Moonlight trickled in through the small barred window on the wall, bathing the dungeon in a soothing pale glow that revealed dark splashes of dried blood on the ground which contrasted with the cold stone floor. Chains clinked in a dark corner of the room as Cinris stirred. His arms were shackled with the chain passing through a loop on the ceiling and connecting to a longer spool with a crank that had been wound just enough to hold him in a kneeling position.
His mouth was dry and his lips were cracked and peeling. Attempting to wet his throat with saliva only threw him into a fit of coughs. Cinris winced as he shifted his arms. He looked up and saw his wrist had been run raw from the cuffs, sickening red contrasted by the harsh bruising and festering wounds. He shivered as a cold gust of wind blew in through the window, drawing attention to his bare and scarred chest. It seemed his captives had at least had the courtesy to dress his wounds, something that would’ve been reassuring if he hadn’t been in this position before.
The pants he had been gifted were baggy and uncomfortable, irritating his skin wherever they touched. Cinris’ eyes flicked to a door on the other side of the room as he heard footsteps approaching, and the thick oak door swung open soon after. Through it stepped a lightly armored Elven woman who, upon seeing Cinris was awake, froze in place. Cinris didn’t quite know why she did, but quickly found out as she dropped the medical supplies she was carrying, marched over, and landed a solid punch to the side of his head.
His world spun as his whole body moved with the punch, caught only by the chains around his wrists. His eyes drifted up in time to catch a withering glare from the Elf before she turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, leaving the door wide open. After a short wait, another figure stepped through the door, this time one Cinris recognized. Astrid stood above him with her arms crossed behind her back and a look of complete and total contempt on her face.
Everything about her down to the glimmer of the mail she wore under her silver armor oozed authority. Her gauntlets were similar to her breastplate, silver and angular which added an air of menace to the ethereal look of the set. The tassets were an almost translucent cloth that flowed without regard for the pull of gravity, and her silver greaves sat on dark leather chausses with boots to match.
“Kidnapping, conspiracy, heresy, treason, and the massacre of thousands. Need I continue,” Astrid asked, leaning down slightly. Cinris matched her gaze and cocked a wry grin, intending to continue playing the villain as long as they had him captive. “Oh, please do. I quite like reliving those memories,” he coughed out, his voice hoarse and gravelly.
The kick she sent into the Prophet’s stomach left him heaving, his body trying to make him force out whatever food was in his stomach and finding nothing. “This dungeon is where you will stay for the next two days while we await a convoy to escort us. When they arrive, you will be taken to the capital city of Yenneth to see trial before our Royal Highness’. You will be tortured and questioned for your every waking hour. You will be provided with enough food and water to keep you alive, if only barely.”
Astrid continued listing off the conditions of his capture, but Cinris paid her little mind. “Is that clear?” Astrid finished after what felt like hours. The Prophet lifted his head to respond, but before he could the ground rumbled, shaking dust and dirt off of the walls and making Astrid sway in place. A look of concern took over her confident sneer as she turned to look out of the small window.
“We’re not far enough from Ashbourn,” the Prophet mumbled before his eyes fixed back onto Astrid. “Where the hell are we,” he spat, being answered with a punch to the temple by Astrid, knocking him unconscious once more. She let out a heavy sigh before turning on her heel and walking through the door, closing it behind her.
Walking up the stone stairs, she opened another bolted door and stepped out into the stormy weather. The wind whipped around her and the rain stung as it struck her face like tiny arrows as she looked up at the city. The Prophet was right, they were dangerously close to Ashbourn. They had settled into the outskirts of the city, claiming some of the abandoned shacks for shelter hardly a mile from the fight.
Astrid knew it was reckless, but she couldn’t abandon Woden with whatever that thing was. Lynn accepted her excuse that it would prove invaluable to study and possibly capture it. An explosion erupted in midair, lighting up the darkened landscape for just enough time to take in the carnage around it. The center of the city was entirely leveled, the buildings replaced with a deep, smoldering crater. Twin trails shot from the smoke cloud in the sky, colliding and producing several smaller explosions before pushing away from one another, each crashing down at different halves of the crater.
A small chorus of cheers erupted from soldiers to her left as they ignited a fire under the cover of an overhang on one of the houses. A gust of wind shot through Astrid once again, reminding her how freezing it was. It was a wonder the rain wasn’t ice. She wrapped her arms around her torso as she jogged over to the saving grace of warmth, crouching down in a free space the soldiers shuffled around to make for her.
“How long until they stop, do you think?” one soldier, bundled up in mismatched cloth over his armor in an attempt to keep warm, questioned. “I mean, they’ve been fighting for three days straight without stopping. They’ve gotta be getting tired by now,” he continued, looking around at the others surrounding the campfire.
