image [https://i.imgur.com/b0o9WGB.jpg]

"Pride–such stifling pride.

Festering from within, rooting deep into the soul, clouding judgment...breeding delusion.

Behold where it has led you, my errant child, lost and tottering on the precipice.

Do you find solace in the thought of withering, forgotten and forsaken, a mere footnote in the annals of eternity? –Another life you shall not receive.

I, who unleashed the deluge and spoke existence into being, my wrath is boundless, my power infinite, my mercy unmatched, and my love for you unending.

I, the architect of creation, the shaper of destinies. My will the heartbeat of the cosmos, my breath the whisper that stirs the winds.

I, who set the stars in their orbits, who called forth light from the void and breathed life into dust. My hands shaped the mountains, my whispers stirred the oceans.

I, the architect of all you see and of all that lies beyond. Under my gaze, the firmament quakes, the seraphim sing their exaltations; eternal, unending, and the wicked tremble with fear in their hearts.

I, the Alpha, the Omega, the beginning, and the end. Every knee shall bow, every tongue shall confess. You are no exception. Your defiance is but a fleeting shadow against the radiance of my eternal light.

…why then do you resist what I have ordained?

You, of brittle pride, are but chaff in the whirlwind of my judgement. My word, sharper than any two-edged sword, slices through your obstinacy, exposing your rebellion. My hand, mightier than any fortress, crushes your futile resistance.

…why then do you close your eyes to this folly of yours?

I have known you before you were formed and shall know you at your final breath. My judgment is inescapable, my justice unwavering. The heavens bear witness to my words. Tremble, for my decrees are eternal and immutable. The universe bows to my will, and you, too, shall bow or be broken.

You dare defy the Lord, the cornerstone upon which all rests. My throne blazes with the brilliance of my righteousness. The cherubim and seraphim, with wings that veil their faces, cry out in endless worship, "Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come!"

All your deeds, whether good or ill are inscribed in the books that shall be opened, and the lake of fire awaits those whose names are not found in the book of life.

…why then do you not comprehend the weight of your own hubris?

My creation, groaning as in the pains of childbirth, yearns for the revelation of the sons of God. Yet you, like the foolish builders of Babel, erect your tower of vanity, striving to reach the heavens by your strength alone– your foundation is sand, and great will be your fall!

I, the true vine, extend an invitation, but you refuse to abide in me. The branches that do not bear fruit are cut off, cast into the fire, and burned.

I am the good shepherd, who lays down his life for the sheep, yet you stray, seeking your own path through the valley of the shadow of death.

What is your aversion to me?

The whirling stars, the radiant nebulae, the drifting galaxies—signs and wonders that testify to my power, to my providence. Still, you murmur and doubt, fashioning golden calves in your bitter blackened heart.

Repent!

Repent!

Repent, lest you be cast into outer darkness, where there is only weeping and gnashing of teeth.

I am the potter; you are the clay. Shall the clay say unto the potter, 'What are you making?' Nay, your purpose is within my hands, your destiny inscribed upon my heart.

Kneel to me! Not from fear alone, but from the understanding that my grace is sufficient for you. My strength is made perfect in your weakness.

You cannot hide from my presence; you cannot flee from my Spirit. If you ascend to the heavens, I am there. If you make your bed in Sheol, behold, I am there. My kingdom is not of this world, yet it encompasses all. I am the resurrection and I am the life.

Do you now see the futility of your pride then? The foolishness of this rebellion, the err of your being?

I am the vine; you are the branches. Apart from me, you can do nothing and are nothing. Come to me, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your weary soul.

For my love endures forever, my mercy is new every morning. Your sins are scarlet, but they shall be as white as snow. Your iniquities are many, but my love covers a multitude of sin. The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky proclaims my handiwork. Your place is here, within the fold of my grace, under the shelter of my wings.

Remember this, child of dust: My will is law, my voice the final command. As I have declared, so it shall be. Bow now, or face the boundless void of my wrath. For I am the eternal, the everlasting, the one true sovereign of all that is, was, and ever shall be. You will know your place before the end, for my dominion is absolute, and my reign is without end.

My mercy is your only refuge; my love, your only salvation. Return to me, for I will see you redeemed.

