Yoven’s spade cleaved the earth with a grating of stubborn gravel. Sihn, the higher Moon, shone her dull purple light from above the clawing canopy, calmly awaiting her brighter siblings. He rolled his aching shoulders and threw the dirt behind him, far is it would go, smiling all the while.

He was screwed, being this far into the Far Lands. Yovens felt the Hillmen’s stares on his back, carefully watching him dig his own grave as per their instructions. He stabbed his shovel back in the earth, and it deflected on a rock, had it send a ringing up his strained arms. But he kept his wide grin present. They could rob a man of much, of most, really, but never his spirit.

Thick beads of sweat streamed down his face and tapped the upturned earth, every muscle pained under the labor after being starved for a full Howling. His hands were rubbed bare on the wooden shaft, having formed blisters, now seeping blood along the grain. Every movement pained him, and yet his broad smile gleamed in the purple light.

The night’s air was chill, here, before the Hall of the Old Gods, whose silver peaks reached for the sky as dark behemoths standing at the abysmal horizon. Yovens had never liked the unfamiliar cold, nipping at his ears. Even so, he smiled.

The spade bit the earth. He rolled his shoulders. The dirt flew, spreading along the duff. And Yovens smiled knowing that his killers would have a shit time refilling the pit he was digging. A spiteful thing, true, and one unbefitting of a Bright once renowned as he. But much has changed since that time.

The rhythmic shoveling to his bright eye’s side halted. Yovens slowed his digging to curiously glance at his neighbor. The Northman stood waist-deep in his grave, head craned up at the foreboding sky, sucking in air through his slim nose.

“Rain.” He whispered in a dry voice before resuming his labor. The long-haired man had already been under the Hillmen’s watch when Yovens had arrived and looked even weaker than he. Hardened skin that had once held lean muscle now seemed so horribly strained and thin. The man trembled with his every effort. The only one in a worse state then him was –

Yovens looked at his bare eye side and saw the only captive who wasn’t digging. He sat- laid, rather- against a tree as crooked as him. He was bound in chains, clad with braces, and restrained by a muzzle, as they might just as well.

Never had Yovens seen a man as sick as him, hollow skin patched with red and riddled with white. No hair, no eyebrows, no eyelashes or beard. Stained deep with dirt and filth. The nameless man sat there, collapsed against the grooved bark, awaiting whatever fate there be for him, round eyed, mad eyed, wet eyed. Yovens did not know how they saw sense in restraining a man like that.

Once it would have pained Yovens to see a man broken; robbed of faith and dignity. But that had been long ago. A lifetime past, when he was still a Bright under the grace of Solis – the one God. He still remembered Her warm acceptance flowing into him the first time.

“Think you can take them?” Came a muffled voice from behind. Yovens did not look back and kept with his labor, flicking the dirt away. Spreading it wide. “Hey, you. If I distract them, could you beat their skull in with that shovel?”

“No.” Yovens grunted at Regen, still smiling. “I was a Bright, true, but it would take someone like Radiance to kill this lot with nothing but a rusted spade.”

“Ah. Radiance.” The voice mused. “The man of legend. The chosen one. The Hero.”

“Dangerous” Yovens said, heaving another load.

“Really?” The voice sounded. “you sound as if you’re scared of him. He seemed so virtuous, though. A true Cain.”

There was a rustling in the forest as the Hillmen moved about, speaking in their hacking tongue.

“You seen him fight?” Yovens asked.

“I’ve seen him spar, once. In the square before Werk’s Bell tower.”

“Not the same” Yovens replied. “Everyone should at least be a little scared of Radiance.”

“Hmmm.” A pause. “So, you can’t take them down?”

“No.”

The man sighed. “T’is a shame.”

Yovens heard footsteps trod the earth from his Bright eye side, where the hole loomed in his vision. He had never gotten used to losing that eye. He moved his head, to regard the Hillman, and the shadow moved with it, slowly creeping to his right. He would rather have lost his arm, or a leg. His eye, no, a man’s eye is what defines him. For the eyes are the mirror to the soul.

Yovens gripped his spade as he saw his captor near. The Hillmen were a strange lot, one of the few tribes yet unknown to the Clearland’s reaches. They were draped with thick furs that interchanged with wrappings of straw and reed, tied to them with cord or twine.

Though the forests they inhabit were grim and dark, the Hillmen found ways to paint their clothing and skin in vibrant colors. Just like the man before Yovens, whose face bore a deep-blue pattern which stood in stark contrast to his pale skin. He eyed the grave and then his white-tinted lips parted in a brimming smile.

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Yovens looked down at his work, seeing it was sufficiently deep now to keep a body out the reaches of Echoes or beasts. He had fulfilled his purpose. It would be a shame, for his life to end here. So far from Solis’ loving embrace. His smile jerked as he realized he still missed that feeling. To have pure Humanity flow through his body and fuel the forge of strength. Sihn’s light waned as iron clouds overtook the sky, darkening the land further.

Rain started tapping down, light in touch now but soon the drops would come falling like arrows. He would die here, Yovens admitted, but he would die smiling as he had never before, and he wouldn’t go alone. He clenched his teeth, flexed his muscles, working himself up for the task. Yovens had learned long ago that the right moment for anything never really shows itself when you want it. Most of the time, you’ve got to simply make the best with what you’ve got. He heaved a hissing breath that had his chest swelling mightily, then pushed it out, slow, into the wet night. Now was the time.