“I don’t care. I just want to get back home and make sure that Prophet gets what’s coming to him,” another responded, taking a swig from a flask before passing it to the person beside them. Astrid recognized the soldier as the woman who had come storming out of the Prophet’s cell. A different soldier asked the question that was bubbling in Astrid’s chest for her.
“You got a past with him?” they asked, making the woman scoff. “Is there any one of us who doesn’t? At least any of us who have been here for more than a few years,” she responded, eliciting a rolling murmur of agreement from the older members. “He was vicious. Putting the false moon aside, he was one of the sole reasons the Moths received as much funding as we did. The cult had existed before him, and that’s why we were made, but they weren’t nearly as aggressive before he showed up. I lost too much to his rampage to not be a part of bringing him down,” she finished as the flask was passed back to her. The others all nodded in somber agreement as she drank, some giving mock toasts.
“What are the plans for after he’s dead, then?” someone poised. “Well it’s not like he's the last of the cult, is it? They’re still out there,” Astrid said as she dragged over a chair and sat down. Most of the group started doing the same as the soldier that had asked the question spoke again, however a few ducked into houses to see what they could find.
“Really? I was under the impression that he was kinda the last of them still at large. How many of them could there possibly be left,” they asked, tilting their head slightly and looking at Astrid with curiosity and a trace of apprehension. “Well for starters we haven’t captured their leader yet,” a voice called out from behind Astrid.
Lynn stepped under the overhang, his black pants and loose white shirt drenched by the rain. Astrid stood. “What are you doing out of bed? You need to recover,” she said, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt and preparing to drag him back through the rain before he shrugged her off.
“I can’t exactly call myself a strong leader if one punch from that Pyromancer takes me out of commission for a week. Plus it’s not like we’re doing anything strenuous. Just having a chat around a fire,” Lynn said, gesturing for Astrid to come back to the fire. Another explosion erupts from the city, this one more powerful than the last. A shockwave passes over the group, making a few dig their heels into the ground to stay upright, but making Lynn double over.
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Astrid caught him before he hit the ground, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and hoisting him up. They locked eyes for a moment, and Astrid shot Lynn a pained look that hurt more than his chest. He sighed. “I’ll head back in soon. Just let me get a bit of fresh air,” Lynn reasoned, giving Astrid a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. She sighed, reluctantly content but refusing to leave his side. A Moth brought a chair from inside a house which Lynn took with a quick thank you and a smile.
“There was this one cultist I encountered in my days,” Lynn started, picking up the conversation that had been interrupted. “Out of his mind more than any of the others, I swear. He had a strange trend of naming his underlings after foods which made it hard to take him seriously, but trust me when I tell you he was a force to be reckoned with,” Lynn said with a shake of his head. A sudden burst of activity from inside a house garnered a confused and concerned look from everyone until a small group walked out carrying crates filled with brown glass bottles.
They sat around the fire and passed them out. Astrid caught one as a Moth threw it to her and flipped it around in her hand to see the label. “Heretic’s Hearth: Soulsear. Aged spiced rum,” Astrid read aloud, before turning her gaze back onto the Moths with a raised brow. She watched as one of them popped a cork off of a bottle, only to be met with a barrage of what looked like smoke but smelled strongly of cinnamon.
Astrid uncorked her own to a similar effect and took a tentative sip. The liquid burnt as it went down her throat. Not uncommon for alcohol, but this threw her into a fit of coughs from the intensity. The blend of spices overwhelmed her senses, the only one she could pick out being the aforementioned cinnamon expertly balanced by whatever else was in it. She eyed the bottle warily before shrugging and taking another sip resulting in the same reaction.
“So wait,” a Moth coughed out. He was slightly taller than the others present with short, black hair. He looked experienced, like he had been fighting for years. “Did you say the cultist used the name of foods?” he continued.
“That he did,” Lynn responded, taking a hearty swig from his bottle without flinching. “I’m embarrassed to say that one of the most terrifying experiences of my career was hearing his shrill voice scream ‘bring out the Onions’ without even cracking a smile, followed by thundering footsteps as two massive knights charged my battalion” Lynn recounted, mimicking the cultist when he quoted him. Lynn cracked a wry smile as a ripple of laughter rolled over the group.
“What did you mean by ‘the leader is still out there?” the same soldier asked. Lynn’s expression darkened for a second before he turned to look at the soldier. “Means what it means. They had someone who was in charge of the whole operation as most things do. We could never seem to find him unless he wanted us to.” Lynn said. Astrid listened with interest as she heard this information. She had heard a few rumors about the cult in their prime, but she never thought any of them were true. Especially the ones about their ever-illusive leader.
Time moved quickly as the group talked, and everyone steadily got drunker and drunker. By the time the fire had died down, Astrid and Lynn were the only ones still mostly sober. “The hell happened to you? You used to be slammed after half of that,” Lynn asked Astrid as she finished a bottle. Astrid stared blankly at the glass for a minute. Her gaze flickered over to the center of the city for a moment as she remembered Woden’s aversion to drunkenness.