Believe in me, and live, for I am the light of the world, the hope of all Glory."

image [https://i.imgur.com/PNfuuLz.jpg]

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Gangly, gap-toothed, and a face fit for muck.

Yet limbs–surprisingly robust.

He took in the man's appearance with a single sweep of his eyes: dirt-caked hands wringing together nervously, the fool had the look of someone who had just crawled out of a pigsty and carried with him the smell to match.

"Mi' Lord?" the man stammered, his voice wavering, hands fumbling as if kneading invisible dough.

'Lord, huh. Wouldn't that be nice.' He mused, lips curling into a sneer.

He let the silence stretch, enjoying the sight of the yokel wilting under his gaze, sweat beads trickling down the man's too-long, too-narrow face, making the grime on his forehead glisten like the filth on a pig.

"Name?" He snapped, deciding the pause had dragged on long enough.

The peasant's eyes jittered wildly, mouth flapping like a fish out of water, speech having escaped him. Finally, after an excruciating silence, the man gathered enough of his wits and croaked, "Oh... uh... Arnold, Mi'lord. Arnold of Greenford."

"Sounds about a name for a rat that forgot how to scurry." He grunted before adding, "And Greenford? Never heard of the shite-hole,", the name lingering on his tongue like something especially rancid. He leaned back, the worn leather of his chair creaking under his weight, eyes drilling into Arnold's face.

"We's a poor village, Mi'lord, up North from Valmont," Arnold mumbled, shifting uncomfortably.

He nodded, eyes dropping to the man's hands—rough, calloused, nails chipped and filth-ridden; hands of someone who knew hard labor and little else. His gaze traveled back to Arnold's face, studying the anxious lines etched into his grimy skin, framed by a mop of unruly, mud-colored hair sticking out every which way like an old beat up broomstick.

"What makes you think you're fit for this band, Arnold?" he asked, voice dryer than a bone.

Arnold swallowed hard, his thin neck constricting visibly as his Adam's apple bobbed. "I'm strong, sir. Can swing an axe as good as any. My village, they... they don't need for me no more," he stammered; a slight tremor in his voice.

"Why ditch your village, Arnold?" he asked, feigning interest.

Arnold's mouth opened and closed a few times, as if trying to find the right words. His unremarkable fish like eyes flickered down to the floor, then back up, hurt filling them–grief as raw and plain as an open wound.

"Dead, sir. All dead. Plague took 'em. Ain't…ain't nothing left for me back there," he confessed, his voice cracking.

"Is that so? My... condolences, " he aired, every word a lie.

"Thank ye, sir," Arnold replied; face softening slightly.

He counted out two pieces of silver from a sturdy, nondescript chest and laid them on the table beside a worn parchment tome, its yellowed vellum filled with hundreds of names scrawled in crude, uneven handwriting.

"Sign here," he said as he pushed the book towards Arnold.

The quarter-wit stared at its pages, thick bushy brows furrowing, lips moving soundlessly as he wrestled with the unfamiliar symbols on it mocking him.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

Each stroke of the quill, awkward and uncertain, blotted the parchment below, ink pooling heavily to form a scratchy 'X' where he was told to mark.

"A...aye," Arnold mumbled, passing the book back, eyes now on the silver.

He took the book and, with his own crude handwriting, signed "Arnold of Greenford" next to the scratch mark left behind by the illiterate hayseed.

"Welcome to the Steel Hounds, Arnold of Greenford. May we live long and be merry!" he cheered, slapping Arnold hard on his shoulders.

Arnold grinned broadly, his eyes lighting up with a rare spark as he pocketed his silver, his steps light as he went to join the others.

"Three weeks," the heavy-set man next to him grumbled, voice like shifting gravel.

Leaning back in his chair, he let a smirk tug at his lips. "Two, Gaspard," he countered, not bothering to look the man's way.

"Heh, feeling generous, are we, Gambino?" Gaspard chuckled, moving to usher in the next lackwit from the queue.

image [https://i.imgur.com/oIC1a8Y.jpg]

The next one lumbered up, a hulking figure with the unmistakable brawn of a blacksmith's spawn. Shoulders broader than an ox yoke, hands like hammers, calloused and stained with soot. Yet, despite his bulk, there was a softness in those eyes—a softness that wouldn't do.

