We were dismissed so Clause could get through a second round of being verbally tarred and feathered while Thatcher, Foss and I got to talking with ourselves. Thatcher was an uptight [Priest], but he was focused on doing his job, and that was what mattered here. He wasn’t just being an asshole about how we were worshiping, but making sure the dead were treated with dignity. Foss was a [Foreman], and not a bad one either, a leader in short, as opposed to a shouter.
We planned. A holy man, A dirty man, and a woman who was both at the same time.
“We’ve not gotten a final number on how much were going to need to dig, but I figure its no higher than 6000… Gods that’s a big number,” Thatcher said.
“That’s bloody terrible; how many holes are we even going to need? I can’t even figure out how big that’ll be,” Foss said.
“About three cubic feet for each? They’ll be laying flat, but that’s about right,” I told him as [Last Rites] whispered the answer into the back of my mind.
“Isn’t that nifty? A human body is about three cubic feet when placed side by side. Thank the gods I knew that; how could I ever have lived without that?” I thought to myself darkly.
“Fuck me,” Foss murmured, “Pardon my language, but that’s… I can bloody count that high. [Calculate Dimensions],” he said, his face scrunching as he did the math.
Eighteen thousand cubic feet. And that was without the six feet we needed above them to keep animals out. Add six feet on top of it, and it would be more like forty-five thousand cubic feet.
“If you think that’s bad, try giving them all their [Last Rites], or figuring out who they are. We can barely tell who they are, and we have [Scribes] going through the names and faces of everyone not coming to mass.” Thatcher told us.
“I don’t think I can sanctify a mass grave very easily,” I told Foss, “I’ve done a grave before, but we're going to need to do it in more than two chunks. We need the six feet on top, so even something as deep as ten feet that would be something like twenty yards on a side. That’s probably too big. But I think I can do eight or so on a side. If not, we would just need to leave dividers.”
“That has to be more than double,” he said, words soft and short, “How fast can you dig one out?”
“An eight-yard square? Without magic, I could probably get a foot of that done in an hour; with magic, I could get that done in a few seconds, but the problem was mana. I didn’t know how much mana a cubic foot of earth took to move… Though that was using a skill, so likely not much compared to working normal magic,” I thought to myself.
“I could probably get a four by eight done in moments, but I don’t know how much mana it would take to dig the whole thing,” I told him before quickly adding, “Barely an apprentice, but I can use my skills to loosen up the soil as well, that should help the rest of your team dig faster, especially in the rain.”
His eyes widened slightly, bushy eyebrows parting to show pale blue eyes as I mentioned mana, shoulders tightening slightly but relaxing as I added just how trained I was.
“Good to hear it, lady mage. A spell would certainly help out. I’m sorry to have cast doubt on your skill,” he said apologetically.
“No worries, though it's not a spell, just a skill, though I can certainly use mana to empower it. I’ll do my best to carry more than my weight, though speaking of mana… [Priest] Thatcher, are their blessed urns? Something [Consecrated] or [Sanctified]? Because we're going to need two urns similar to this one for every cart. I can’t use those on urns, but I can imbue them with grave magic. If any of the [Priests] you know can help with that, it would be wonderful; if not, then I’ll have to save mana for those.”
“You’re not holding an urn; you’re holding a pot. I could get you burial urns, though they’re in short supply; most of them are likely going to be used in what few cremations we can perform…” He said, his voice clear and chastising, though leading into a thoughtful pause. “If it's not a burial urn, why would a skill meant to protect a grave protect a normal pot? Have you tried to use it with a pot specifically made to hold mortal remains?”
“They’re both clay pots; the skill should cover both if it covers one,” I told him.
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“The skill, especially if it is new. The skill [Sanctify] targets a valid earthen container intended to hold mortal remains; the container's intended purpose affects the outcome. An urn and a grave are both earthen containers intended to hold mortal remains; a pot is simply an earthen container,” he told me judgmentally.
“Practice has been hard to get in,” I told him, “I don’t exactly burry people on the daily.”
“The skill should explain as much to you; it's explained by simply hearing the skill out loud. It is fundamental to its very idea; how could you not understand it?” He asked, doubtful tone enough to put me in a defensive mood.
“I’ve used it twice; I’m not exactly an old hand at this, [Priest] Thatcher. If you can get me a burial urn, I can try it; the skill costs me nearly nothing; if I can flex the skill, I can flex it; if I can’t, I’ll need two per part either way. I’m not saying they would be preferable; I’m telling you I need them. If not from you, I will go to Clause,” I told him.
