[IC] 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑

[Poet]

𝚂𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙲𝙺

[Poet]

𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎. 𝙰 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛. 𝙸𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚞𝚔𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚢 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚍, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚢. 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 ‘𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎’ 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚝. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝙻𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚐𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎.

𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝙻𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗, 𝚂𝚌𝚑𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚣. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚏𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚋𝚎𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚠, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚢, 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚜, 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚔𝚜, 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊, 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜, 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚢, 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛, 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜.

“𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜,” 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍.
“𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎…” 𝙷𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎.
“𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜. 𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜?”
“𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎. 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚒𝚝. 𝙸𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜.”
“𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎?” 𝙰𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.
“𝚆𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚂𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝. 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎.
“𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚞𝚝𝚢.
“𝚆𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎.” “𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎?” 𝙰𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍.
“𝙻𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐. 𝙻𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜. 𝙽𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎.
“𝙲𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚢, 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.”

𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙴𝚊𝚜𝚝. 𝙿𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚘𝚕𝚢 𝙴𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚂𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚌 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜. 𝙸𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚑. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚢, 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚜.

“𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎.
“𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚙.
“𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝙴𝚊𝚜𝚝. 𝙸𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚘.”
“𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛… 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛.
“𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢, 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝙸𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕, 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎.

𝙳𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜. 𝚄𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚎 ‘𝙱𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕…’ 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 ‘…𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗’ 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛.

𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢. 𝚂𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑, 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚙𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚡𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚜, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎.

𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎—𝚁𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚢 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚛𝚢.

𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎—𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚜. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍, 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚏, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚢.

𝙰𝚍𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎—𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎.

𝙰𝚍𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎—𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖. 𝙲𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚋𝚜, 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗.

𝙰 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔, 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚖𝚞𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚋𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔, 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚣𝚎𝚗, 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑, 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛.

𝚃𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚠𝚒𝚕. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝙾𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗. 𝙸𝚏 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗’𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚞𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎.

[Torack]

In a deep valley on the banks of a dried up river was a squat settlement surrounded by undulating wooden walls that looked to be haphazardly put together in haste; parts of it were missing, large gaps that opened into the surrounding wilderness, and other parts fallen as if from disrepair. A heat wave shrouded the city with black tendrils of smoke rising into the night sky. And upon a hill overlooking the settlement, a heavily armed and armoured rider underneath a heavy fur-tipped cloak was mounted on a black courser watching in silence as a dread wind ran across the settlment. Several minutes passed, then six riders appeared from behind the hill three on either side of him, stopping their horses just an inch behind his, arraying themselves in an arrow formation.

Festren bared his filed teeth and let out a low growl.

"Aye," said Miranda and spat into the dead ground.

A moment of silence passed between them and the armoured rider kicked his horse into motion, riding down towards the settlement at an easy pace.

The smell of death and burned flesh was thick in the air, and making it worse was the oppressive heat coming from within the settlement as the last of the fires burned itself out. The rider stopped at the wide entrance and dismounted, spiked greaves kicking up dust and ash as they hit the floor, his cloak swinging down behind him unsettling it even more. Hondem grabbed his sheath and pulled his sword out, the sound of metal scraping on leather unsettlingly loud as it seemed to echo around him, then strapped on his rhomboid shield. The others, his companions also drew out their weapons: polearms, maces, greatswords, and a bow. From beyond the entrance he could hear moans and wails of agony.

The earth rumbled beneath them as a building collapsed shooting up a cloud of dust and ash into the air followed by more screams that were abruptly cut short.

"Herald's breath," Jayden swore. "What happened to this place?"

"I intend to find out," Hondem said and walked into the desecrated settlement; billows of smoke obscured most of his vision, with gaps between the tendrils showing him bodies splayed out around them, soot covered and some charred beyond recognition. Blood flowed underneath them like a small steam, and the deeper they walked into the settlement the more bodies they saw until they arrived at the centre where a massive grave was dug filled with the bodies of the dead.

"Help me!"

They all turned at the source of the sound where they saw a woman crawling towards them with her hands. "Herald bless you, Seeker," she croaked. "Help me!"

Hondem sheathed his sword and crouched before her, taking one of her hands into his. "What happened here?" He asked her, his eyes holding hers as Festren moved himself to stand behind her.

She shook her head, her grip was hard in desperation on his gauntlented hand. "All dead," she said, her voice cracking. "My children, my family. Please."

"Peace," Hondem said, giving her hand a light squeeze. "I'll be right here for you, I'm not going anywhere." He looked up and nodded at Festren, then returned his gaze back to her and started whispering soothing things to calm her down, then Festren's spear plunged into the base of her skull.

"Did we have to do that?" Jeanne asked him as he stood. "We could have helped her, Hondem."

He was about to respond when he heard a dark, sordid laugh came from somewhere behind him. They all turned to see an old toothless man pushing a wheelbarrow of bodies. "I told them," the man said in a wet slurred speech. "I told them what would happen if they didn't listen to me."

Hondem stepped up to the man. "What happened?"

"Riders. Said these people were agents of the Adversary, enemies to the Herald. Razed them to the ground, cut them down like reeds."

Hondem looked back to this companions for a moment then turned back to the man. "Why? Why did they attack?"

"I told them what would happen," the man said and laughed again, walking away with the wheelbarrow towards the grave. "I told them, I told them. But they wouldn't listen, oh no. Oh no." He continued laughing as he picked up bodies one-by-one and tossed them into the grave.

"I doubt we're getting anything more out of him," Miranda said as she spat. "We should leave this dread place, the smoke will surely draw something unwanted towards us."

Festren grinned.

"Aye," Cristobal said.

A man appeared out of a collapsed building billowing smoke, wearing grey and off-black clothes that seemed to make him blend in a little too well with the environment. Hondem pulled out his sword and heard Jeanne draw back her bow string. "Easy," Hondem warned to the man as the others spread out to surround him.

"Herald's breath was he standing there this entire time?" Jayden whispered harshly.

"Better to reign in hell," said the man.

