Manjuseth bit her lower lip while narrowing her distant eyes. All who knew her, knew that her displeasure was immense. Everything was off and her three underchieftains knew it. Outside; a profound darkness had taken hold of the village. The women, the children and the wounded and aged men all walked around in silence as they awaited the return of their loved ones. Across from the wrinkled Elder, her three underchieftains were no more bemused than she was.
Humber- the village Quartermaster spoke cautiously; “I hate to say it, Manjuseth... but they’ve been gone for a week by now... the others have been talking about a curse.” and sipped at his daily ration of water. Manjuseth lowered her head and took a deep breath of the yurt’s clammy atmosphere.
She raised her hand and waved it dismissively at her men. “There is no curse. We’re late in the driest season. They’ve gone far- I know they have. In the meantime; we’ll halve rations until they come back.” She spoke in short, the way she always did whenever her folk needed her to be decisive. It did not fill them with confidence.
The three men exchanged swift glances before Humber spoke up again- this time with more caution than when he had made his previous statement. “Elder... there’s something off about the stores, too. We’re missing several barrels of water and food and with the missing hunters...” He swallowed before searching for a measure of strength from his two, fellow underchieftains before continuing; “if we’re to make it through the season; we’ll have to go down to quarter-rations immediately.” Manjuseth’s eyes had always been difficult to see due to her pronounced dermatochalasis, but hearing displeasureable news had always made her dark bulbs near-invisibly as they seemed to shrink back into her orbits. This would, usually, let her men know when it was time to cease delivering her bad news.
But Humber- ever the efficient, ambitious leader that he was, took it upon himself to speak in his brethren’s place; “Elder... I will ask you to reconsider one, last time. This all started when we captured the strangers. I’m suspicious... I don’t know why anyone would, but I’ve heard talk of someone walking the village to listen in on their conversations...”
She let his words hang in the air for a demonstrative moment before speaking her grave words; “Humber... do you remember the drought twenty years ago?” He shook his head to the table and licked the corners of his dry mouth. She continued; “No. You would not, because I saw to it the children would be the last to suffer. Your mother and father, however, suffered a great deal. For a whole season; they lived off of one-tenth rations for a whole season. The children are and always will be our future and we need them strong. I expect you to act accordingly.” The trio of men remained deathly still as they heard her recounts of old.
Mugen; the man whose sole responsibility lay on resolving conflicts around the village braved the silence with a question- a suggestion of his own. “Maybe we can avoid taking such a drastic measure. We can send another outrider for the Inquisition- to the South this time. I’m sure they’d be willing to pay us well for the magi.”
Manjuseth shook her head. “No. On the off-chance Humber is correct; we’ll not risk anyone else.”
Humber’s fists tightened against his knees as he dared raise his voice at the respected Elder; “Then what, Manjuseth, should we do!? Sit here and wait for our men to return!?”
He knew he had made a mistake as soon as he had shouted it, but before he could receive his reprimand; his brother- Cleftus, slapped a hand on his shoulder and spoke up next. “Elder. The one outrider that did return said the Inquisition’s camp had been burned to the ground. Whoever these strange magi are, they’re strong enough to kill two-dozen skilled, armed men. We’ve an untapped resource we’d be fools to continue to ignore.” Manjuseth had always liked Cleftus more than his brother and his calm, collected suggestion only confirmed her suspicion that he would be next in line to lead the village.
The elderly woman continued to glare at Humber as she, in turn, nodded. “You’ve inherited the spirit of the Blight, Cleftus, as opposed to your failure of a brother. Whereas he has failed in his duties to protect our most precious food-stores; you’ve suggested a plan based on the principles of our people- to make use of what we have to survive.” She nodded agreeingly. It would solve their problem either way; either the potent stranger would die, or; he’d return with their people. As always; Cleftus didn’t even swell with pride like his brother would usually do. He just remained there- still and glaring at the elder whereas Humber bit back his tears. She waved the two brethren off, but motioned for Mugen to remain in his place- an order the keeper of their stores carried out with relief.
When Mugen and Manjuseth were finally alone, the Elder glared at the now-closed hatch and reached for her belt to produce her silver knife. She put it on the table and pushed it towards the straight-mimed keeper of the law with an order;
“The stores are what is keeping us alive. Without them and the goats; we would die within a week and our children would die within less. Without Kerras, we have no outsiders who we may trust to aid us... I take it you know what must be done.” Mugen had known this would happen ever since Humber had opened his fat mouth and cursed him for it. He, of all people; should know the rules of the village- the laws of the Blight.
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It was with a heavy heart that the keeper reached across the table and grabbed the ornate silver dagger with a nod. “Yes, Elder Manjuseth... it will pain me, but it must be done. If worse comes to worst; he will have killed us all.” The elderly woman nodded her understanding and finally waved her man off- sending him out to do his dark, dirty deeds out in the village for all to see.