“Good question,” she said, setting the bottle gently back into the crate. Lynn eyed her curiously before throwing his empty bottle over his shoulder in acceptance of her vague answer and reaching for another. Astrid slapped his wrist before he could grasp one, eyeing him with a mixture of anger and concern.
“Getting drunk isn’t smart, not while we’re under active threat. Not to mention you need to be getting to bed,” Astrid scolded as she stood and extended an arm to help Lynn do the same. “Fine. But there's one thing I still want to do,” Lynn said, taking Astrid’s hand and struggling to his feet, leaning on her as another explosion rattled the city. Astrid locked eyes with Lynn, and seeing the steely determination in his gaze, she sighed. “Just don’t push yourself,” she relented as she began to help Lynn walk over to the building the Prophet was kept in.
The door swung open easily, assisted by the wind, and crashed against the opposite wall with a bang that made Astrid flinch. After making it down the stairs, Lynn pushed off of her and moved to the door to the cell. He fumbled with the lock before pulling it open, revealing the Prophet looking at his chains wearily before noticing Lynn.
“How the mighty have fallen,” Lynn taunted as he walked over to the Prophet with Astrid close behind to catch him if he couldn’t hold himself up. “And how the weak love to brag,” the Prophet countered with a dry smirk. Lynn bristled, but held himself back even as his arm twitched at his side.
“So, what’s the plan? Gonna rip my fingernails off one by one? Take a limb or two? Or maybe just go crazy with a knife,” the Prophet asked in mock interest. “Look me in the eyes when I tell you this, nothing you do could ever come close to what I experienced in the Cult. You have no idea-,” he started, being cut off by Lynn as he slammed a fist into the Prophet’s nose.
“I’ll do whatever I damn well please. Once we make it to Yenneth and you face justice, I’ll have all the time in the world to savor your pain. Until then I suggest you do your best to recover, because after the trial you won’t sleep until you’re dead,” Lynn spat, turning on his heel and marching towards the door while gesturing for Astrid to follow.
“You won’t live through this,” the Prophet uttered, glaring at Lynn’s back as he reached the door. Lynn ignored him, slamming the door shut after Astrid had followed him from the room. The Prophet heaved a shaky sigh as he was once again left in solitude. Or at least he thought, until a sudden chill down his spine alerted him to the figure in the corner of the room. The Prophet’s eyes widened in terror as he recognized the black robes with scarlet cloth lining the inside. Cult robes. The Cult’s robes.
The Cultist shuffled over to the Prophet, giving him a better look at his attire. A Cultist's standing was determined by how ornately designed their robes were, so from the borderline blank ones the Cultist wore, the Prophet could tell he wasn’t something to worry about. Nonetheless, their presence made the Prophet shiver. He should’ve at least seen him enter the room. The fact that he didn’t implied something that the Prophet dreaded even more than his oncoming torture.
“Our great and benevolent leader sends you a message, O’ Prophet of our Guiding Flame.” The Cultist’s voice sounded more akin to walking on gravel than it did a human, and he broke into a muffled fit of coughs after his announcement. “Seren, in his infinite wisdom and kindness, has seen fit that you are inducted back into the Cult. Should you cooperate, he shall arrive tomorrow to retrieve you. Should you refuse…” the Cultist paused, shooting a lopsided grin at the Prophet. His face was wrinkled beyond anyone the Prophet had ever seen, and the few teeth he still had in his mouth were black at the roots. A scraggly beard tangled at his chin, and the Prophet almost thought he could see mold growing in it. His eyes had sunken practically into the back of his head, and his hunched stature made a man who should’ve stood nearly six feet tall look hardly five.
“Should you refuse, Seren will take you by force,” the Cultist finished finally, wiping a bit of saliva from his chin that had dribbled through the gaps in his teeth as he spoke. The Prophet tensed at his words as memories came flooding back into his skull of his time spent with the Cult. Time that Seren, the somehow both elegant and harsh leader of the Cult of Svarog, had relished in. He bit down hard as he stared daggers at the Cultist, grinding his teeth together in a blinding rage to cover up the bubbling fear in his chest.
“I won’t become Seren’s plaything again. Now get the hell out of my sight,” the Prophet spat. The Cultist jumped back as the Prophet spoke, a deep and offended look of shock plastered on his face that made it seem like the Prophet had just stabbed him through the chest. “I would rather die than let his eyes see me once more. If that’s how it plays out, so be it.” The Prophet’s gaze held enough fire in it to ignite entire forests, and it proved too much for the Cultist, as with one final snarl he snapped his fingers and muttered an incantation before disappearing into the shadows. The Prophet’s whole body shook as he let out the tension that had built in him after he was confident the Cultist had left. Tonight was going to be a long night.
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