Hondem stared at him for a moment then stood straight and sheathed his sword. "Than to serve in heaven," Hondem returned. "So you're the one that's going to take us to the monastery, are you?" He asked, and without waiting for an answer said, "we better leave then, something's bound to get curious about all this smoke."

[Dusty]

---

Thick fog gripped the dead forest in unrelenting shrouds of mist. Concealing the stumbling roots and sinking mud from the eyes of men. Entering such a fateful, gloomy woodland would be considered suicide by most, and harrowing by all others. The desolate forest conceded no exceptions to the duo that traversed it abandoned paths and forgotten trails even now. These two clutched drawn swords, their eyes never once remaining still, their ears never once failing to listen to even the slightest of sounds, and their breaths coming ragged and restrained, betraying their desperate fear. The first man was a scout and guide who took the name Nimson. He held bundled under his free arm a collection of unlit torches, held up safe and dry from the mud that clung to their boots, armor, and trousers. Strapped to his back was a large mason jar, plugged by a cork and filled with some liquid that sloshed and slushed with his every step. It resembled a giant furry tumor suspended and wrapped in animal skins as it was. He stood bent under its immense weight, and sank deeper into the mud because of it. Trailing him was the seeker he’d been charged with. A tall man by the name of Corbric. He too carried a full mason jug upon his back, but he bore the burden with diligence, standing straight and tall and using the haft of his bardiche as a walking staff.

Exhaustion weighed heavy upon them and the birds of carrion, the only living things that still resided in the darkened woodlands, circled overhead, as if knowing their weakness and awaiting their eventual collapse, so they might feast upon their flesh. Corbric looked upon these fowl as ominous omens, cursing their presence in his mind. Anyone, or anything could see the deathbirds from a distance and know weakened, dying fools crept on beneath their beady black eyes. He had noticed their presence a day before, the same day he noticed his armor and weaponry rusting in the dampness. Nimson and Corbric had been tracing the realm of decay for the better part of three days, creeping like thieves through the ceaseless miles of extinct wilderness. They had rendezvoused on the outskirts of Umbred Town, of the Scarred Lands and spoke of messages and hope and light. Alas now, starved of rations and water and hopelessly lost Corbric found himself forced to entrust his life to Nimson, and luck. Nimson was a young man, no older than seventeen years and admittedly new to scouting. Even now as they trudged on in silence Corbric began to suspect he wasn’t the only one lost.

“Just another mile onward Sucher, and we shall find the path once more.” The youth insisted, his eyes puffy and red from lack of sleep. Corbric remained unconvinced, having lost trust in Nimson’s predictions after the tenth time they proved untrue. They spoke together in Latin, a language they found interceded their cultural differences, Nimson being Nordic born, and Corbric hailing from Switzerland. There had been difficulty at first in understanding each other, however due to the importance of near total silence the two companions kept their chatter to a minimum, and with this mutual understanding a raw simplicity formed in their conversations. That being, they were few and far between.

Today it seemed that Nimson was exceptionally chatty as he froze in place, turning to face the seeker. Except something wasn’t right. The young man shivered as if cold, and his face paled and his hands shook to the point where a few torches tumbled from the bundle thudding softly into the mud. “Sucher, Sucher.” He moaned, his brown eyes rolling upward as a horse’s might when it becomes spooked. “Sucher,” he repeated again, terror raising his voice an octave above where it should have been. He sobbed, unable to contain himself any longer. “I hath led us astray. The fog and trees block the stars and sun. And now I hear them approaching, we shall die.”

Planting his bardiche in the earth Corbric smothered Nimson’s mouth with gauntleted hand, stilling the boy’s cries. The lad’s fear was contagious, and it spread to Corbric whose heartbeat doubled in pace, sounding as loud as a drum in the still forest. He too could hear the crunching of dead branches, the squelch of mud, and the rustle of decadent clothing, all heralded by scent of death and rot that polluted the air.

“Swiftly, the oil son.” Sheathing their swords Corbric and Nimson pulled the jugs from their backs using their teeth and nails to remove the corks. Selecting the sturdiest tree the two men began emptying the jugs upon the mud and soil around it, forming a thick line that spanned six paces in diameter and encircled the entire tree. Placing their near empty jugs at the base of the tree the two men crouched low, taking unlit torches and flint and swords in hand, at the ready.

For what seemed an eternity they waited, remaining frozen to the best of their ability, shivering in the chill and counting the seconds on bated breaths. Every creek of the trees, whistle of the wind, and moan of the forest was a decayed, every movement a horde, and every shape in the fog a terror.

“Hath they gone?” Nimson breathed, large tears welling in his eyes, and yet he refused to move in order to wipe them away.

“Perhaps tis not our day to die.” Corbric mused, his breath rising in an encouraging plume. He still breathed, his heart still beat, and his feet still throbbed, indeed he still lived. “Shush and be still. Wait a moment more.” Then, like a black shadow a crow descended from the sky, alighting upon the ring of oil. For a moment it stared at them, twisting its head this way and that as if confused to whether their motionlessness was from death or choice. Corbric hissed at it, jerking his fingers ever so slightly to scare it away. Angrily the bird rose into the air cawing and croaking its displeasure. Then from the shadows of the trees, alerted by the bird rose a creature that might once have been human. Standing emaciated, scarred and clothed in shredded rags it stumbled towards them, its jaws rotted away leaving the boney teeth locked in a permanent, sinister grin. A single, soulless eye stared at them from its sunken position on the thing’s face, and it moaned something unintelligible to any known tongue as it stumbled towards Nimson. Arms outstretched it reached with fingers made of bone. Strips of muscle, and flesh hung by threads from its joints which creaked with every nerve shattering step. Nimson sat in abject horror, unable to move to save himself despite his terror. Rising in a rush of power fueled by fear of death and anger Corbric smote the person of decay a terrible blow with his sword, striking deep into the bloodless throat. Wrenching his blade free Corbric cast it to the ground and smashed its skull under his heavy boot, splattering the remains of its rotted brains across the ground.