“Urns? I can’t say I understand why Lady Mage,” Foss said, though not judgmentally.
“I would tell you, but it has a habit of freaking people out, more than my eyes, anyway,” I told him.
“Your eyes are marked by divinity,” Thatcher said.
“They are quite intimidating if you don’t mind me saying so, lady mage,” Foss said.
“I don’t mind,” I told Foss, “I think they're horrid myself; I scared the hell out of a kid yesterday. As for you, what God?” I asked Thatcher.
“I don’t recognize it, but I know a stigma when I see it. They are a mark of divinity; to treat them as any less, regardless of your status, is blasphemous,” Thatcher lectured, the pots obviously going to the wayside.
“I didn’t choose this, [Priest]. This was forced on me, and while it's given me a chance for a second lease on life, it's also gotten me stoned to death by a mob. If I’m a bloody divine emissary, I’m beholden to the rules of one god; don’t push your feelings off on me. I need pots- Urns. I need urns because Death won’t do her job, and I can’t fill her shoes right now. That’s my job, ok? Doing my best to do God's work. I would say that gives me blasphemy rights because it’s quite hard,” I told him, doing my best to keep my tone civil.
“She must be testing you. Strange that I’ve never heard of her,” Thatcher said.
“The only thing she's testing is my patience, and she's doing it right now, through you. You are ever a faithful servant. It isn’t time to talk about that, so keep it to yourself or go ask a [Priest of Life] about their goddess's renegade sister. Now! Can you get me those urns? I just need the one to test. If not, I need to go talk to Clause,” I told him, turning to point over at Clause who was over in the corner next to Strause.
“Strause, is this some kind of joke? Getting me to stare into your trousers?” Clause asked his younger brother.
“No, I just need to know if you can see it,” Strause said.
“I can see it, Strause. It’s very funny,” Clause told his brother.
“It’s glowing!” Strause said.
“There is nothing luminescent about it, Strause, now if-” Clause told him.
“That is some seriously strange timing,” I said.
“I can’t say you're wrong about that,” Foss said, “I can’t say I was expecting much of today. Shy of Lady Mynes, they act very…”
“Normally? Like they’re not snakes that want to impress their status on you like a brand? Yeah, that's what I’ve seen.” I told him in return.
“The youngest continues his never-ending chain of impropriety,” Thatcher said.
“He’s not so bad,” I told him.
“Stop getting me to try and look at your-” Clause said before we started to break off.
I couldn’t bring myself to talk to Anna. I tried to, but then I worked myself up, only to catch her staring at me while I looked over. She flinched slightly, hand going to her arm, and it halted my advance.
I could feel my words die in my throat, my chest constricting, and my courage did not stay.
I decided she wouldn’t want to talk in the open; I could check on her tonight.
I certainly didn’t decide on that because
Instead, I caught up with Gunther and had a quick conversation with her. I had a plan to get our trip to pass by Clause with approval. Who wouldn’t want access to ancient theoretical knowledge? Perhaps the library held spell books or texts on walls and architecture. Hells, if he wanted to send some extra guards or get some favours by inviting [Priests] along, who would I be to deny them? So long as I could retrieve the books and keep them safe, that was all that mattered.
Gunther's face went from sour to sickly sweet. Money in her eyes and her smile like that of a cat, smug. I didn’t ask what was between her and Arabell. I didn’t want to know more than I wanted to keep Gunther in the right mood to bring Clause over to our side of thinking.
Then it was off; team mass grave got going, Foss split from us to get his team together, and Thatcher retrieved an urn for me to test with.
The urn felt wrong to cast on, but I managed to barely get it to work correctly. It was weaker than the one I had on me, but it would be serviceable.
I could make these without using my reserve and spend them instead on speeding our progress with the dig.
I made sure to pass the full jar to Thatcher, and got him to bring it to the Church of life with one from last night where it would be safe.
Thatcher didn’t seem to understand the significance of the jars, but the blank jars were being produced in bulk today. Hundreds of them an hour, vs a hundred an hour that the priests could bless. We would need a lot, for when the bodies started coming.
Foss and I met up, and I headed off to check the first site. There was a lot of dirt to dig, a Sprite Queen to talk to, and a letter from Clause to deliver to her.
It was going to be a long day.