The Necromancer’s mood was fouler than usual, but rather than proclaiming his genius with every chance he had; he silently waited in his corner of the chamber. Time had no meaning in the Pit- Neda knew this truth better than anyone. But things had... changed... since her last internment in the depths. For one; the food had gotten better and much more plentiful. Every day; they would be fed the usual, molded scraps, thrown down into the cylindrical foramen alongside a small ration of water contained in a half-cup. But at nights... in the nights; they were fed food and drink of a much higher quality than anything she and Rallo had ever been offered. From the darkness; a whole barrel of water was sunk down at irregular intervals alongside haunches of salted and dried meats- raising a question... why were they so worthy of such bounties now? Could they have some ally out in the village watching over them? Barrel had a nice philosophy to his life. Whereas most would likely question the benevolence of others; the small, fat man took everything for what it was. A gift- whether in the form of a molded bread or in the form of a leg of dried meat, he thanked the cylindrical foramen with a bow just the same. It struck Neda, eventually; that the man was used to the unexpected and in so being; he was astoundingly capable of adjusting, as opposed to the melancholic, silent idiot in the corner.
Barrel’s clammy hand touched Neda’s scraped knee as he extended her a handful of dried, red berries from their feast atop Barrel’s stripped shirt. “You’ve gotta taste these, Neda! I ain’t ever had nothin’ like it!” Neda could count on one hand the times she had laughed down in the darkness, but the desperate reach of the small, charming man had her raise another finger. She reached out to grab one of the dried berries, only for the man to raise a finger of his own and point down at a letter in the dirt. She squeezed her eyes shut and did her best to remember- racking her mind to search for the corresponding sound, before finally saying; “That’s... an ‘A’... right?”
Barrel narrowed his eyes and let her attempt hang in the air as he frowned at her. A second later; his lips inverted into a grin and a chuckle before he thrust the berries forwards with a “Good job, gurl! You’ve got the hang of this, ‘ready!” She took one of his dried berries with a proud smile and pressed it between her lips to feel the sweet, floral taste spread across her tongue- perhaps one of the tastiest things she had ever had the fortune of experiencing.
The surprising end of a rope thudded against the floor right behind the small, round man- soon to be followed by a booming voice.
“Impostor! Come! I must speak to you!” Cleftus shouted down the Pit. Finally- after days of sulking in the corner, the tall, pale man rose to his height and strode silently and strangely confidently over towards the bright pillar of light in the middle of the chamber. Neda wished to warn him of Cleftus- that none who ever exited ever came back, save for herself, of course. But Asrael seemed strangely determined- confident as he reached for the rope and began to climb it with no more effort than walking, revealing the curious strength in his arms.
Asrael brushed his sleeves free of the dust and narrowed his eyes to escape the discomfort of being bombarded by the sun’s lively photons. Ahead of him stood a gathering of unworthy men- children carrying swords and spears in between elderly and sickly males. Most glorious of them all was the long-haired, well-muscled, scarred Cleftus- unarmed, but no less intimidating than if he had held a sword to the Necromancer’s throat
Asrael looked the mound of muscle up-and-down with a displeased frown and a scoff; “Did you bring me out from my humble abode to gawk at me, peasant?”
Cleftus narrowed his eyes and several of the men could be heard gasping at the nerve of this unholy being. But the muscled man, himself, remained calm and outstretched a hand to ask; “You’re a warrior, correct? You killed those Inquisitors?”
His tone was not accusatory, nor was it particularly aggressive- revealing that the man cared little either way for Asrael’s supposed crimes. The necromancer nodded for the warrior to continue; “Then I’ve got a job for you. Some of our men have dis-”
The words stopped dead in his mouth as Asrael raised a strict finger to cut him off- earning him the scrutinous touches of the blades, to which he seemed oddly at-ease with. He bored his green eyes into Cleftus’ black bulbs and spoke; “You threw me into a hole with those infuriating simpletons and now; you’ve come to ask me for assistance?” Had he been able to, Asrael might’ve thrown his head back and laughed at the man, but should he be misfortunate enough to move; he imagined one of the many blades might cut cleanly through his neck.
Cleftus nodded. “You’re confident for an Ungodly. But you’re still one of them. If you wanna keep your friends heads on their necks, you should be more willing to lend us your help-” The desperation was written all over his face as well as those of the filthy villagers.
Asrael cut the man off and once more took advantage of his surprisingly superior position. “Kill them if you wish. They are of no use to me- nor are you. If you wish for me to assist you, then I ask only one thing.” Cleftus’ stern brow hardened as he stared at the green-eyed, pale, arrogant Ungodly and awaited his continuation. Asrael raised his finger to one of the blades and shoved it aside while insisting; “I want to know how that old bag knew.” Cleftus took momentary offense with his request and paused to contain his wrath.
The strangers had been opportune, at best. Although they could scarcely be held accountable for what took place out in the desert, Cleftus could not shake the feeling the necromancer knew more than he was letting on and his focus on Manjuseth’s Gift all but confirmed it. But what, if not the strangers, could the village turn to in their time of need? The Elder had been correct in her desperation- she had even downplayed it to some degree, he knew as much, despite being too young to remember the famine. Should the hunters not return; the village would soon fall into starvation and disarray... no, they needed this man should they weather the perfect storm that had followed in his wake.