Then they arose from everywhere. A score of them at the least, they came from all sides possible, moaning in their unspeakable language, enveloping the hapless persons in their trap. “NIMSON, LIGHT THE OIL!” Corbric screeched in German, slashing open the chest of the nearest decayed and kicking it back. Though the panic stricken words meant nothing to Nimson, the barest form of basic understanding broke through the language barrier. Prostrating himself in the mud before the black line of oil Nimson struck the edge of his blade with the flint, scattering sparks across the forest floor. In a flash a tall flame rose like a burning ghost, encircling the two men and several of the decayed. Many more were caught by the fire and flailed in agony while the remainder on the outside stalled their advance, some primal instinct keeping them from striding through the dangerous blaze.

Retrieving his bardiche Corbric used the heavy axe to fell what few remained inside the ring with them, pushing their corpses into the sphere of fire to add to its brilliance. His breaths coming in ragged gasps the forsworn guardsman pulled Nimson to his feet and set both their backs to the tree, watching the waiting decayed warily.

“More approach,” the shaking Nimson warned, pointing towards the gloom where his young eyes could make out the forms of many more wrathful decayed approaching the beacon of fire. “I warned thee this tactic was foolhardy. It calls them, and when the flames die they shall swarm us in countless numbers.”

“Silence fool!” Corbric screamed back, furious that the scout was right, and that death was fast approaching. No man wanted to die, not even again, and again, not like this. Torn apart at the hands of mindless creatures. “We will have died just as well without the fire, as with it. Unless thy useless tongue hath some brilliant plan to save us then still it, and let me think!”

[Terminal]

The journey to the 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗 range from Saarbrücken was eventful. The distance was fair; a conservative twenty days by way of foot. An estimate not accounting for the dim nature of Purgatory and the Stygian sentiments of its inhabitants. The actual journey itself had taken an amount of time, nevermind exactly how long, approaching a Kalpa - not only in what had been felt and endured along the way, but also in the intensity of how nebulous and uncertain the journey had been in the quaint dimensions of time and space. In perpetuity, Amaign had held within his heart the fear the call of their labors would precede them, only to be constantly - endlessly derided and chastised in turn by the unchanging assurance:

"We shall arrive in the fullness of time; as it is willed things be in their proper place we trespass widdershinwise across the currents. Victory is preordained, and so we must be there."

An assurance as bleak in its incredulity as it was bleak in its daunting immensity. They had stopped, countless times, to permit the Questor to hare off on some other allegedly fated errand. Twice were they beset upon by men who held malign will upon their hearts. Once did the shadows themselves shudder and writhe, clawing like blades of earth to claim them. Twice, to inspect upon the wholeness or else the riven tapestry of a settlement. Four times in what must have been as many weeks - months? Years? - they waged battle against gruesome and appalling standard-bearers.

Once, in an encounter that had stolen away Amaign's awe and breath, an enormity of both light and dark - a singular being of ineffable power had lightly trod through the air, forcing them to bask in its presence and either yield or perish, as certain as sorrow.

Yet the Questor had done neither. She had planted the haft of her partisan into the earth, stood in open defiance of that chthonian being, and said the same thing she might have flung at the faces of any of the damned, great and small.

"Our victory is preordained! Our rendezvous is greater still than ye, stand aside lest I be forced to upbraid and find you wanting."

The trembling of the whole of the world as the sky itself fragmented to pieces and bled starlight, Amaign was certain, must have been that principality's laughter.

But it had passed them by, like a glacier screaming.

When Amaign had ventured to ask why she had not insisted on confronting it, she spoke in a manner he rarely saw her demonstrate. A seemingly rational and collected mind, far departed from the all-too-zealous crusader and warrior he often bore witness to.

"Bear in mind, our quest is not to bring war to the adversary. Our quest is to find the Herald of Light. There shall come a day when we array and present ourselves before the end, but this is not that day. It is possible that we might have prevailed had we been forced to confront that grave fiend, but while our ultimate victory is preordained...I admit I am not wholly certain it was due here. To fall at this juncture would have been a travesty, and so we shall continue as planned."

But that moment of lucidity was brief. As long as those individual journeys had taken, as far abroad their chosen path as they strayed, still did the Questor insist that they would arrive on time, as certain as steel. Madness.

They risked sanity and haleness camping out in the open, for the Questor would insist they were not common vagrants or blackguards who would lurk in the dark. They risked being hunted and prosecuted by agents of the adversary, for the Questor brazenly bore an illuminated Emblem of the Seekers upon the face of their plate armor, softly alight with a faint glow by way of some nameless ritual she had evoked. They risked theft and needless confrontation, for the Questor insisted he openly carry their arms and kit rather than endeavor to conceal it. At some point in their journey, Amaign had been stabbed in the thigh by some wretched, ragged being that attempted to make off with his purse and his shortsword, though thankfully the Questor had smote the thief upon the stark road before it could flee through the shadows.

The Questor, they could see now, was mad. Their senses had taken leave, departed to some forgotten land. They would fight and die in pursuit of their goal. They had fought and died in pursuit of their goal. They threw their defiance against the endless, ravenous clutching shadows of Purgatory despite the futility of doing so, all in service of a single forlorn hope. He had known that was the case, of course. He had been warned his choice would bring him nothing but grief and misery. The naysayers and doubters had been right, Amaign was now certain. This was a fruitless, damned, and futile endeavor. Naught but death and anguish awaited him, and he had every cause to know that his demise would be as slow as it would be gruesome.

But he had given his word.