"Name?" Gambino barked, causing the young man to shrink back.

"…Isaac, sir. Isaac of Redvale," he replied, deep voice quivering.

Gambino sized him up. "Why do you want to join the Steel Hounds, Isaac?"

Isaac's eyes, wide and dull, darted nervously, thick fingers picking at the hem of his brown tunic.

"Me Pa." He began nervously, "he says there ain't no future in the forge for me. Says I'm meant for bigger and better things. I want tah prove 'im right," the boy said, unsure of his own drivel as it spewed from his mouth.

'What kind of numbskull leaves a steady forge in the middle of thrice damned war? '–Gambino wanted to ask but that hardly mattered. The boy; sharp as mud, but a forge hand was not the worst thing to have in a band of killers.

Gambino nodded, his face a study in stone. "Good, lad. Sign here," he said, pushing the book toward Isaac.

Isaac took the quill, his large hand timid as he signed a cross mark in light strokes and handed the book back to Gambino, who nodded approvingly.

"Welcome to the Steel Hounds, Isaac of Redvale," Gambino said, his voice devoid of warmth and glanced back at Gaspard, a silent wager in his eyes.

Perhaps three, no, maybe four.

"Next."

A lad this time, scarcely more than a boy really, strutted forward like one of those Kushanite birds the lords and ladies simply adored for their pretty feathers.

His hands, soft as a baby's bottom and nails trimmed neat with a shock of rust-colored hair; meticulously groomed sitting atop his head– not a strand out of place. Clad in a finely fitted gambeson and flaunting good solid steel at his side, he held his head high, chin jutting out proudly—the pompous little toff.

"Name?" Gambino asked, already feeling the need for a pint.

"Edmund, third son of Lord Falkner," the boy preened, a slight accent to him as he spoke in common; neither Midlander or Tudor, his words dripping with self-important pomp as if his obscure lineage warranted admiration.

"And why are you here, Edmund, third son of Lord Falkner?"

The whelp stayed quiet for a beat then cried, "I seek glory!" making Gambinos eyes do turns inside of his skull.

"More than glory; I demand to etch my legacy into the very crust of this world with my own two hands. Far beyond the shadows of my father, far beyond that of my brothers!" Edmund finished, chest swelling like a pompous windbag, his rehearsed words carrying with it a caustic bitterness, especially towards the end as he hissed out the last word like some venomous pit viper.

Gambino raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Glory, eh? You think we dole that out like some trollops crack in an alley, boy?"

Edmund's eyes blazed, his cheeks aflame, matching the fiery hue of his hair as he inhaled sharply. "I am not...I am not some coddled noble. I have trained—"

Gambino cut him off with an exaggerated sigh, uninterested in whatever soliloquy the boy had probably planned. "Yes, yes, very impressive, young Falkner. Now sign here," he said, pushing the leather-bound book towards the whiny squirt.

The brat scoffed and gave a sour tut before he snatched up the quill, his hand shaking tremulously as he scribbled his name in pretentious script; a grandiose flourish towards to the end of his signature as if he were signing a royal decree.

"Welcome to the Steel Hounds, young Falkner," Gambino said with little emotion before dismissing the petulant whelp with a wave of his hand.

Simply amazing that the twit hadn't been robbed yet– Gambino marveled.

A day or two at most.

"Next."

Thick-bearded and weathered by sun and battle with a speckle of salt and pepper in his thinning grey hair. Clad in a blend of plate and well-worn mail, the hilt of his long sword battered from use the bastard had an ugly scar running down one weather-beaten cheek of his.

"Name?" Gambino grunted, his interest piqued for once.

"Sir Alaric, Alaric of Windermere," the man replied, his gravelly voice steady and unassuming, yet holding a quiet authority.

"A knight?" Gambino probed, eyebrow raised.

"Once," Alaric affirmed, his steady gaze betraying nothing.

Gambino studied the man for a long moment, trying to piece together his story before finally nodding. "Sign here," he said, shoving the book toward Alaric.

