The Attendant made themselves busy weeding the beds that the trees sat in, trying to ignore Svarog’s mumbling. The god had been held in a perpetual state of meditation, trying his best to locate the Pyromancer.
The Attendant let out a wistful sigh as Svarog broke from his meditation, preparing for a barrage of yells and another day of repairing the brilliantly white pathways they had done their best to maintain all these centuries.
“I’ve found him. At least almost,” Svarog said flatly, standing and walking over to the Attendant.
“Almost?” they asked, making a show of brushing dirt and mulch off of their knees despite there not being any. Simple acts like that made the Attendant feel more alive, trying to imagine themself anywhere but the unreal expanse of the Sanguine Garden.
“I need him to do something big. He needs to fight something. If he does I can trace the flame,” Svarog responds. The Attendant nods along with his words, not really understanding but still trying their best.
“I need to watch what I do, though. If I fight him how I am now, I don’t know who would win. This wound is too severe. If I find him, I’ll fight him, but only on my terms,” he mutters. The Attendant nodded, this time understanding what Svarog was talking about.
“There is no doubt in my mind that you can beat him. Regardless, there’s no way he could fight you on anything other than your terms. Aside from his Pyromancy, he’s completely cut off from you. The only one who has access to communion with you is Cinris,” the Attendant responded. “Now go get some rest, you need it,” they added.
Svarog begrudgingly nodded and walked off down one of the many paths in the garden, leaving the Attendant alone once more.
They sighed and returned to the trees. The Attendant would never question Svarog, but he had lost something when Nox died. He had lost his path. His revenge had only remained coherent because the Attendant kept him from doing anything outlandish. The Attendant looked up at the would-be stars. The blank sky was maddening. They needed a vacation.
𐇲𐇲𐇲
The streets of Ashbourn were crowded with stalls shilling snake oils and whatever merchandise they had on stone roads that were well-worn from centuries of use. The buildings were somehow a combination of rustic and refined, giving the whole city an almost confused air to it. Years of clashing cultures between the massive temple that sat on the far right side of the city and the church to the left seemed to affect even the architecture of the city. Grayson would’ve felt right at home, had the recent arrival of the Royal army not dragged the high class out from their manors.
“Gods I hate nobles,” he muttered as Vale dragged him through the massive redwood doors that barred entry for anyone uninvited. Grayson cast a wary glance behind them, letting his gaze travel over the slums positioned directly outside of the city’s thick stone walls. The people living there were ridden with disease and filth, even while the city likely had more than enough supplies to support them. Grayson scowled as he watched a pair of lavishly dressed children throw rotted food into the slums, giggling as a tomato splattered on the head of a withered old woman.
“Brats,” Vale spat as the door closed tightly behind them. The two walked down the bustling streets, sticking out like a sore thumb in the flood of nobility as they moved for the meeting point they had been given. Grayson and Vale’s hometown had been the very definition of humble. Be it man, woman, or child, everyone did something to keep the town afloat. Within reason, of course. Essentially, that meant to the average noble, they looked like brutes.
The assumption wasn’t far off, to be fair. They were both mercenaries, it wasn’t exactly a clean line of work. Lynn had specified he had wanted to meet at the church, and as the two made their way closer to the large and ornate building, the crowds got thicker. Vale walked directly behind Grayson, never letting him get more than two feet away at any given time. She wasn't an introvert by any means, but crowds made her nervous regardless.
Pushing through the crowds, the two made it to the gate at a snail's pace. The noble crowds were less than accommodating to the two mercenaries, almost seeming like they were trying to hinder their movements on purpose at times. The outfits were certainly more ornate than what the two usually wore; after all, they were there to meet with royalty, and a good first impression goes a long way.
