Ogridan, Capital of Daroven

The tap of my boots on the floor, as well as that of my fellow compatriots, make tremulous echoes in the winding, tube-like corridor. Dull, metallic walls gleam with tracks of light from the glowing lanterns in the ceiling, moving along threads in the metal. There's a prevailing scent of rust in the air, and the sour tang of damp, untreated metal.

Two darkly robed clerics flank either side of me. They escort me to the place of my Wardawn Trial--an ominous name for what is essentially an aptitude test for my abilities. Based upon my performance, compared to other warriors who are also taking the test, I may be recruited for this big mission of which I've heard murmurings for months now.

The Trial is also a ritual of sorts, a way that the Heraldic clergy attempt to anticipate what Varcovith's favor might be for a planned operation. I don't take much stock in that part of it, but I play along.

I operate as a part of Daroven's military might. When they tell me to jump, I do so. For now. My true allegiance is to Varcovith himself. If Ogridan's path should ever go one way while I know that Varcovith's leads to another, I will leave Daroven behind. Just how I would accomplish this, I don't know. For me, it is a matter of faith. Doing what's right.

The clerics and I come to a stop in front of the metal sliding door which leads to the staging area for the event. Two metal plates which are pressed in against each other from the sides. The door is opened by simultaneously turning two cranks that have been retrofitted into either side of the door, causing the plates to retract into the frame, which is why the minimum of two clerics escort me. Once upon a time, such doors are said to have opened on their own with the flip of a switch. Though the caretakers do what they can to maintain the condition of the capital, Ogridan is not what it once was. I have faith that one day it will be restored, as do the rest of my brethren. One day, our efforts will pay off, and the glory of Ogridan will shine once again.

I know how that sounds. Like a preacher on a pulpit, using abstract symbolism to describe things I've haven't seen myself, things I can't rightly explain. That's what faith is, after all. Believing in things you can't see. But everyone does it.

But I have seen it! The abnormally inspired priest in my imagination says, suddenly. I felt the presence of our Lord, visited upon me. His glory manifest. And I turned my eyes away. For I dared not see. I dared not glimpse, with these bare eyes of flesh, the majesty of his power. The sheer power of his Will, billowing forth. The ancient magic. The true magic. I dare not look upon it.

So say the modern Heraldic Priests of Varcovith. They talk of him as if he exists in some ethereal plane, far removed from us. And maybe he does. But one day, he won't. Our job and responsibility, as followers of Varcovith in this point of history and time, is to save as many data crystals as we can. With time, and enough of the right crystals gathered, we can facilitate his return, using Ogridan's machines.

When that happens--and it seems more and more inevitable with the passage of time that it will--it will be interesting to see what the 'Heralds' do. They're only messengers, after all. Their prestige and sacrality is by proxy. With their lofty homes and precious goods, and extravagant robes lined with flakes of gold.

We're materialistic, is what we are. We can't interact with our god, because for now, he isn't physically here. So we turn to the next best thing. The priests. The messengers. And we lavish them. Even though Varcovith wouldn't want money, or fancy treats, or long, stately robes. He asks for far more from us. And most of us will not be ready. Especially those who bask in the warmth of luxury and the people's love. The Heralds, most of all, should pray that their own god never comes.

But maybe I'm just cynical, that way.

I'm not from Daroven. Not originally. That, I know.

I've tried to piece together where my homeland might have been. The earliest I can remember is being five, and living on the streets of Volastad. Everything before is shrouded in wisps of milky, pearlescent fog. Everything after, until the very day of my Reforging, was darkness. Not in the sense of things I can't see, but that I sometimes wish I couldn't.

Volastad was the beginning of the darkness, but it was nowhere near the end.

Varcovith is my redemption.

I watch as the two clerics work together, turning the cranks. I could help them. It would be quicker work. But it would be disrespectful to them. It's part of their role to play, after all. Besides, I need conserve my Coil, for the trial.

Though I serve the same Grey God they do, I am not like them. Not since my Reforging, when I joined Daroven. I am a man. A young man, that is. But I am also something else.

A good third of my body is mechanical, now. My arms, hands, shoulders. There's even lengths of metal that jut out of my upper chest, connecting to my shoulders. Even parts of my legs have been replaced. Sometimes, in the right light, if I look at my lower leg while flexing it, I swear there are dark metal pistons and connectors that can be seen moving under my skin.

I'm not fully sure how my body operates, anymore. I've never been one for biological studies to begin with, but I do know the human body requires blood-flow. To the muscles. The joints. Vital organs. The brain. The heart.

I'm not even sure I have a heart anymore. If I do, it beats in tandem with the thunks and clicks of the gears inside my body, and the squeal of the Coil wound somewhere deep in my chest. I am neither dead nor alive, but in a state of suspended animation.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

I don't regret the state of my body. If I had not been taken in by the Darovenians and treated for my wounds, I would have died. And if I had not undergone the Reforging, I would never have been bestowed with the Will of Varcovith. If there's anything regarding my transformation to mourn, it's that I didn't turn from the dark ways of the world sooner. From the darkness, and to the light of the Grey God.

Gears click and whir in the walls. The clerics are stooped, arms working, focused on their task. As the plates part slightly, light cracks in through the door, causing me to squint. Bright, outdoor light. Sunlight. Not the dim, muggy light of the special lanterns indoor, clogged with dirt and dust and trapped moths.