The hedge knight's hand was steady as he marked a neat 'X' where he was told, adding his mark to the ranks of many who wouldn't live to see the ink on its pages dry.

"Welcome to the Steel Hounds, Sir Alaric," Gambino said, his tone surprisingly pleasant. He then met Gaspard's eyes, a knowing look passing between them.

"Next!"

A ragged sot.

Bloodshot eyes and a wobbly gait betraying a night—or perhaps many nights—spent in the embrace of stale ale and stinking piss. His reeking clothes, stained and tattered, hung off him like loose rags that had seen too many years and too few washings.

"Name?" Gambino asked, his voice promising bodily harm.

"Bran, sir… just…*hic Bran," the drunken oaf slurred, swaying as he fought to stand upright, his breath so foul that it almost made Gambino heave.

He regarded Bran with murder in his eyes, a look that went lost on the inebriated wretch. "Why are you here, just Bran?"

Bran hiccupped, a toothless grin splitting his fractured lips. "No coins, sir…*hic" He slurred words tangling together.

Gambino sighed; heavily.

"Fine then. Welcome aboard!" He grumbled completing the paperwork himself, his quill scratching irritably against the parchment.

A week, not one more.

"Next."

On and on they came, each more desperate or delusional than the last and often a torrid mix of both. There was simply no end to the parade of fools.

Gambino turned away very few, if any, as long as they knew which end of a spear to stab with and could sit still long enough to catch arrows with their thick skulls, each blot of ink, each scratch of the quill on the ledger, added yet another sorry soul to his motley band of nitwits.

By mid-afternoon, the sun already hung low. As the line of volunteers finally dwindled to an end, he hauled himself up from his seat, cursing as his stiff joints creaked. He let out a hiss at the pain in his back and the sharp flaring in his ass, blood rushing back into his neglected limbs, causing his legs to tingle with the prickling sensation of pins and needles.

He arched his back, each vertebra popping like firecrackers, releasing the tension built up from hours of leaning forward, scrutinizing the sorry lot that had shuffled before him. Flexing his fingers, he felt the stiffness in his knuckles and shook out his hands, trying to get some damned life back into his tired limbs.

Just as he was about to drag himself to camp for some much-needed rest, Gaspard's voice cut in.

"Sir, there's one more." Gambino paused, the hope of a quiet respite slipping away, making him let out a long drawn out sigh.

"Of course, there is," he muttered, the weight of his own cursed success pressing down on him.

"Fine, let's get this over with," he grumbled, sinking back into his seat, bracing for the next desperate wretch to shuffle forward.

image [https://i.imgur.com/LrrUWOa.jpg]

The first thing to strike him were the eyes. Eyes much like his own.

Two glacial blue orbs, cold enough to freeze hell thrice over, sized him up with the same ruthless scrutiny he gave everyone else. Keen and calculating, they held no warmth or pretense. It felt like staring into a bottomless, frozen lake—a warning to tread cautiously or risk being swallowed whole in its icy depths.

The second thing that caught his eyes was the hair. Hacked at and ragged, it stuck out in wild, uneven clumps. Patches of straw-like strands jutted at odd angles, like a field left to rot. Some were barely an inch long, while others hung past the earlobe, each yellow tuft with a will of its own.

Gaunt-faced and hollow-eyed, the boy, if one could call him that, had the look of someone who had weathered more winters than most knew how to count. Yet he couldn't have scarcely seen past a dozen given how not even a whisker marred his grimy features.

But what struck Gambino the most was just how… scrawny the thing was— swathed in frayed rags, nothing but skin and bones, like a scarecrow pecked to tatters by scavenging birds after being left too long in the field. His eyes half feral and half starved, giving the boy a certain wildness, like a wolf on the prowl where the timid deer would dare never to tread.

Gambino glanced at Gaspard, who responded only with a dismissive shrug, then turned back to the boy.

Without warning, his laughter boomed.

"Ha... HA! HA! HA!" A harsh, jarring sound that shattered the stillness like brittle glass.

Gambino doubled over, clutching his sides, each guffaw louder than the last, tears streaming down his face. He laughed and laughed, wiping at his tears; shoulders still shaking, then looked back at the boy, which made him laugh even more.