And at times, in the occasional moments of Purgatory's twilight as the Questor marched on, head held high, emblem of the Seekers brightly shining upon her breast, unafraid and full of certitude - Amaign felt something other than despair and the grim tedium that had plagued his former life. For the briefest of moments, he knew that salvation was not only possible, but entirely at his own hands. These moments were fleeting and in his many moments of introspection upon the road he would cynically curse himself for such foolishness, but in the secret, sacred depths of his heart did he find himself changed for the better.

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"There is nothing but death in there." Amaign said with some disgust as they approached the wall of the forest between them and the mountains. A morass of dead wood, muck, swamp and countless horrors writhing in the damp.

"No different than the remainder of purgatory. The forest is simply less deceitful in its appearance." Levia replied. "You may cover the kit, bind it all tightly against the damp but keep the javelins at-hand. While you do that...I shall prepare to light our way through the murk. Hand me one of the whetstones and bottles." She set down upon a nearby bolder, and once Amaign had fetched her a a small pocket-stone from one of his bags and a small tin bottle with a top that was corked and tied with cloth she began to hum, faintly. The ritual she was about to perform was not a hymn, but the familiar practice assisted with her concentration as she wove an occult force upon her partisan's blade.

"Are you certain that is wise? The inhabitants will be drawn to the light..." Amaign protested, albeit not with gravity.

"If the choice is to blunder head-first into them in the dark or to work our way through a maze of their thronging hordes in the light, I choose the light." Levia muttered back in reply. "We need not remain therein for long. We shall rush through to the mountains, and hopefully outpace and outmaneuver the remnant denizens."

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Thankfully, the gleaming, empyrean starlight shining from the blade of Levia's partisan proved to be less a danger to them as Amaign had anticipated. The decayed were present in great number, yes - but not so great as he imagined. They would arise from the mud and sodden earth sluggishly by the dozen, not by the hundreds as he had imagined. Illuminating the forest and casting away the shadows as though day had visited them, the two were able to clearly find their way around the monstrosities where they were encountered - and in the one instance where it would have been too dangerous to go around, the Questor made short work of the dregs, her blade cresting through the air like a trace of lightning as the glowing weapon cut down the ravenous dead, their dulled senses flinching and recoursing from the brilliance of the light in close proximity. The two did not stay to permit for the decayed to rise again where they had been maimed, simply cutting through the gap in their numbers and trailing off at speed, leaving the dreck behind.

They were making good time, with suspiciously few mishaps - until, in the far distance, accompanied by a scream, a ring of fire appeared. It was obscured by the maze of intersecting trees and boughs, but the wavering flecks of its light and wavering shape could be made out as the two moved through the brush.

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“We will have died just as well without the fire, as with it. Unless thy useless tongue hath some brilliant plan to save us then still it, and let me think!”

Corbric

Not but a moment later, as his mind raced to formulate an escape or tactic of some kind, he spotted a bobbing light, dancing in the distance. Like a will-o-wisp, but less ephemeral. The light was more solid somehow, and clear, like gleaming starligh - and it was rapidly approaching. As it wove between the many trees, he caught sight of two figures.

One was a man-at-arms, wearing full plate armor and bearing a long partisan, which was the source of the starlight. The blade was aglow by means of some occult hymn, casting the knight's surroundings in a bright, discerning light. Emblazoned upon the breast of their armor was the emblem of the Seekers, wrought in crimson. Just behind the armored figure was what clearly must have been their squire, a young man of perhaps fifteen or sixteen summers wearing light chainmail and burdened with several packs of gear and a long leather and cloth bolt filled with what appeared to be, of all things, javelins.

The knight appeared to have appraised Corbric and Nimson's situation, for having come within twenty meters he heard a feminine voice shout and call out in Latin to the thronging hordes of Decayed that had started to arise and throng about the ring of fire.

"Hark and behold, nameless curs of the wanton and filthy earth! Behold fabled starlight! Come and have at ye, I shall laxen and ease your suffering forevermore!" Using their offhand, the knight reached into the bolt their squire clutched between their arms and hefted one of the javelins aloft.

"Come hither, and be smote to return to this world untainted once more! Follow the light! Come unto me, stray away from the fires of damnation!"

By now, most of the Decayed had turned away from the flames - unable to clearly discern the two men within the ring with their dulled senses - and paid heed to the brighter, farther-cast light source and the shouting figure calling to them all. They began to shamble towards her, though some remained behind out of listless confusion.

"Ye shall abandon your savage ways and be returned, pure and hale, nevermore to cast ill upon your fellow man! For victory..."

The knight cast the javelin through the air, the weapon arcing through the span of trees with a perfect trajectory.

"...is preordained!" The javelin flew over the heads of the first row of Decayed and bit into the body of one who stood in the second, who stumbled back from the force, knocking over their neighbors and those immediately behind them. Now fully interested in the attacker that had assailed them from their circle of light, the throng of Decayed began to swarm towards the knight and their squire.

Continuing to shout promises of castigation and rebirth, the knight waved their partisan in the air as they started to retreat, pulling the horde of Decayed away from the ring of fire. More Decayed also appeared to be closing in on them from the opposite direction, but the light from their spear let them see most of the threats coming, and the knight seemed to have an escape route planned as they gestured to their squire to follow.

Escape through the dark of the woods was still not certain for Corbric and Nimson, but the odds looked ever-so-faintly better than they had a moment before.

[MegaOscarPwn]

Fernando Tenorio

"Sickly, sinful, spectacles stand, shuffle, shamble and saunter shamelessly in mine scandalized sight..." the Spanish man spoke out, the boy riding on a horse beside him turned his head around to signal that he clearly did not understand the full meaning of those words that the ex-university student just said, who was clearly writing it down on a piece of parchment paper, whilst the forest opened up slightly ahead of them. The Spanish man was wearing a side-cape and a hat that covered most of his face, although a bit of hair could be seen falling behind his ears, dictating that he clearly wasn't a fan of having it cut short like the rest of his colleagues. His attire was either brown or black, with a holster for his rapier in the belt that surrounded the man's pants and with tight gloves that covered his hands, may that be to secure him from the cold of Northern Europe or any hostiles that may attack on the way.

