waterside.
Buren was relieved from his watch a few hours later. For once, he chose to rest, surmising he had sufficiently proven himself for the day. Given the unpredictable nature of their journey, he felt he could benefit from the added strength. When he awoke hours later, spitting out the gag, his mind felt sharper, and the ache in his muscles had lessened.
As dawn's first light crested the horizon, they resumed their journey, with Buren now guiding the horses. At one juncture, he halted the steeds to shoo away a cluster of crab-like spiders. These creatures, with their long spiny legs and menacing pincers, were engrossed in the vibrant flora, snapping up morsels with abrupt motions. They dispersed as Buren brandished his sword and stamped the ground.
Later, after a modest lunch of vegetable broth and dried meats—prepared and served by the novices—they encountered an obstacle: an overflowing river had submerged the path marked on their map. Everyone disembarked from the wagon to push, with Buren leading the horses and the Commander vigilantly watching for potential aquatic threats. The slick, algae-covered stones beneath posed a constant threat of a misstep, which could send one tumbling into the river's swift current.
Suddenly, the Commander's raised fist—a signal for silence—halted everyone. All heeded the command, save for the missionary, who, finding himself the sole force propelling the wagon, lost his footing and plunged into the water. He managed to grasp the wagon's edge and pull himself up.
"What in the Flood's name are you doing?" he hissed. But then he too heard the familiar, unsettling sputter from the previous night. Following the others' gaze, he saw a group of grey nixies, each about the height of a short man, encircling a much larger, toad-like brown nixie. The creature emitted its grotesque call, prompting the smaller nixies to assault the riverbed, tearing at the rocks and accumulated debris.
Buren quickly realized his initial assessment was wrong. The debris wasn't random flotsam—it was a dam. These creatures had likely constructed it, causing the river to flood their path. And now, they intended to dismantle it, releasing the pent-up force behind it.
The minister scrambled to safety, while the rest redoubled their efforts to move the wagon. Even the Commander waded into the water, tugging at the harness straps. As the dam gave way, the water surged forward with a deafening roar, as if furious at its prior confinement.
The Commander swiftly drew his sword, raising it high. "Free the horses," he ordered. Buren, thinking similarly, had already shattered the wooden tongue binding them. Recognizing the urgency, Traum slashed through the reins, allowing the horses to bolt, narrowly avoiding the agitated minister pacing the river's edge.
As the water surged, they did not have the time to reach dry land. Both Buren and the Commander leapt onto the wagon just as the deluge struck, lifting and tossing it like a child's toy boat. The other novices and Knights, burdened by their gear, floundered in the water. The Commander reached out, grasping a Knight's hand, attempting to pull him aboard. But suddenly, three scaly hands emerged from the depths, dragging the Knight under. A violent wave rocked the wagon, causing Buren to topple onto some emptied water barrels. An idea sparked: he rose, spotting a novice struggling amidst the waves. Hurling an empty barrel towards the man, who clutched it, finding it buoyant enough to keep him afloat. Buren repeated this, his unerring right arm ensuring each barrel reached its mark. Three men were saved, but two others vanished beneath the tumult.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
The wagon jolted, running aground on some submerged rocks. Buren, with his enhanced reflexes, steadied himself, but the Commander wasn't as fortunate, crashing face-first. Stranded amidst the rapids, they watched as the nixies' dorsal fins sliced through the water, circling their marooned position, seemingly ignoring their drifting comrades. The two men readied their swords, standing back-to-back.
The assault began. Nixies clambered over the wagon's edges, their sharp claws rending the canvas. Their gurgling cries filled the air as Traum's blade decapitated two in a single swing. Buren, with precision, sliced through them as if they were mere fish. Yet, more kept coming, scaling the wagon's sides. The floor became slick with green blood and splashing water, causing both men to slide and struggle for footing. One particularly aggressive nixie leapt from the water, aiming to land atop them. Buren, grounding himself, swung his fist upward, crushing the creature's sternum. The force of his blow sent the nixie careening across the air, where it skipped across the water's surface before crashing into the riverbank's rocks.
The wagon jolted, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood. Whirling around, Buren saw a scaly arm thrusting through a breach in the floor, its talons embedded deep into the Knight Commander's calf. Traum was pulled off balance, using every ounce of his strength to resist being yanked through the gap into the watery abyss below. Buren seized the wrist of the attacker, its brown scales indicating it might be the leader. With a vice-like grip, he crushed the bones and flesh, eliciting a deep roar that sent ripples through the water, vibrating their very bones.