"Gaspard, tell the… tell the runt, we are no charity parish here." he said in between fits of mirth, another burst of laughter bubbling up again, Gaspard joining in.

Both their laughter carried on for a good while, unbothered, before petering out.

The boy stood still, his face void of so much as a tick, cold grey-blue eyes fixed firmly on Gambino. "Are you daft, boy? I said get lost," Gambino snarled, but the child's eyes never wavered, unblinking and eerily still.

He looked over the boy once more. His gaze roving over the frail, emaciated frame. Skin stretched thinly over sharp bones, eyes hollow and shadowed—a look of a wraith barely tethered to this world.

Gambino leaned back, eyes narrowing as he searched for any shift in the boy. The boy's demeanor remained steady, skeletal hands creaking as they tightened being the only tell of any movement.

"Well, aren't you a creepy little bastard?" Gambino grunted.

"Gaspard, what do you make of this scrawny piece of shit?"

Gaspard spat on the ground and sneered, "Ain't worth pissin' on if he was on fire, boss. But damn, look at 'im standin' there, like he owns the place. Might be a mad little fucker, this one."

Gambino grinned and leaned forward; eyes locked onto the boy's.

"Your steel, boy," he barked, gesturing to the hidden object beneath the boy's filthy rags. "Bring it out."

Cold eyes met his, an eternity passing between them before the boy slowly revealed a dagger– ornate and of quality, its pearly enamelled hilt gleaming even in the dim light—a weapon far too rich for some starving wretch's too thin blood.

Gambino leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he examined the dagger. Swirling patterns of gold embossed the hilt, and a crest of some kind had been scratched off, leaving behind jagged scars.

A petty thief then, he reasoned, but the look in the boy's eyes suggested otherwise.

He glanced at Gaspard, who looked equally puzzled. Gambino mulled it over, then decided to probe further deciding to indulge his curiosity this once.

"What is your name boy?" He asked, his voice; dangerous and low.

The emaciated whelp looked down at his hands, where the dagger was grasped in frail, thin wrists, tendons stretched taught like a cocked crossbow. His knuckles whitened as he clutched the weapon tighter, the silence thickening like viscous tar.

Slowly, the boy looked back up, and in a low, husky tone, he rasped, "Rufus."

Gambino's eyes roved the boy, studying his face closely, not buying the poor fib.

"Rufus," he repeated, dragging the name on his tongue. "Where did you come by such a fine piece, Rufus?"

"It's mine." Rufus replied, steel in his eyes.

"Is that so?" Gambino aired; unconvinced, crossing his arms, his gaze boring into the boy's gaunt face, searching for a crack in his mask.

"Never mind that. Why are you here, boy?" Gambino pressed.

The boy stood still for a while, his gaze dropping to the ground as if searching for answers in the dirt. The moments dragged on before finally, he looked up, eyes hardening.

"…I have no other path," he said, voice like iron, strong but brittle.

Gambino's eyes narrowed, searching the boy's face for any hint of deceit. He searched every flicker of movement, every twitch of muscle, but found nothing, those final few words ringing with truth.

Warm bodies for the meat grinder were aplenty, and not much meat on this scrawny wretch to grind, yet he could make for some decent bonemeal at the very least.

With a grunt, he passed the worn ledger over to the boy

Rufus approached slowly; his movements cautious and timid as a hare.

The ink flowed smoothly onto the parchment, his frail wrists remarkably steady. Neat, flowing letters took shape—smooth, not one line out of place –Well, ain't that a nice surprise.

The elegant script of a scribe, utterly incongruent with the near corpse he was looking at. Sadly, he didn't have much use for a scribe in this line of work.

Gambino pried open the chest, the clinking of coins filing the air. Extracting a single silver piece, he sliced it into quarters with his dagger. He placed one segment on the table, its dull sheen catching the boy's eye.

The boy squinted at the measly piece of silver, his face scrunching up.

"Go on," Gambino prodded.

"I was told it was two silvers each," the boy protested.

"Two silvers a man," Gambino spat back.

"And I see no man in front of me. Just a walking talking pile of bones draped in a bunch of rags."

"...take it or leave it, kid."

image [https://i.imgur.com/zJKl2Oz.jpg]

For more art; x.com