Exill stared at her warily, and saw her eyes abruptly return to their clear amber colour. Their contract still held, but it wasn’t pleasant to know he had been a hairsbreadth away from being enthralled again.
“No, I should go back. Tsarra is waiting for me.” Exill wearily dismissed himself from the party. Grundle slapped his shoulder, while Feroy reluctantly hugged him goodbye. Envy stared at him for long seconds, wondering if she should call it a day as well and escort him back.
Noticing her reluctance, Exill beat her to the punch. “I’ll be fine, go on another run. We can try this again some other day.” He then waved a backhanded goodbye and left the Tower into the early afternoon sunlight.
‘They’re a nice bunch.’ He thought while waving at Bola a second time that day. ‘I should figure out how to craft adamantium weapons to avoid missing out on such good luck in the future.’
However this was better said than done. He had witnessed Ham forge an adamantium knife once from start to finish. The Dwarf had begun by unwrapping his treasured rune inscribed smithing hammer. After heating to a sufficient temperature, the stock bar of adamantium had been split in two and treated differently with additives and flux to create what Ham dubbed, ‘cutting-edge’ and ‘basic’ material. This was later combined to create a blade of unparalleled function that was the envy of all the other apprentices.
‘Maybe when I’m a Master Blacksmith.’ He dismissed the venture for now, knowing it would take a long time of mastery and specialised equipment to achieve a similar feat. He sighed, feeling deflated and reminded of his time back at the refugee camp.
In many ways… life had been simpler back then.
For some reason, instead of heading home he turned further west, to where the spire of the Cathedral were visible over the rooftops. In just under ten minutes he found himself looking up at the majestic gothic structure supported by rows of burgeoning arches on both sides. There were no good memories of this place, but there was a specific reason he had come here.
In a world where the dead were cremated, people sought solace and reminders of their loved ones in the presence of the all-encompassing Spirit. The religious in this world believed that their souls were vessels contained within an infinite abyss. It was said that a person crossed many bridges over the course of their lifetime. What bound these tenuous walkways together was the dreams they were composed of, helping to span the vast gulf of infinite silence. When they died, they were returned to the World’s embrace, and the cycle begun anew under its gentle guidance.
Exill wasn’t a religious man, but that had changed when he saw Verill’s wraith. He passed through the imposing studded doors and dropped a few Denars into the donation box, then found an empty bench to sit alone.
The airy hall was lit with bright light streaming through the stained glass windows. The atmosphere was hushed with countless whispered prayers earnestly offered to those departed. Exill clasped his own hands together and reflected on all his encounters with his mentor, saviour, and dearly departed friend.
Time passed in quiet contemplation, and he felt some of the burden lift away. For all that, his recovering mental state was immediately ruined by a familiar whisper from behind.
“I didn’t take you to be a religious man, Witchdoctor.”
The church bells above rang twice in slow reverberation, and Exill felt surprise melt away to dull anger. To be ambushed like this while remembering the deceased made the Inquisitor all the more hateful. Some of the outrage slipped out in the curt tone of his voice.
“Is it wrong to pray for those who have departed, Inquisitor?”
The seconds slowly stretched out, and he sensed the presence behind him stand up and walk away, only for the sanguine robed man to rejoin and sit beside him, just out of arm’s reach.
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“No… it is never wrong to pray. I have no excuse for interrupting while you were being faithful. It is just that your visit here… was outside my expectations.” Deroch’s soft apology caught him off guard.
Exill was about to leave when the Inquisitor spoke again, a quiet curiosity propelling his voice, “Was that a prayer offered to Ranger Verill?”
The Inquisitor was sharp to the extreme, and Exill began to feel a grudging respect towards the unsettling man. Against his better judgement, he decided to prod him for information in turn.
“What do you know about wraiths.”
“Did you encounter one?” Deroch turned to him in surprise, and after some thought, provided what he knew about the spectral phenomenon. Intelligence gathering was a lot like fishing, and it helped to dangle information in front of your suspect.