"Sire, why are you doing this...?" the sickly looking young lad asked, Fernando raising his sight to look at the one who had asked him that, pulling down his feather-adorned hat, sighing very gently.

"I was not going to let such a youthful and vigor filled chico such as yourself get lost in these woods, I am sure the maidens in the shrine shall take good care of you." and as soon as he was finished, a voice boomed from behind them, seemingly grunting with each step and clearly tired. "Oh, good Seeker, we're nearing the holy site." the supposed scout mentioned as they continued to travel through mountains and mountains of fallen and darkened trees, the silence sometimes broken by the screams of agony of some Decayed, forcing Fernando to put away his paper and notes for a while and keep one of his gloved hands near the hilt of his rapier (or espada ropera), both that arm and weapon hidden by the side-cape he wore: where did he get it? Was it an old relic that his family maintained through the years he spent in prison? More than likely, although knowing the artist's past, it was clear it could have been obtained from other means.

"Sire Fernando, it hurts..." the boy yet again mentioned, with a hint of proper pain and maybe even grief in his almost squeaky voice, slumping down onto the horseback and hugging the strong animal's neck to keep himself on top of it, grunting. "I know it can be hard, boy: in treacherous times like these, one must be prepared to lose anything and everything, if that'll save you to keep going." Fernando's tone was lightly filled with grief, as well, and it was indeed grief: that boy he had been carrying around since he left the burnt up and razed village was a bastard son he had. It was a generic day on the prison of Salamanca, up until the duellist-wannabe received a letter from one of the females he used to try and find inspiration to write about what he desired most, love.

The letter described how she had been hiding the boy for a while, but raising a child without a father in that era was something so mad and unthinkable that most of the village did outcast the poor woman and the bastard, making sure they would not be seen by outsiders or traders that came in there to trade away - but that was a blessing in disguise. The foul creatures of the night paid little to no attention to the small cottage on the outskirts, instead focusing their repulsive fury and hunger in said center, giving enough time for the bastard and the woman to hide indoors until all of it had passed. Fernando did arrive after some final months in prison, although late, seeing as how the village had already been razed entirely and the boy's mother; Sigfried, had fallen ill due to the amount of work that she had to put into protecting her son.

"He does not know..." he could still hear her last words, as she laid in bed while the poet listened to her inquisitively. "Fernando, I b-beg you...save my son - our son, I know there is a good person in there..." Sigfried's last words were those of hope, thinking that the prideful and lustful man that Fernando was truly could become something better in these dark times. Something that would shine a light upon this broken world: may that be through finding the Herald, or through art itself.

The scout's rough and loud voice woke the Spanish man from his daydreaming, making him look around and hurriedly look if the boy; Carlos, was still in the horse: he indeed was, although clearly tired and mourning in his own little way. "'Tis is it, you shall find refuge and security within these walls - As well as some other activities." the old man slid in as they neared the entrance to the shrine, Fernando taking Carlos in his arms and walking towards one of the maids that attended the newcomers, whilst the scout managed to take a hold of Rocinante (the horse). "I have come, as a Seeker and as a man, to tend to the Vicar's petitions..." and with a very, very light sigh, he announced. "...I, Fernando, have sinned and I shall mend my ways, but for that, I need to ask you something." the poet took a step forwards towards the maiden, looking down at Carlos. "Keep him safe."

Said maiden nodded with both hands on her lap, bowing very lightly towards the newcomer. "We shall take care of this young and pure soul, Seeker of Light, you may come in and prepare to speak to the Vicar." and without any waiting, she took ahold of Carlos in his slumbering state and took him in as Fernando followed closely, taking off his hat in sign of respect as he entered and took a good look around: he had never been a fan of Churches, all of those talkings about sinning and God's plan were just a way to keep the men and women of this good Earth under control, not granting them the true freedom they deserved. As he entered, Fernando noticed some of the maidens turning towards him, seemingly one of the first ones to arrive towards the shrine. "Such young women...using their youth energy and spirit to help others, I must refrain..." the lust-deprived man thought to himself, the grip on the hat getting ever so slightly stronger before he started to take bigger and bigger steps towards the interior of the dimly-lit and underground shrine, presumably trying to find somewhere to rest.

[VeridianSeeker]

Dobromil squatted under the dense canopy of the forest. It was all but dark, as was the usual of purgatory, and the smell of rot and dirt swamped the remaining sense. Little drips of water fell from the broad leaves above, collected from the hazy mist that overtook most of the woodland. It was a wonder anything in this wetland could rot, but the smell of the decayed was undeniable.

“Would a vow not to harm all life apply to the clearly dead, yet moving?” Dobrimil pondered as he placed polished white stones geometrically inside a circle of pine needles so as to form a triangle inside a circle. His thick beaten boots made a sucking sound as air escaped the dense wet foliage below, his body shifting as he sprinkled a pile of salt and some unknown crushed red powder onto the center of the shape.

“Maybe,” He answered his thought with another, wiping dirt from his exposed forearms and then scrubbing them with the remaining salt, “but would such a cheating fracture of a vow be worth it?”

“No,” He answered again, pulling up his tattered breeches and thick woolen pants underneath, drawing circles on his knees with a stick of blue chalk he had taken from his big worn leather bag of ingredients. The bright colour greatly contrasted his white, pale skin.

“Accepting such a breach lays the foundation for more,” He wiped the residue of the blue chalk from his fingers on the tip of his nose, highlighting the slight aqualine. Dipping his fingers into the pile of salt and red powder, he pinched off a little and began dropping tiny grains onto the polished stones, and then on each knee.