Suddenly, the platform beneath them gave way, plunging both men into the stream. Buren instinctively latched onto Traum with his right arm, a grip that wouldn't break even in death. Their heavy gear dragged them to the riverbed, where the water's pressure made movement slow and laborious. Surrounded by agile nixies, the two men were clearly outmatched in this watery domain.
Buren and the Commander got their feet under them and stood up on the riverbed: they weighted too much to swim but just enough to walk in the sludge, and that's what they did. With Traum leading the way, Buren followed closely, trusting the Knight's instincts. They fended off the nixies with their blades, Buren guarding their rear with his blade in the left hand due to his shoulder's greater mobility, while Traum defended the front and right. It was not something they had agreed on, not that they could even communicate in their predicament. No, it was just how Buren had figured would be the most sensible thing to do, and Traum on his own seemed to have reached the same conclusion, losing no time in the process. As they advanced, the riverbed began to incline, signaling their approach to the bank. Buren's lungs screamed for air, the weight of the water pressing down on him.
Another roar echoed, causing the smaller nixies to scatter, making way for the massive leader. It charged, its momentum unstoppable in the water's resistance. Their sword strikes, slowed by the water, barely scratched its armored scales. The creature rammed into them, expelling the little air Buren had left, yet his grip on Traum remained unyielding. They both thrust their weapons at the beast, but its hide repelled their efforts. With a swift motion, it slashed at Buren's abdomen, releasing a cloud of blood into the water as its talons pierced his undercoat.
Buren's lungs screamed for air. A flurry of thoughts raced through his mind: he could release his grip and deploy The Gauntlet to obliterate the creatures, but that would leave the Knight Commander vulnerable, likely to be dragged to a watery grave. The mission's failure would not only jeopardize his advancement within the Faith but would also shatter his intricate plans. Letting go might offer a temporary reprieve, but it could spell doom for them all in the long run. He had to hold on. But how to navigate this dire situation?
Suddenly, Traum's helmet collided with his, a desperate attempt to communicate. Bubbles streamed from the Knight Commander's mouth as he gestured frantically between Buren and the nixie leader. Buren surmised that Traum wanted him to divert the creature's attention.
With no better plan in mind, Buren lunged forward, every fiber of his being screaming for oxygen. The colossal nixie collided with him, its jaws clamping onto his helmet, which began to buckle under the pressure. Yet, Buren's grip on Traum remained unyielding. Through the narrowing slit of his right eye, he saw Traum positioning himself behind the beast, sticking his sword so its hilt was against his chest, its tip at the bottom of the fishman's neck. Buren understood the unspoken plan. With the might of the Gauntlet, he yanked the creature closer, allowing Traum's blade to pierce its neck, embedding the sword deep into the riverbed by the left of Buren's head.
But the creature refused to die. It thrashed wildly, its malevolent eyes locked onto theirs, even as its own kin, larger and more menacing than the average nixie, closed in. They tensed, readying for a final assault, when suddenly, one of the nixies turned on the leader, tearing a chunk from its shoulder. As the leader retaliated, another nixie slashed at its exposed back. The ensuing frenzy of scales, talons, and green blood obscured the water, the creatures sinking into the depths.
Not waiting to see the outcome, Buren and Traum made their escape, ascending the slope towards the dim light filtering through the murky water.
They burst from the water and sucked at the air like an alcoholic in withdrawal imbibes a free drink. The sensation of oxygen flooding their lungs was intoxicating. Buren released his grip on Traum, and they both staggered up the bank. They lay on their backs, eyes darting, ever vigilant for any lurking nixies. Yet, the creatures seemed reluctant to venture from their watery domain, even in numbers. They croaked their displeasure from the river's safety, but their protests were silenced when a rock hurled by Buren struck one, embedding itself in its skull amidst a gruesome spray of gore.
Traum rose, and as Buren attempted to follow suit, the Commander's boot pressed heavily against his chest, pinning him. The cold edge of Traum's blade hovered menacingly before Buren's eyes.
" Don't think this changes anything, reprobate," Traum's voice was a raspy growl. "In my eyes, you're no different from the daemons."
After a tense moment, Traum sheathed his weapon and stepped away. He paused, his back still to Buren, and spoke with a heavy weight in his voice. "My Path of Penitence, my sacred duty, is to tear that Gauntlet from you, whether you breathe or not, and harness its power for a nobler purpose. As long as you remain the Bearer of the Gauntlet, the shame and dishonor I bear will torture me like brands burn the skin. There can be only one." With that, he strode away, following the river's path upstream.
