Book 1: Chapter 5 - The Hermit [Part 1]

"Do not repeat the tactics that led to victory, but master the methodology that devised such strategies."

- Attributed to General Damien de Savant

Seraphina was once again surprised by how easily she could mentally adapt to such a strange situation. Just hours ago, she had been thrust into this unfamiliar world, and now here she was, setting out on her very first outdoor adventure. She really was something special.

Just over an hour from Castille de Sarien stood a squat structure of solid grey stone, its haphazard walls bound by thick black mortar. Moss covered much of the building, allowing it to blend almost seamlessly into the surrounding forest, with only a thin wisp of smoke betraying its location.

This was the home of the Hermit Giles de Canconne, a character the protagonist would not encounter until a few chapters into the main storyline of the game. Giles served as a failsafe to teach players healing magic, regardless of their choice. Seraphina had disliked the character, feeling he took away player agency, but had ultimately conceded after the development team argued that altering his role, or removing him entirely, would create far too many branching storylines. Looking back, she really should have put her foot down.

It was time to make a much-belated correction.

An old man, bent and wizened like a mountain tree, emerged from the stone structure. Clad in a monk’s habit, he looked every bit the wise man of the woods. His sharp eyes, undulled by age, swept over Seraphina’s party.

"What can I do for you?" he asked in a reedy voice.

"You are the Hermit Giles de Canconne?" Seraphina inquired, sitting tall in her saddle and looking down at him from her fine horse.

The old man gazed up at her through thin, wispy locks of hair. "That I am, young missy, though I see manners have certainly degraded among the youth since my time," he replied, his voice unexpectedly clear and strong.

"You will teach me the Heal spell," she declared. Her escort exchanged troubled glances. "Please," she added reluctantly after a few moments.

"Milady Seraphina… a Heal spell is the purview of the Great Temples," Miriam commented weakly, fidgeting in her seat.

Frest simply looked baffled, feeling out of his depth in the encounter.

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Giles tsked, drawing in a breath through clenched teeth. "Your friend speaks true. Such knowledge is not meant for the laity," he offered patiently in explanation.

A brief frown crossed Seraphina’s face. Her high Charisma wasn’t working, and she found it troubling. She hated being troubled.

"At least we’re in the right place," Seraphina commented, glancing up at the late afternoon sky. "Is that a refusal, then, old man? You would dare deny Seraphina de Sarien?" She added a sharp edge of steel to her words.

A spark of defiance ignited in the old man’s eyes, a lingering trace of the fire born from the campaigns of his youth, when he’d fought in the name of his Goddess—crawling through the muck of war to bring the light of the Holy to those that had needed it.

"The de Sariens I know are an old, noble, and honorable house. They would never oppose Her church..." he said warily, noticing the dangerous glint in the young lady’s eyes and hoping to preempt any hostility. Slowly, he felt the first chilling breath of horror creep over him.

Seraphina didn’t take her gaze from the center of his forehead. "Frest, be useful and cut him down. Kill him since he’s being uncooperative," she commanded coldly, her tone like the first winter frost.

"Right… right you are, miss—my lady!" Frest answered haltingly, his hand moving instinctively to his arming sword before he realized what she’d asked. "I mean… he’s just an old man in the woods. That would be cold-blooded murder, milady Seraphina."

The young heiress fixed him with a heated glare. "You will cut him down now… or I will see to it that your previous crimes are brought to my father, the Duke," she spat.

"Err… right you are, then," he muttered, reluctantly drawing his weapon.

It was a plain sword, inelegant but deadly, its edge gleaming with the promise of pain. The blade hissed as it escaped its scabbard.

"Now, Corporal!" Seraphina commanded.

The old man looked up at them with saddened eyes. “Is this what you’ve become? How can someone so young be so…”

“Thank you for the compliment,” Seraphina interrupted, raising a hand. “Cutting down an unarmed man in cold blood would be…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Unsporting.”

“You’re insane, young lady. Barking mad,” muttered the old man, slowly backing away.

Seraphina shook her head, wagging a finger at him. “You have until the count of ten before I begin the hunt.”

“The Hells have a place reserved for scum like you!” he shouted, spittle flying.

“Ten…” she began, removing her riding gloves and reaching for a hunting crossbow hooked to her saddle.

Realizing she was deadly serious, Giles turned and bolted into the woods.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked Frest sharply.

“Wha…?” he replied, taken aback.

“I said I’d wait until the count of ten. I never mentioned anything about you. Do you really want to spend the evening running down an old man? Dinner is waiting… and there’ll be a silver piece in it if you return quickly.”

A reminder of the carrot and the stick was always effective.

Without further hesitation, Frest leaped off his horse and clanked into the undergrowth, armor rattling as he chased after Giles.

Why did she always have to do the thinking? It could be so exhausting at times.