“It weakens the will, and opens the gate to the enemy,” He continued to think as he then picked up black stick of chalk that was laying on top of his grimoire inside the bag and rolled up his short sleeves from his biceps and to his shoulders, “There can be no luxury from virtue, no vacation into the shallows of sin.”

He began to draw circles on the apexs of his biceps, flexing to outline the tones in his muscle. Continuing his drawings, he began to connect the tone lines to the apex circles using strange geometric shapes and runes. “There is always a better way, there is always a choice to be made.”

“Some risky, some simple, some never tested.” He lifted the chalk to his high perched cheekbones and formed a straight line from underneath his grey eyes, down his cheek to the black stubble on the sides of his jaw. Taking the chalk and pressing it above the blue dot on the tip of his nose, he let it drag up the bridge of his nose, between his eyebrows, across his forehead and to his hairline, the black bundle pulled back in a thick ponytail, pine needles ceremoniously placed at certain intervals and patterns so as to stick out and form a crooked geometric shape.

“Light protect me on my maiden voyage, and pray I return,” He whispered out loud, his voice low, naturally raspy, and tinged with bitterness. He stared at the center of the ritual casting before him, his face stone frozen in its usual squinting skepticism, his brows resting at an angle that feigned anger, his lower lids squinting up as if disappointed, and his lips a straight line of indifference.

The center of the ritual circle began to glow a faint blood red, pulses of white light shooting from the stones and hitting the pile of powder and salt. The pine needles circling the ritual and in his hair began to smoke, the scent of man disappeared and being replaced with that of the forest and mud. The blue lines and dot began to blink and with a suddenly hum from both the circle and Dobromil, eerie black lines began to transect his entire body, capturing his skin in a web of strange symbols. The stones began to sputter and disintegrate, and a quick red beam of light snapped from the center of the ritual and harmlessly onto the tip of Dobromil’s nose, the light disappearing into the blue dot. The pile of once red powder began to turn a muckish brown, the fine grains turning to sludge and all at once, the circle was scattered by a sudden wind.

Dobromil squatted, perfectly still, the lines on his body fading into his skin, and the pine needles in his hair were gone, having dissolved into thin air. He sucked in a deep breath, his body shimmering as he did so. Holding in his breath, he suddenly disappeared. A few seconds went by and he exhaled, then inhaling his body faded back into view. He held his breath, disappearing once more. Slowly he exhaled, and as he began to inhale, he returned into view once again, his eyes watching his hands closely.

“It worked,” He concluded. Dobromil sucked in a large breath, his body once again going invisible, but this time, he began to run. His footsteps still made indents on the mud and leaves, but he knew the decayed weren’t that keen, especially with his scent replaced with the aroma of a tree.

He exhaled and quickly sucked in a new breath, blinking back for a mere moment as he continued his ocular sprint through the woods. He passed by groups of decayed, only being spotted once, much to the beasts confusion when he disappeared a split second after.

Despite his easy passage through the decayed, he couldn’t help but feel that growing cold, a terrible winter he knew too well. The cost of a Hymn, like that of a Hex was paid the same, and he could feel the terrible chill it cast inside his body. His mind almost felt sluggish and drugged despite his heavy pumping heart. His soul rattled and he closed his eyes, a vortex forming in his head.

He exhaled. He inhaled. His eyes opened to the sight of a ring of fire and four people interacting with the damnable ones of decay. He held in a breath, and he was gone again. He quickly sprinted past the scene knowing his own uselessness in such matters. Four armed people were more than enough for the group he saw them with. He shook a growing guilt from his mind and continued. His will was battling with the chilling injury in his very soul with each advancing step. He knew it would pass, all pain passes.

[Poet]

𝙳𝚞𝚜𝚔 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝙻𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜. 𝙾𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙰 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜. 𝙸𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚗. 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝. 𝙼𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖.

𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗. 𝙾𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚞𝚎𝚕, 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚟𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛? 𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚢, 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝. 𝙵𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛. 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚢𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚕 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙽𝚎𝚏𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗. 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚢 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎. 𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎𝚗, 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎.

“𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛?!” 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚍. “𝙴𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝙴𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎? 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎? 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎!”

“𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛! 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚒𝚝? 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕! 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜. 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚕! 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎! 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚒𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜!” 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛.

“𝙻𝚘𝚛𝚍, 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚜?!” 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜. “𝙾𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚆𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜!” 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚠𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚢.

“𝙵𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.” 𝚂𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚜𝚎𝚜. “𝙸 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚢.” 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎𝚙𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍.

“𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚘. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎.” 𝚂𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑 — “𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙵𝚛𝚎𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍. 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎.”

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜. 𝙰𝚕𝚊𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝙿𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚏𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛. 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐? 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚠.

𝙼𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎'𝚜 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢

[Torack]

They retrieved their horses and started making their way out of the ruined city. He could see however that Jeanne was distraught, her face twisted in something like disappointment and resignation.

“What’s wrong?” He asked her after a moment.

“The woman,” she said. “You really didn’t have to kill her.”

He nodded, but he had a feeling that wasn’t all she was worried about, but decided to let it go, instead considering what he would say to her. That peace was better than suffering, that taking her with them would only prolong her pain and make whatever she had left miserable. And yet, Hondem couldn’t help but think that he perhaps could have handled the situation a little better; the world around them was harsh and it needed hard and hardened men to face it. But what did it mean if he gave up his humanity in the process? Would salvation find him then? Or would the Herald turn him away because he succumbed to his environment, allowing it to shape him into something with scant mercy and remorse for the dead. But he had shown her peace, alas not the one she might have hoped for, the poor woman, but an end to her suffering. She would be reborn, he hoped, and live out life once more without the pain of loss and agony.

“What was I to do?” He asked her. “If we took her she would have died miserably and if we left her, she would have died the same. I offered her mercy, Jeanne, in the only way I could.”

He could see his answer didn’t satisfy her as a stubborn look entered her face. “And what of this city, Seeker? Are you going to leave it behind without giving the people who died justice?”

