Yet, with a saintly patience, Jorfr continued explaining: “The paths carved in the ice by new meteors are the same as those we see left behind by the old ones. Our land has been generously bestowed with the metal of the gods ever since we drove away the western dogs a second time.”
Facetiousness was replaced by actual surprise when Berga turned to face the norseman in earnest, questioning, “...Hol’up, y’resisted Pateirian invasion twice?”
A shake of his head and a proud grin on his face, “No, we did not need to. The Pretender marched into our lands once, when his so-called empire was still young, weaving his vile magicks to protect his legions of puppet-men from the righteous fury of our home. He is said to have reached the throne of the Revenant King with naught but a hundred men out of ten thousand. He battled our righteous king, and thought he had slain him, but our king simply rose up unharmed and drove the Pretender from our lands with the Great Blizzard at his back. That was the second time.”
“What was the first?” asked Zelsys for once, having already drunk two thirds of her first glass in an attempt to get actually intoxicated. Zefaris had returned to being plainly drunk as can be, stuck to her muscular partner like a fly on molasses, one arm around her waist and the other holding her glass.
“The first time…” he furrowed his brow as he recalled the tale. “The first time was when the Tragic Immortals, before they were known by that name, sought entry by force in desperation for the mineral wealth of our lands. It was when they sicced the wrath of their False Sun upon the ice sheet, cleaving into it a great gash that ruptured something beneath and set the resulting lake to be boiled by the heartbeat of the world. Our ancestors needn’t fight a war then, merely strike against the Towers of the Sun that neared our borders. It is not known why they did not attempt a full scale invasion, but perhaps it had to do with their empire shattering.”
“That is… Genuinely fascinating. How do you know all this?” Zel asked again.
“It is known to all in the tribe, the stories passed down through generations and told so often that we learn them whether we try to or not,” stated the norseman matter-of-factly before replying with a question of his own. “I was told you must leave soon because of what happened with that cowardly rat after our match. I would ask that you share with me a place where I could find you or some manner of contacting you, seeing as I do henceforth owe you the teachings of my people.”
And so they shared with him the location of Riverside Remedies in simple terms - the only apothecary on the south-western side of the promenade, with a bald, red-bearded man with pitch-black hands running the storefront. Following the exchange Zel and Zef finished their drinks, and over the course of these few minutes Berga shared with them a far shorter path onto one of the city’s main streets, revealing to them that, “This city’s old, old enough t’have plenty o’ forgotten alleyways n’ secret passages. The one I’m talkin’ ‘bout just so happens t’have a ward what stops ye from noticin’ it unless y’already know ‘bout it.”
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Thusly through this path, which felt almost like walking through a stretch of the city which had remained untouched since its construction, they returned to Riverside Remedies, choosing to simply tell Sig that the evening had been eventful, and that they would tell him and Makhus all about it the next morning.
They took a bath together, wherein Zefaris in her drunkenness made a big show of doting on Zel’s wounds, partially mimicking what she had done after Zel’s wendigo-slaying contract… Only to rather quickly degenerate into needy, animalistic mess, whose primal demands Zelsys met gladly and with gusto.
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It made no sense. None had emerged from the Judgment unscathed - none.
Not even He, not even the First.
Not once had the Omniudex deemed one innocent in full.
Not once had He denied the Confessor knowledge of what had transpired in the channeling, in nigh on two thousand years since she had taken up the mantle as the Last Confessor after the fall of Ankhezia.
...Until now. Why was it so?
Thoughts not her own were her answer. A familiar manner of communication to those connected to the Judge.
“This child of man hath achieved a feat of forgiveness beyond that of her predecessors…”
“Her own self, both within and without.”
Yes, she supposed so. The First had come to be known as the Unforgiving Blade, while the Second mournfully proclaimed his own sins wherever he walked.
“That eye-like gemstone seethed with such judgment I could practically feel it staring at me. To transmute even a work of the dungeon in such a manner would only be possible if…”
“Myriad faithful fell in thy mistaken conflict. I have chosen to bind to her what divinity I obtained from their sacrifice… Grasping it remains up to her.”
“Why?”
“A divine corpse floating through the Sea of Fog can scarcely carry out judgment. Their deaths would have been in vain nourishing me. With my Eye at her side, her judgment shall never falter, and with my briar-born blade she shall carry out swift punishment.”
“Besides… When the time comes, the Butcher’s Blade must be pointed at the guilty.”
“You gave no such grace to the Sage when he bequeathed your judgment.”
“And this is my penance for that mistake, for I thought him akin to the False Divinity, the Great Exhumer, he who would burn this world to dredge up the previous in his blind, feckless chase for yet greater power. The name your kind has given me, Omniudex - judge of all. It is fitting. None are free from judgment, from penance, from atonement - myself least of all. This was not the first time I have confessed mine own sins, and it shall not be the last, for I am a fool. A dead, arrogant fool, rightfully slain by a child of man at the end of the previous kalpa…”