Buren watched him, reflecting on the twisted irony of their bond: the other man could not suffer him to live while he could not allow the man to die. With a resigned shake of his head, he stood, wringing out his soaked garments and emptying his boots of water before trailing after the Commander.
The minister had managed to corral their horses, seemingly overlooked by the creatures who had been preoccupied with the easier prey struggling in the stream. Two novices and a Knight, clutching the wooden barrels Buren had thrown as makeshift lifelines, had managed to swim to safety. The Knight last seen being dragged under did not resurface. They harbored no illusions about his fate, likely resting in some shadowy underwater lair, stripped of flesh. They held similar grim expectations for the missing novice. However, when the waters receded and they returned to salvage their wagon, they discovered the young man's remains wedged between the spokes of a wheel, trapped there by the force of the unleashed torrent. Predators had already feasted on some of his remains, and it took the combined strength of two men to extricate the body.
The wagon, though battered, was salvageable. Yet, the unfamiliar woods around them posed a challenge. Over the next few days, they improvised repairs. They crafted a new canopy from the expansive leaves of seaweed-like plants, replaced broken spokes with sturdy stone trunks, and substituted the severed reins with pliant vines. The gaping hole in the wagon's base was patched with a large seashell they stumbled upon in the forest. The result was a patchwork caravan, a far cry from the dignified transport befitting representatives of the Faith. Its vibrant colors and mismatched designs might have been an eyesore, but given their circumstances, the priority was clear: they had to keep moving.
The winding path they treaded eventually merged with a broader trail, precisely as their map had indicated. Venturing Northeast, the landscape began its transformation. The once abundant weeds and floral underbrush gave way to a mossy carpet that enveloped nearly everything. While remnants of the tendril-bearing trees stood tall, their stony trunks serving as markers of a time past, the terrain was now dominated by large moss-covered mounds. These formations, reminiscent of the human brain — a sight Buren had disturbingly glimpsed through the fractured skulls of foes he'd felled — dotted the landscape.
This moss, akin to the towering trees they'd encountered earlier, emitted its own luminescence. It seemed these plants had traded height for brilliance, casting the ground and rolling hillocks in a mesmerizing dance of light. Waves of green would roll forth, only to be answered by a responsive surge of purple. Buren observed that the ground beneath the horses' hooves and the tracks left by the wagon wheels sent out similar luminous ripples. To him, these seemed like silent calls, messages echoing between the plants, spreading faster than any chain of signal torches on a mountain range. He was familiar with such signaling, a practice of the cliff-dwelling people in the mountains ahead.
Thanks to this ever-present glow, even moonless nights were never truly dark. The shimmering ground evoked memories of the northern lights from his homeland, but here, one didn't need to tilt their head skyward to witness the spectacle. The open terrain and perpetual light provided excellent visibility, even in the dead of night. Yet, the Penitents knew better than to be lulled by this beauty. They were aware that any lurking predator wouldn't simply approach them directly. The creatures of this land had evolved their own cunning tactics. Thankfully, during their nights under the radiant tundra sky, they remained undisturbed by such threats.
Emerging from behind another furrowed hill, the frontier town, their journey's end, stood nestled amidst the undulating landscape. Encircled by a stone wall constructed from rocks of diverse sizes and origins, the town shimmered with a dreamlike aura. Each stone emitted a unique luminescence, reflecting its place of extraction.
As they approached, a farmer cultivating unfamiliar tubers and berries—introduced by settlers—abandoned his hoe and sprinted towards the town gates. By the time they neared the walls, a stir had begun. A group of resolute townsfolk, armed with shovels and pickaxes, blocked their path.
"Begone, instigators!" they cried. "Seek trouble elsewhere, or meet his fate." They gestured to a lifeless figure swinging from the town's gallows. The white robe, billowing gently, marked him as a minister of the Faith. The chilling touch of frostbite had turned his fingers, toes, and nose a necrotic black.
"Blinded heathens," the minister muttered. "Such ignorance, mistaking our benevolence for malevolence. Yet, we're here to root out the true malignancy that keeps them ensnared in their own anger and ignorance."
"Is there not a leader among you with whom we can discuss this matter?" Traum's voice boomed, sending a ripple of unease through the crowd.
"There's naught to discuss!" a wild-eyed woman retorted from the rear.