Vale’s attire was pitch black, made from a large cloth she had taken from the storage of a particularly difficult warlock after they had attacked his tower. It shimmered in the light, giving it an almost ethereal look. The clothes she had made from the cloth fit comfortably, giving her free range of movement while still keeping appearance a priority. Over those clothes, she wore a robe that fit loosely, allowing for it to be easily dropped if things went south. Her right arm was plated, the pauldron and gauntlet made out of pale steel that provided a sharp but visually pleasing contrast from the rest of her outfit.
Tied around her waist was a white cloth that she used to carry her sword in its sheath, the weapon also having been taken from the warlock. The weapon was strange in the fact that it could change its shape upon the wielder wishing it. The blade looked not dissimilar from the cloth, a color like gazing into the void yet shimmering in the sun, and the sword was currently in a form resembling a khopesh. Its handle was redwood with a golden handguard, and the sheath shared a similar color palette.
Grayson’s clothes were entirely too tight for him to feel comfortable. They weren’t nearly as ornate as Vale’s, nor were they made by him. It consisted of a white button-up shirt worn under a jade frock coat with a pin on the right side of his chest that depicted his family crest. He winced and shifted the belt around his waist, all the while fidgeting uncomfortably at the tightness of the sleeves on his muscular arms.
He had decided to stick with wearing his thick leather pants regardless of how informal they appeared. They weren’t brand new per se, and had seen their fair share of battles, but Grayson needed something to keep him comfortable. His axe trailed the two under the earth, pushing through the dirt like it was water and letting it refill the gaps the axe left after it passed. He didn't think he’d have to use it, but keeping it nearby kept him calm. It also seemed to ease Vale, who still held suspicions about the meeting.
“I look ridiculous,” Grayson mumbled as they pushed their way to the front of the crowd. The guards at the gate stopped the two and attempted to wave them off, but after Grayson introduced himself they, albeit reluctantly, let him through. “She's with me,” he said as they tried to turn Vale away. The two guards looked at him with newfound skepticism.
“You were requested alone,” the guard on the left said. He was slightly taller than the one on the right, but their armor was identical. It was full plate and silver with a cyan plume on the helmet. The helmet’s visor only served to cover the guard's eyes with no discernable holes for them to see through. It was shaped like a rounded cone of sorts, only the top half was metal with cyan cloth falling from it to cover the neck. Two holes sat on either side of the helmet, where the guards' long, pointed ears poked through, silver plating tracing the helix. The chest piece was designed to look like a man’s bare chest with well-defined muscles.
The pauldrons curved up and pointed, almost framing the head, and the rest of the plate mail pointed at the joints as well. The elbows had small but thick spikes jutting off the back and the fingers had spines off of each knuckle, adding an air of menace to the otherwise nearly-regal appearance. The leggings were similar. Grayson recognized the design from the small amounts of research he had done; they were part of a select elite from the royal army. They were only ever seen if royalty was present, but on the rare occasion that they were out with no royals in sight? To put it simply, it didn’t help to soothe Vale's worries.
“And what? Come without even the slightest bit of defense? I don’t believe you have any ill will towards me, but it would be suicide to rush in with no precautions,” Grayson responded crossing his arms behind his back and taking a step toward the guard. The guard’s grip tightened around his spear as his expression twisted into a scowl, but he begrudgingly let Vale pass. She gave a small bow to the guard before jogging down the path after Grayson who had already started walking.
“You don’t look ridiculous, you look formal. There's a difference,” Vale said in response to Grayson’s earlier comment as she came to a stop by his side, slightly out of breath and adjusting her robe. “Clearly not,” he grumbled. Vale shrugged, “I think you look great.”
“I know. You bought the clothes,” Grayson responded, sending a halfhearted glare her way. “And my taste is impeccable,” Vale said with a wry smirk. They traveled mostly in silence, the few bits of conversation they engaged in consisting of quick remarks about the architecture of the church and possible escape routes if things went fully awry.