Though the staging area is still technically inside Ogridan, there's a glass, dome-like canopy, far above. The sun makes a cross of light glint on the glass up there. It shifts and moves as my perspective adjusts, rolling my neck and peering in through the partially open door. The sky is a solid blue, broken only by the fracturing beams of light from the sun.

Within seconds, the door is completely open, and both of the clerics bow to me, still gripping tight to the levers. As soon as they let go, the door will begin to shut on its own, and they themselves will only have a matter of seconds to step through the door after me.

I duck, hands clasped behind my back, and step through the opening.

Cheers erupt in the domed space. They come from the Darovenian citizens in attendance, in the elevated seats on the left side of the staging area. On the right side, similarly seated, are the some of the higher members of the Ogridanian order. While the citizens are excited, experiencing a state of patriotic and religious fervor, the priests, magisters, and military commanders are focused and alert. Tense, even. The assessments made here today could help determine the outcomes of a hundred battles in the future.

My footfalls make loud, echoing THUNKS, the full weight of my frame impacting the floor with each step. There are lots of hollow spaces underneath, because of the operations of how the Trial works. Extending out in front of me are dozens of metal rails and tracks and grates set into the floor.

I tend to step carefully, deliberately using slow, mild movements. Occasionally a faint tick echoes from inside my chest. The faster I move, the louder and more frequent the ticking becomes, to indicate the accelerated use of my Coil. According to the dial on my inner forearm, my Coil is three-quarters full. My last cranking was only a few days ago, but I've done some mild training in the time since. Got to stay on my toes.

I come to a stop at the white line painted across the floor, indicating where I should stand. Behind, I can hear metal grinding on metal as the door closes.

High Commander Zar'hazel, seated on the right, raises a hand, calling for silence.

A hush falls across the citizens on the left. Despite their excitement, they understand that this is a privilege for them, and that they are witnessing a sacred rite. They do as they are told. Most of them were standing as they cheered, but they take their seat now.

Zar'hazel stands. He is one of the oldest and most revered of the Reforged. Centuries old. Though once a great warrior, and would still likely be a force to contend with on the battlefield, he wears robes not unlike the kind the Heralds wear, if not as extravagant. He is tall, with a thin frame. A sharp, masculine face with hard edges. His eyes are a bright, glowing green, and his hair a stark white, trimmed short and brushed over to one side of his face. He is a leader known for his wisdom, poise, and hard lines. I will follow him where ever he leads. Until I feel Varcovith telling me otherwise.

Zar'hazel gestures to Heraldic ArchBishop Rutal, before sitting back down.

Rutal nods and stands. He is a fat man, gilded in a billowing robe of white and gold. He clears his throat. He makes a recitation from the sacred logs. I do not see the significance of the passage in this context, or its relevance. But it is a piece of the word the Grey God left us. I bow my head in reverence as the bishop speaks.

Log 147. I've read it many times. I've also witnessed the original, on the screens of Ogridan's machine mainframe. Blinking green text on a black background, in the writ of Old Darovenian.

Rutal's recitation is not in Old Darovenian, but from one of the newer renditions, transcribed and altered so as to be more easily comprehended by the modern masses. Not completely accurate. But that doesn't always matter. Sometimes you just need to get the basic gist across to people who might not otherwise understand it. And perhaps the bishop's heart is in the right place.

Still, every paraphrase and alteration sends a slight twitch of irritation through me. There's a sudden onset of pain from one of my back teeth from clenching my jaw. But I hold my position. Head bowed. Eyes closed.

It doesn't surprise me all that much when Rutal then transitions into a self-focused diatribe of faith, and what it is to 'experience' god. While there are definitely feelings, sensations even, that occur when I align my Will with Varcovith, I follow him because it's the right thing to do, not because of how it makes me feel.

Have we lost that? Have we forgotten that it isn't all in service of our own personal fulfillment and desires? That we are servants of god?

Rutal's speech seems to taper and cut off suddenly, and I'm given the impression that Zar'hazel may have signaled him to wrap it up, somehow. When I open my eyes, Rutal is sitting, and Zar'hazel is standing again. His eyes are on me.

"When you are ready, Aegis Venther."

"Commander," I say, nodding to Zar'hazel and bowing.

I remove my sleeveless duster. With my metal appendages, I still feel things like the grainy textures of fabrics, but there is a muted quality to the physical sensations. Like feeling through a thick glove.

One of the clerics in dark robes takes my sleeveless duster. I wear it for any of the reasons people adorn themselves when traveling. To protect my body and mechanical parts from the elements, for one. But I also wear it because it helps to mask my movements. It also hides some of the weapons strapped to my chest. But that won't be necessary, here.

I have four pistols. Two are belted at my hip. Two holstered under my shoulder. For this demonstration, I'll be using all of them. But not right away.

I have two bandoliers, one looped over each shoulder, running diagonal over my body. Wrapped tight against my bare metal chest. I also have an ammo pouch at my belt.

Usually I wear a dark, broad-brimmed hat, but the glare of the sun isn't so bad through the glass that I'll have to shield my eyes against it. Besides, it seems disrespectful to wear my hat on such an occasion.

I close my eyes, run a metal hand through my hair, and take a moment to align my Will. It's something I must never forget to do. I must remember that what I do now is not for the glory of myself, or of Daroven. I do this as a servant to my patron god. I must hold every thought captive. I must pray without ceasing.

When I open my eyes, I nod to Zar'hazel. The High Commander nods back, and gestures to one of the clerics behind me. There's a click, and a crunch of gears as the cleric pulls a switch at a nearby console.

And then the game begins.