The minister stepped forward, hands raised in a gesture of peace. "Hear me out. Our message can transform your lives. I've encountered countless souls like yours—hardworking folk who toil endlessly, feeding the affluent while barely scraping by. We've come to ensure you claim what's rightfully yours. Once that's achieved, prosperity will follow. Now, what about our presence offends you so?"
The villagers exchanged uncertain glances, each awaiting another's response.
"You aim to sow discord among us," a voice declared, though it wavered with uncertainty.
"Who planted such notions in your minds?"
"The men in the temple, atop the mountain."
"Ah, the non-believers? Tell me, do you toil for them while they gaze down from their lofty sanctuaries?"
Emerging from the throng, a voice declared, "They grant us the right to mine the bedrock and shield us from marauders who'd otherwise lay waste to our homes."
"Grant you the right? How is this vast expanse, open to any with the will to traverse it, theirs to bestow? They've ensnared you with their 'protection', leaving you at their whim. You've been beguiled, my naive kin. Lend me your ears, for the Faith offers teachings of empowerment, of a divine order where the oppressed rise and the oppressors vanish, with all living as brethren! Come, embrace the sublime truth of the Faith!"
The crowd, caught between skepticism and hope, seemed to sway. It was then that the door of the grandest house in the square burst open, revealing a tall, imposing figure with a mane of brown hair and a matching beard.
"Your kind never learns," he intoned. "We've no need for your chaos. Life in the tundra is challenging enough without your promised upheavals."
The minister, his voice dripping with honeyed charm, responded, "Might you be the town's mayor or some equivalent?"
"I am the head of the town council and the intermediary between the temple's leaders and our village."
"And you heed his words over the sacred teachings of the Faith, which tirelessly works for your salvation? He's tainted by the allure of power and wealth, herding you like mere livestock! Why should he possess a grander abode, or wield greater influence over your lives?"
"Your discontent is unwelcome here," the leader began, but a voices from the crowd interjected.
"Let him speak!"
"What harm is there in listening?"
"Now that I ponder, the last preacher's fate was rather hasty."
"Should we fail in our duties, miss our quotas, or lack funds for provisions, traders will forsake our remote village. Moreover, the temple's guardians disdain such governance."
"Aha!" the minister exclaimed, his eyes gleaming. "How inconvenient it would be for those temple charlatans if they were deprived of the resources you toil to provide. But change is on the horizon."
The crowd's murmurs grew louder. "Tell us more!"
"Let us convene in the tavern, preacher. There, we can find warmth and hear your words."
The minister's grin widened, and Buren couldn't help but admire the man's oratory prowess. The transformation from a stern, self-righteous figure to a charismatic champion of the common folk was truly theatrical.
Yet, Buren pondered, was his own masquerade as a fervent disciple of the Faith even more convincing?
The leader attempted to dissuade the crowd, and a few loyalists heeded his words. However, the majority, entranced by the missionary's promises, ushered him into the tavern as if he were a dignitary, patting his back and bombarding him with eager inquiries.
Traum turned to the leader, his voice laced with curiosity. "The worshippers at the Temple... you speak of the Corporeal Form?"
The man nodded in affirmation. "You're familiar with them?"
"Indeed. But I was under the impression that ordinary travelers couldn't even approach their temple, let alone trade with them."
"The trade is a recent arrangement," the man elucidated. "From what I've gleaned, they suffered heavy losses in the war. Many returned maimed, and they no longer possess the manpower for self-sustenance. Of course, they'd never openly admit such a weakness. And you're right about the temple's inaccessibility; I've never personally ascended to their sanctuary."
"How then do you conduct business?"
"They descend to us. If my presence is absolutely required, they carry me there on their backs blindfolded. The path to their temple remains a mystery to outsiders."
Traum, about to delve deeper, was cut off by the town's leader. "I must apologize," he said tersely, "but with our workforce seemingly on an impromptu hiatus, I'm swamped." Without another word, he strode away. Traum gestured towards the tavern, and they made their way inside. He subtly signaled a Knight to keep a vigilant eye on the minister, lest the crowd's mood shift and history repeat itself. Meanwhile, others secured lodgings, and a novice was dispatched to oversee the carriage's repairs.
As night deepened, fervent discussions echoed throughout the tavern. Fueled by alcohol and visions of a brighter future, the townsfolk's voices grew louder, their passion palpable. The luminescent walls, crafted from the region's unique flora-infused rock, barely muffled their zealous cries. In the subdued glow of his room, Buren meticulously oiled his blade. He had a feeling it would be needed once word of the night's events reached the temple's ears.