They came to a stop at the doors to the church where they were stopped by yet more guards. “That’s as far as you go. I’ll send message to the commander, he’ll be down soon. Only then will you be let inside,” the guard spoke, his voice stiff but practiced like he had been rehearsing that line since his birth. A few moments later the doors opened and out stepped an elf with a smile that stretched from ear to ear.
He wore no visible armor and outwardly appeared to be completely open, but the twitching of his right hand over the handle of his rapier showed he was ready at hardly a second's notice. His attire consisted of a silver silk tunic with a large black cloth wrapping around his waist, making his thin but strong form more defined. His arms were wrapped in the same cloth, making the only skin he had showing be his face. His baggy pants were the same material as the tunic, and his appearance overall would’ve been considered informal had it not been for the beauty of the material used.
His ears had metal plating much like the guards and overall he gave off a very sharp appearance. His eyes scanned the two as Grayson once again crossed his arms behind his back. “Grayson Windfel, son of Graynor Windfel and commander of the Storm’s End mercenary band. It’s an honor to meet you,” the Elf said, lowering himself into a deep bow. Grayson stiffened at the mention of his father’s name. He wasn’t a bad father by any means, at least for when he was around; however, Graynor Windfel was an eccentric man and had more enemies than Grayson cared to count.
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After his father’s disappearance, it seemed all of his enemies deemed Grayson the inheritor of his actions. If the Elf had a grudge against his father, hell if the Elf even knew his father, this meeting was unlikely to go well. Grayson pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind. Those worries were for later.
“Lynn Vancrest, I presume,” Grayson inquired as he returned the bow. “The very same,” Lynn said, standing and beaming at Grayson. His eyes drifted over to Vale, where his smile dropped into a confused expression for a split second. There seemed to also be something else tucked away in his mood shift, something that looked like aggravation. “I don’t believe I know who you are,” Lynn said to Vale, giving yet another bow, though this one was hardly as deep.
“Vale Incaria, long-time friend of Grayson and second in command to Storm's End,” she responded, returning the gesture. Lynn nodded, “Incaria, you say? What a lovely name,” Lynn said with a smile. “And what is it you do for the group,” he asked, gesturing for them to follow him inside the church. The tall ceilings were decorated with ornate paintings that depicted the several acts of the god this church worshiped and its gifts to the world. Their boots clapped against the hard marble floor as they walked, passing by immaculate arches that only served to add a more ethereal look to the place.
“Interrogator,” Vale responded. Lynn let out a quick sound of surprise before laughing. “That would explain that intimidating aura of yours. Not to mention your ice-cold gaze,” he joked. Grayson shot a glance at Vale, who had been walking slightly behind him and Lynn, and her expression sent a pang of sadness through him. At the orphanage she had always been teased over the way her eyes looked. He’d be lying if he said they weren’t unique, their silver color giving them a very distinct appearance, but unlike the other kids, he had never found them off-putting.
Even back then he thought they were cool, and Cinris, well Cinris thought they were beautiful. They both tried their best to help her be more confident, but the insecurity was dead set at that point. Grayson gave her what he hoped was a consoling frown and shook his head, to which she responded with a languid but appreciative smile; nevertheless, she tilted her head to the ground for the rest of the walk, another habit she had since the orphanage.
Eventually, after several flights of stairs and a few doors, they entered a room with a large table inside. Lynn gestured for Grayson to sit at one end, and he walked to the other. Vale stood behind Grayson, carefully watching every movement made by Lynn or any of the two guards positioned at each of the three doors. The door to Grayson’s left suddenly opened, and from it stepped a figure that sent both a wave of relief through Grayson and one of caution. At least now he knew why the Royal guard was here.
“Took you long enough, Astrid,” Lynn jabbed at the princess. Grayson moved to stand, not wanting to be disrespectful, but Astrid waved him down quickly. “Oh gods, please, we’re all equal here. Don’t let my title affect this meeting,” she said swiftly, no harshness in her tone, but an underlying authority that made Grayson wary. Grayson and Vale re-introduced themselves, and with that out of the way, they got to the reason Grayson was summoned here.