He worked his jaw and spat right in the Hillman’s eyes who staggered back from it. Just in range. Yovens gave a furious bellow and the spade’s blade hacked down, cleaving through the patter of rain. There was a thud as Yovens saw that the shovel was caught in an unforgiving grip.

Yovens growled through bared teeth, pulling back. But his hands were so weak, as was he. He looked his assailant in the eyes, glowing eyes, and with sick realization he saw that the Hillman was burning Humanity. His muscles swelled as he chanted the Kaude in his foreign words.

He pushed Yovens back. Had him slip and slide in the dirt, now slowly becoming mud. Yovens flailed his arms wildly to keep himself from sprawling in the muck, his eye trained on the painted man. The Hillman’s eyes glittered with Humanity’s sundering. Yovens hadn’t known these people to have knowledge of the Kaude, and to see it in action here was cause for fear. It shouldn’t’ve caught him off-guard. How else would these people survive the Howling?

Yovens’ lips moved by themselves in a habit forged by years of tempering his skills, but nothing happened. The air around his frame did not stir. Where his Bright eye was, shadow swarmed. The hole in his vision an unpleasant reminder of times lost. People abandoned. Faith forfeit.

The situation was hopeless. Yovens glanced right, at Regen, but the small man would be of little use. He set his one eye back on the Hillman who was slowly edging closer – framed by mirage. What horrible spell could he call forth? How fast? Yovens entered the Guard of the High Sun, spade held above his head instead of a blade. The weight was strange in his hands. To hold it like that.

The Hillman trod closer still, now standing on the grave’s edge. Toes curled in the soil. Slowly, he retrieved a wicked bone dagger from his waist, holding it in his fist. How strange a thing, that was. He’d use the Kaude for greater speed, no doubt. Yovens’ bare feet wriggled in the mud, setting himself fast. He would be a rock. Unmovable. His shoulders swelled under the strain. Ready to split the Hillman’s head open on the first sign of movement.

He said something, the Hillman did. But the words were lost to Yovens. So, he smiled, wide as he could. If you ever face death, his father had said, then show you are fearless and maybe, death will believe you. Make it hesitate. The Hillman smiled back, teeth aligned and gleaming, and Yovens knew the man held no fear for the end.

He moved, wind churning violently, pulling at fur and straw, and his eyes burned. Smoldering like hot coals and hissing curls of smoke before he slumped down. Yovens stood still, wide eyed, watching the man, still smiling, as he crashed into the freshly dug grave. Yovens could only gawk at the sight of it.

From the trees, two more figures drew forth. Each took their place before an empty grave. Humanity sundered, eyes flashed over and puffed ash out into the air as their bodies became empty vessels and sagged into the earth.

The rain kept pelting down, harder than before, on the bizarre scene. It seeped into Yoven’s ragged clothing, trailing down his shivering body until it tapped the sodden earth. Yovens couldn’t make sense of it. He looked to his Bright eye side, at Regen, but the short man looked just as baffled as Yovens felt. Mouth hanging open. Black hair plastered to his dirt-stained face.

The shrubs rustled, shaking beads of water down, and Yovens watched the other Hillmen retreat into the grey forest without a backward glance. Vanishing into the soaking dark. Suppose that just shows you can never quite tell what ways the wind will blow you. Then again, he had never tough to end up here in the first place.

“The Hillmen…” The Northman started in a papery voice. “They’re a strange lot, no?”

Yovens glanced at the tall man, strange burn marks running across his skin in eldritch patterns; spreading, snaking their way across his chest, shoulders, arms, hands. No doubt those burns had sundered for days after their branding. The lean man could probably feel their sting to this day.

“Yes.” Yovens craned his head up at the sky, watching the clouds shift, keeping his one eye out for anything strange.

“You think a Howlin’s goin’ ta come?” Regen asked, nervously peering up, next to Yovens.

“Don’t know.” The old Bright grumbled, eye twitching at the rain. “You can never tell, when you’re this far away from a Node. Lands tend to grow unpredictable.”

Regen shivered, folding his arms round himself. “Sure do miss the Gods’ blessings.” He whined.

“Blessings…” Yovens whispered, his hand unconsciously drifting to where his Bright eye once sat. Then stopped himself. “You ever wonder why the Gods bless us folk at all?”

“Huh?” Regen turned, distracted by his own misery.

“Nothing.” Yovens started walking to the nameless man, still staring at them from his seat at the old tree; staring vacantly. “You coming with us?”

“You even know where were going?” Regen asked from behind, trudging through the slop.

“I don’t. Not really. But I reckon any place away from three lumps of meat is a better place to be. These are the Far Lands, and there’s a Howling on the way, no doubt.”

“A howlin’?” Regen yelped, joining Yovens before the bound man, still gawking with his wide, bright, bright eyes. Mad bright. “I though you said you didn’t know one was comin’?”

Yovens shrugged, cuffed Nameless by the chains and hoisted him up, grunting all the while. He might be a hollowed pile of bones, but still a big heavy bastard. Even bent over he was half a head taller than Yovens, and a great deal broader. He hadn’t said he’d come, but Yovens reckoned he might as well help him on his way to wherever. The least he could do, in any case. The only thing he could do. The world was cruel enough as is. No reason to add any to it. So, he grinned at him, and gave him a slap on the shoulder that sent the big fucker almost sprawling.

“It would be just my luck.” Yovens said as he started padding to the forest. “That’s sure enough as sure can be.”