In the northwest of Ruhum, where the smoldering mountains met the freezing sea, abandoned villages howled with wind and ash. Once, the Spring wind would have risen to fight against the black clouds. Now, severed to a mere breeze, it could only push the ash into giant, charcoal drifts amidst the untended fields.

A harsh land even before the mounts reawakened, now the plains lay dead and silent except for the occasional scavenger.

Such scavengers approached now, three wagons and a dozen men with shovels to clear the ash ahead of the wheels. Soot-stained and cloaked, they tromped and shoveled foot by foot towards the questionable shelter of Wellsden.

Its worn sign proclaimed: Greatest sapphire mine in all the world!

Gems the size of a man’s fist might have slept in the depths of the mines – if a man could survive the fumes, the ash, and the earthquakes to claim them.

“Damn this cursed soot!” snarled a man on the second wagon, his cloak black by choice. He wiped his readings with a sleeve, straining to read the three words etched into a fire-seared circle of wood by the half-light.

For those skilled in the old tongue, the symbols read: Fire; purity; deliverance.

For the Penitent douser, these were merely witch markings.

He flogged himself ten times every morning as penance for stooping to such profanity, but all Ruhum depended on their quest. Indeed, he came on this quest despite his flagging vision; a persistent fog in his right eye that sometimes covered its field of vision in bright sparks instead of light.

“I cannot read like this,” he muttered. “We must make camp!”

He sent scouts, and they reported that the old church was in good shape.

“A blessed omen at last!”

They required another hour to shovel through the thickest ash drifts on the village streets. Time slipped by, grey to grey, and they marked its passage by the sips of their precious water instead.

Claiming the church courtyard, they dug out a few drifts and settled into the bare interior. The church had been ransacked by the departing villagers and crude graffiti scarred into the pews. The altar lay toppled, its table top proclaiming:

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“See the mockery they leave in their wake!”

“What else would you expect?” asked the wagon driver. “Wellsden was a migrant town.”

“They live among us, they work among us, and yet they refuse to accept our ways and become our brethren,” the Penitent reasoned. “We welcomed them with open arms!”

Very quietly, one of the shovelmen muttered into his mask, “Welcomed them to die in our mines.”

His fellow jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow.

Church nutters paid well, but a man had best dance along with the jig.

“We must sanctify this place,” the Penitent continued, though he mostly rubbed at his bad eye and gave orders.

Thus, the troupe lugged the ruined pews and altar outside. They lit a bonfire on a bed of ash, releasing the altar back to the Fire, and made their seats instead on the hard floor.

While the laborers took a meal, the Penitent sipped water and read his board. Over and over, he cast a knuckle bone across the board, marked its nearest symbol, and repositioned a few feet away. After the meal, he led the men through the town, repeating his readings.

Finally, triumphant, he pronounced, “Deliverance!”

Then he marched straight through the ash, following the knucklebone, and arrived at the black maw of a dead mine.

“I must go alone,” he proclaimed.

No objections.

Hoisting a torch, the Penitent marched into the darkness.

“How long do you give him?” the shovelman whispered to his fellow.

“Just wait.”

A few minutes later, a tremor shook the village; a nearby roof collapsed with a sharp crack across the silent town.

Then another tremor, stronger, and the ash thickened.

Finally, an earthquake welled beneath their feet, and the mountains before them sputtered with fresh flame. Glimmering flows of lava rolled into the foothills to either side of Wellsden, and the air stank with fumes.

Another tremor; a gout of dust from the mine; and the scavengers thought the Penitent dead for sure.

But the man in black emerged, swaying and sweating, with a precious bounty wrapped tight in cloth. One frayed edge revealed the jewel-smooth surface of a large black gemstone.

Or a smooth scale.

“Victory!” the Penitent crowed. Straightening, his hood fell back to reveal his right eye completely filled with brackish fog. Nevertheless, he grinned like a homerun king.

The mountains rumbled.

“We should get out of the foothills,” the shovelman stated. “The mountains look right pissed.”

“There is no fear for the faithful. Our mission is clear. We must find every prize!”

Having stated one misgiving, the shovelman shrugged and offered another. “We linger here and we’re likely to be eaten by whatever biting bastard lives in the old tunnels. Have you ever seen a mine monster?”

“There are no monsters in Ruhum,” replied the Penitent, adjusting the cloth on his prize, “for we are blessed with impenetrable faith.”

In his arms, the scale glimmered with laughter.