“How are we going to give justice to the dead?” Cristobal asked. “They are gone, let them rest and let us move on with our lives.”

“So if your loved ones were murdered, you’d just let them rest?”

Cristobal answered in a dark, humourless laugh.

Hondem stopped his horse and turned to Jeanne. “And how would you seek justice, Jeanne?”

“This scout,” she said nodding to the man who had been sent by the monastery. “He was able to find us, he could help us find who did this to these people and bring vengeance to those who were wronged.”

“Didn’t you hear, chica?” Said Cristobal, “these were followers of the Adversary, what justice do we bring to those who would oppose us?”

“You’d be a fool to think these were agents of the Adversary,” Remus said, who had been silent up until that point.

“And how do you know they’re not?”

“Whether they were or weren’t,” Hondem said, “they will find their justice, be it vengeance or punishment, when we find the Herald. Nothing we do otherwise will change the situation of these people and the countless others like them.” He looked to Jeanne. “Don’t you agree?”

She said nothing for a while but then gave a resigned nod.

Hondem sighed and turned to the scout. “Lead on, then,” he said and they set off, out of the settlement and back into the surrounding country and wild lands. They traveled through ravines, around hills, and over long, flat plains of dried, brown-grey grass that stalked all the way up to their knees; and as they crossed the plains, Hondem could see from a distance, massive mind-bending creatures surface from the tall grasses as though they were woken from deep slumber and stalk away, their limbs moving at queer angles until they settled in the grass once more, paying them little heed as they passed through. Festren growling as they approached relatively close to one as though to challenge it.

After several days’ hard travel they made it to the edge of the forest, beyond which he saw mountain ranges and deep stone valleys.

“We’ll have to cross through this forest to make it to the monastery,” the scout said.

“That place doesn’t look foreboding at all,” said Jayden.

“The dreaded People of Decay are within,” said the scout.

“The who?” Cristobal asked.

“People of Decay,” the scout repeated. “I don’t know what they are, except that I think they used to be humans.”

“Used to be humans?” asked Jayden, his eyes taking on a worried look. “Herald’s breath man, what does that even mean?”

“I’m not exactly sure but I think they’re dead, and yet not. Nothing I did could stop them save severing their heads from their bodies.”

“Oh great,” Jayden said, throwing up his hands. “Undead. That’s fucking great.”

Festren bared his teeth in a particularly savage grin, his dark, beady eyes gleaming as though he were eager to enter.

“At least one of us is finding this amusing,” Remus said. “Is there any other way to the monastery?”

“I’m afraid not. If there is, then I do not know it.”

Miranda spat. “Let’s just get it over with then, shall we? No point in bitching about it.”

“I’m inclined to agree with Miranda,” Hondem said. “Before we enter, scout, do you know anything else about them? Something that could give us an advantage?”

“I know nothing else, Seeker,” he said. “I tried to avoid them as best I could, and those I came across I swiftly dealt with.”

“Very well. Lead on, scout,” he said and they rode into the forest. The place had an unnaturally dark atmosphere around it. The moment they entered the smell of dying and decaying foliage hit them in the face along with the distinct smell of wet, putrid mud. They rode behind the scout in silence, and all the fine hair on Hondem’s back were stiff and on end; he had the feeling someone or something was watching them, keeping their eyes on them as they slowly moved past, like a predator patiently watching its prey before pouncing for the kill.

Swallowing, he drew out his sword, its sound muffled by the seemingly heavy atmosphere.

“Herald bless us,” Jayden swore as if in awe. They turned their heads towards where he was looking and Hondem saw black, distorted bodies as though made from vines and trees mixed with human flesh splayed out on the ground slain as though by a small army. Hondem turned his horse to approach the slaughter and when he was close enough he dismounted, his greaves sinking into the mud.

“Are these the creatures you mentioned, scout?” He asked, looking back. “The People of Decay?”

“These are them, yes.”

Jeanne dismounted from her horse as well and knelt to examine them. Some were on the ground twitching, trying to get up while others were completely still; Festren moved between them like a shadow, spearing those that remained in the head until they moved no more.

“What happened here?” Remus asked

“A Seeker, most likely,” the scout said. “Others were invited to the monastery.”

His companions all looked at him and he shook his head, he knew no one with such skill to slay so many as to leave bodies stretching beyond his vision.

“We should follow the trail,” Jeanne suggested.

Hondem walked back to his horse and mounted. “As good idea as any,” he said. “If you would, scout.”

The scout led them once more, their horses’ hooves stepping over the dead. Hondem had seen grisly things before, had become incredibly used to them in fact, as though they were little more than a part of life – and in a way, they were in this Purgatory that they were suffered to live in; adaptation came on quick, especially after his first few deaths, and even more so after his endless nightmares. And yet, something about these People of Decay unsettled him. What sort of people did it take to become almost one with the forest they were in, allowing themselves to lose their humanity and to what ends? To protect it? And what sort of protection could the dead offer that the living couldn’t? This world twisted and bastardized the sanctity of life, of what it meant to be human; the simple fact that they could be reborn in and of itself was an affront to nature. The dead were to remain dead, to pass on from life and seek a new journey outside of the realms of the living, and these People of Decay had been cursed for whatever reason, perhaps for no more than surviving in their little corner from the world far removed from everything else. And that thought worried him.

Where they to face the same fate if they failed? If the Herald died would humanity turn into creatures similar to the Decayed, succumbing to whatever forces had twisted these people and turned them into something monstrous, worse than animals, stripped of everything it meant to be human? And what gods had allowed such a fate to befall them? Where were the almighties that countless would cry out to, that swore of having unending power and dominion, where were they now? What powerlessness befell them that they couldn’t save them from this doom? Or had they cursed humanity and given up on them entirely?

“A fire!” Jeanne said, sitting up on her horse.

The exclamation snapped Hondem out of his thoughts and he looked ahead. There was indeed a fire.