“Not all souls immediately return to the Spirit’s embrace upon death, Witchdoctor. Not if they have an unfulfilled purpose left in the waking world.”
Deroch drew a long breath, “What you likely witnessed was the soul of your friend wrapped in malicious intent, given corporeal form. I suspect this was inside the Infested Edifice, no?” He waited several seconds for an answer before continuing on, “What you took down was nothing but the corrupted husk. The Ranger’s soul would have been freed and returned to World’s embrace.”
Deroch waited patiently for a response. The Witchdoctor’s single question had helped reveal the true nature of the defeated abomination, and he was grateful for this assistance.
Exill felt hot tears drip down his face. He had known Verill was dead. In spite of this, a small seed of hope sustained itself in his mind, hoping it had all been an illusion. To hear it had been all real, and more importantly, that he hadn’t harmed his friend’s soul brought a surge of relief to his grieving heart.
The Inquisitor pursed his lips at this display of uncharacteristic emotion, a hint of rare uncertainty crossing his features. He sighed softly and stood up to leave, awarding the Aberration he so earnestly hunted room to mourn.
“Wait.” Exill hurriedly wiped his tears and took a deep breath. The consolation he felt at the news of his dead friend was welcome, but there were more pressing matters regarding the living.
“Let’s assume I am what you suspect I am. What will happen to my companions?”
“Is this a confession?" Deroch hastily sat back down on the bench and waited for a reply. They stared at each other resolutely, with Exill refusing to take the bait. Eventually, it was the Inquisitor who looked away first, troubled by the look of genuine concern in the young man’s features.
“Providing they haven’t harmed the World Spirit or its good citizens…” Deroch slowly began, punctuating his condition with a pause, “… and they are willing to cooperate with the Church, they will not be harmed. You have my word.”
The Inquisitor quickly left after offering this saving grace, and Exill remained seated for a few more minutes until he felt the tears fully subside. Then, feeling exhausted, he returned home.
***
“What took you so long?” Tsarra poked her head out of the treatment room when the door chimed upon his return.
“Envy dragged me into the Labyrinth.” He simply replied, while lowering the two loaves of bread on the counter.
Tsarra drew closer and quickly scanned his body for injuries, but her gaze was drawn to his slightly bloodshot gaze. “Are you hurt? Did something happen to your eyes?” She reached up on tiptoes to get a better look but was brushed off by her embarrassed mentor.
“It’s nothing. Have some bread for lunch and let’s go over your studies. Were there no patients all this time?”
“Um, no… no-one.”
Exill sighed again, for perhaps the tenth time that day. It was understandable in some ways. The Clinic had been closed for two weeks while they were at Virigo, furthermore, he had been imprisoned for two days on top of that. It was a stretch to think that patients would come pouring back. Nevertheless, he sought to reassure her, although the words were mainly for himself.
“Don’t worry too much, the patients will eventually return. Did the delivery for casks and ingredients for the detox potion arrive?”
“Um, only the casks, I asked them to store it in the forge.” She led him to the dimly lit room and pointed to six casks piled up in a corner.
“Good girl.” He affectionately patted her on the head, knowing how much she disliked the endearing term.
Tsarra bit back the retort that had been forming on her lips, and only because he had been deflated all morning since Iris teased him about having no friends. Instead, she brushed some dust off the nearby anvil.
“Are you going to use the forge at all?”
“Yes… maybe… I don’t know.” Exill exhaled while peering into the dusty room. After his sobering encounter with the Inquisitor, his dreams of creating a workshop seemed further away than ever before. All his earlier optimism when he first rented this place had been eroded away by the many looming threats.
“I saw Bola and Samson today by the way. You know, the more I look at him, the more I realise how cute that grill-vendor is…” Exill began, trying to redirect his morose thoughts. However the Dwarf-maiden was having none of it, and she slammed the treatment door behind her in mock exasperation.