Grayson and Vale had discussed what to go over on their way to the city. They came to the conclusion that, if Lynn summoned them to discuss Cinris, then he already knew of their connections and they would respond accordingly. Despite their preparations, however minor they might’ve been, the question still made the two tense for a moment.
“I have it on good authority that you are close to one of the pillars of power in a cult we’ve dedicated quite some time to snuffing out. Does the title of 'Prophet' ring any bells,” Lynn asked, his stance guarded and his tone holding a harsh bite. Grayson and Vale exchanged glances at the shift in Lynn’s demeanor as they both realized that the chances of this meeting going well were dwindling, and fast.
Vale sighed as her fingers subconsciously wrapped around the handle of her sword, becoming increasingly aware of the shifts in the stance of the guards around them from neutral to having an air of hostility. Their grips tightened around their spears, and their feet now pointed towards Grayson and Vale instead of straight ahead. Grayson tapped his foot nervously on the ground, the one reassurance of his axe bouncing back any pulses he sent into the ground gone due to how high up they were.
Grayson cursed under his breath. If he was right, Lynn had intentionally separated him from his weapon. “Well?” Lynn called out, bringing Grayson back from his thoughts. Grayson steeled his emotions and looked at the Elf with a stony gaze. “Who gave you your information,” Grayson asked, noting Vale’s eyes darting between the guards who were becoming more outward with their hostility by the second.
Grayson’s question was answered when through one of the doors walked the strange old Pyromancer that had been traveling with Cinris and Huojin. Grayson scoffed as the Pyromancer looked his way. “I thought you left us to travel alone, not sell us out to the Royal army,” he spat. A slight smirk appeared on Woden’s face. “I did, but I got bored,” he responded.
Grayson glared daggers at the Pyromancer before turning back to Lynn. “He was a friend of mine. We grew up together. One day he faked his death and we stopped seeing eye to eye. Is that a good enough answer for you,” Grayson said, barely holding back a scowl. This time it was Astrid who responded.
“And yet you were reported to have been working with him to fight off a knight who had taken down several of your men. Which either speaks volumes about how skilled that knight was, or how skilled your men are,” she snarked, twirling a sword in her hand that Grayson hadn’t even seen her draw. Vale stood suddenly, slamming her hands down onto the table with contempt. A guard thrust his spear towards Vale, but she drew her weapon in one swift motion and deflected the attack. She spun the sword in her hand and pointed it at Astrid.
“You don’t get the right to speak on the lives of those we lost to that demon,” Vale growled, her face contorted into a scowl that didn’t drop even as the tips of six spears pressed against her torso. Lynn waved the guards down and Vale sat once more. “Demon, you say?” Lynn asked, half question and half taunt.
“You left out what that thing was, didn’t you, Pyromancer?” Grayson asked, looking at Woden who was now standing directly beside Astrid. Woden didn’t respond, instead looking at the door behind Lynn and Astrid strangely and stepping ever so slightly from side to side.
Lynn barked out a harsh laugh. “Oh please, are you going to claim that it’s that heretical lie Svarog? If so, just know you’re digging this hole even deep-,”
“Get behind something,” Woden interrupted, undoing his blindfold. “Excuse me?” Lynn asked incredulously, staring at the Pyromancer with anger flaring in his eyes. “Now would be a good time,” Woden said, cracking his knuckles as a spark appeared in his palm. He closed his hand around the spark and it spread, covering his fist in a pitch-black flame.
The door suddenly burst open, and through it stumbled a small man with an overly round, bald head. His robe was brownish-red in color but there were some darker stains across it. “T-the Prophet!” the man cried, stumbling over his words. Sweat poured down from his brow. He was terrified. “He’s in the church! The guards, he-”
The man’s voice halted as the tip of an estoc punctured his neck. He stumbled around before collapsing to the ground, dead. Over his body stepped a bloodstained boot, and soon after the rest of the Prophet came into view. His clothing was torn and bloodied, sticking to his body. His face was even more pale than usual, accenting his strangely red pupils. Half of his cloak looked like it had been singed and he walked with a limp as he entered the room. “Pyromancer,” the Prophet grunted, looking at Woden.
“I expected a more explosive entrance, Prophet,” he answered with a slight frown. The Prophet looked down at the fire in Woden’s hand before looking back at him. “You sure about this?” Cinris asked, looking sternly at Woden. Woden held his arm out to the side and pulled his sword from the air as a wide grin spread across his face. The look startled everyone in the room. It wasn’t a taunting or cocky smile that he would wear when talking down to someone, no, this was pure, frenzied excitement.
“You have no idea how bored I’ve been,” Woden responded, holding out the hand covered in flame. The Prophet nodded and surrounded his hand with a dark red energy as his pupils returned to their usual color. He began to reach out for the flame, but a yell stopped him. Lynn charged at the Prophet, backed by the guards as he drew his rapier and prepared to attack. Before they could get within range, however, they were thrown back. They collided with the wall and struggled to stand afterward. The attack wasn’t enough to do serious damage, but it sure as hell looked like it hurt
“You don’t get to take this from me,” Woden growled, lowering his still-smoking hand, voice cold and even. Turning to the rest of the group, he locked eyes with Astrid. “Get your commander and leave. I’ll meet up with you eventually,” he said, his voice shifting almost instantly to a softer yet still commanding tone.
The Prophet looked at Vale and Grayson. “Get out of here, I’ll be right behind you. Huojin has the carriage ready to go outside the castle gate. Don’t ask questions now, we don’t have the time.” The two looked at him with bewilderment in their eyes, but silently they stood and moved for the door. Cinris gave Vale a meaningful nod as she walked by, and she returned the gesture. “You’d better keep your word,” she said, her tone bitter and kind at the same time. Astrid soon followed after the two, taking the stunned guards with her and half-dragging Lynn.
The Prophet turned and held his hand out to Woden who clasped it in his own almost instantly. A burst of energy tore forth as their powers collided, and the Prophet silently wished Woden luck with a nod as he recited the incantation. “Angnis Ignis Morticûm.”
The incantation threatened to tear him into the grayscale realm, but the black flames kept him grounded in reality. The energy pulses got more intense as Woden’s smile got more and more wild until a tear appeared in the air. Woden laughed as the handshake broke off, and an arm shooting out of the tear prompted Cinris to start rushing down the stairs of the church.
Svarog burst from the tear and hit the ground hard, falling to one knee. He looked at his surroundings in confusion before his eyes locked onto the Pyromancer. Woden laughed again as he started marching toward the god. “You know, I didn’t think that’d work. I thought I’d die or something similar. Trying to force someone to stay grounded in reality while a god does the opposite. That’s half the reason I did it! But now? Now I’ve got a reason to keep going for a while,” Woden said, dragging his sword along the ground.
Before the meeting had started, he had found the Prophet in the city with Huojin. Boredom led to Woden telling the Prophet about Lynn’s plans, and Woden agreed to help on one condition. That he got to fight Svarog. He didn’t know if it was possible, but if anyone would know, it would be the one the cult bragged so much about. The summoning process was entirely theoretical, there was no guarantee it would work, but the both of them thought that if Woden could manipulate the Prophet’s inner flame they could force him to stay grounded in reality while still initiating the communion.
Communion meant direct communication between a mortal and a god, meaning to some degree, the god had to be present for the communion. By forcing the Prophet to remain grounded in reality, Svarog had to come to them.
Woden swung his sword up, resting it on his shoulder as Svarog stood and summoned his weapon. “You know, it’s been a while since I’ve gotten to burn a city to the ground. And what a fitting name for this one, too,”
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