“I say we swerve around it,” Cristobal said. “Some fool must have left their camp fire to burn. It’s sure to bring in more of those creatures.”

“And what if it was set by someone?” Jeanne asked. “To protect them against the People of Decay?”

Cristobal scoffed. “Who would be so stupid to light a signal fire for the world to see? Going there means our death. Hondem Raz, I strongly suggest we go around.”

“If someone is there,” Jeanne said. “We could help them! This trail of dead leads to that fire. Someone is over there.”

“Then we leave them to their fate,” Cristobal said. “This world has no place for the foolish.”

“If there’s a chance someone is there,” Hondem said, “however small, we have to go.”

“We go and we’re just as dead as them, Hondem Raz,” Cristobal argued, “we go around and, as you said days past, let the Herald of Light avenge them.”

“I have to agree with Cristobal,” Remus said. “To go there would be suicide and you have a responsibility, Hondem to find the Herald. Not to save every unfortunate soul.”

“We have to fight!” Jeanne said almost desperately. “There could be a Seeker over there fighting for their lives! If we leave them to die it could make finding the Herald that much harder.”

“Fight!” Festren said his voice sounding like it came from a talking wolf, earning him a cold stare from Remus.

“I agree with Jeanne,” Jayden said. “If we leave a Seeker behind, our chances of finding the Herald will be considerably less. Considering how they handled these People of Decay, I want them with us.”

“Aye,” Miranda said.

Hondem was silent for a long moment, considering the arguments that were presented to him. Cristobal, as much as he hated to admit it, was right. He did have a responsibility to find the Herald, it was why he was a Seeker after all. But he also sought Her for redemption, for forgiveness of his atrocious crimes. He doubted She would give him what he sought if it came to light that he turned his back on another Seeker, perhaps more likely She would turn Her back on him just the same.

“We go and fight,” he said and without waiting for further arguments, charged his horse towards the fire, leaving the others no choice but to charging after him. And as he drew near he let out a war cry and slammed into the mass of the Decayed.

[Dusty]

Smoke and ash clogged the hazed air, intermingling with the stench of burning flesh and pine, enough to cast even the hardiest of men coughing and spluttering. Despite this, and their waning shield of flame the two men raised their swords in salute, recognizing the selflessness of their salvation and the courage required for one to act in such decisive haste. They knew not the Quester, nor her companion and yet she rushed to provide aid, increasing their chances tenfold and decreasing their foes’ count by the same. Her bold words spoken in familiar tongue gave fresh life to their weary limbs and reinvigorated their mettle. Setting their torches alight the cohorts made good their advantage afforded to them by the feminine knight. Leaping clear of the encircling fire, they fell upon the remains of the decayed, setting to with sword and axe to clear a path. Corbric led their desperate advance, his powerful bardiche laying waste to all opposition while his burning torch warded away the swarms advance. Nimson to his credit fought with all the ferocity of his ancestors, his sword cleaving down those who sought to flank the Seeker, and his torch condemning his many victims to a fiery existence.

Bespattered in the gore of their adversaries the two men broke through the enemy lines, finding themselves alive and in awe at being so. Though their shattered opponents did not fear the bite of steel, they found to their detriment that when they lacked high numbers the scout and seeker could batter them aside as the plow would soft earth. Denied their kill they hissed and moaned, unwilling to progress alone towards the torches the living men held aloft. Yet, in defiance of total defeat the decayed rallied, their unshod feet cracking the bones of their fallen as they hemmed in upon the battle worn duo.

Enjoying their brief respite Corbric and Nimson moved at a swift pace, withdrawing deeper into the forest. Corbric kept alert, and he watched as the brilliant glow of the Quester’s weapon shone through the trees, brighter even then the noon day’s sun but dimming all the while. Their flight meant nothing without a destination, and Corbric began to realize this as they drew further from the Questor. The enemy would soon overcome them by sheer numbers, and Corbric knew not the path to take. His decision was made for him when the gathered enemy attacked once more in quantity, forcing them to reengage in melee. “Hear me and take heart,” Corbric called to Nimson over the clatter of arms. Changing course he proceeded in the direction of their rescuer’s light, bidding Nimson follow. “I saw upon her chest, there inscribed the emblem of the seekers. Perhaps she too hath been called to the monastery and by good fortune stumbled upon us in our time of need. Might we wander these thorny wastes for eternity and never find our way? In prevention we must trail her light, and plead by the Herald’s Blessing she saves us twice this fateful day.”

Whether Nimson wished to debate this strategy or not remained unknown, for the lad could barely think for himself let alone formulate a rational response or solution. Receiving no protest from the scout Corbric marched onward in stoic resolve, refusing to be bettered by the frenzied throng that sought his demise. Perforating the chest of a person decayed he brought down his torch upon its head, engulfing it in fire. Wrenching free his weapon the guardsman moved on to his next antagonist, hewing clean its head from its shoulder’s. No crimson blood spouted from these fallen, for it had drained into their lower extremities. Nevertheless specks of putrefied gore clung to Corbric’s blade and armor leaving him soiled by the unmistakable signs of war. Their efforts proved valiant, and their weariness not in vain for upon the twelfth decayed he struck low Corbric stumbled upon the Questor and her squire, still leading the ever growing decomposing mass like a warlord at the head of a vast, undead army.

“Hail fair knight, tis those who owe thee a great favor and debt. For our lives may well have been naught without thy brave deeds.” He called, signaling their presence lest the knight skewer them with a thrown javelin. Expending the last of their energy the two men cut down the few decayed that barred their passage from their angle of approach, joining the Questor beneath her beacon of dazzling illuminance. Their own spluttering torches seemed dull in comparison but they held them high all the same. “Might we join thee fellow Seeker, to combine our forces and improve upon our chances in surviving this bitter twilight? Dare I presume to know thy destination? We hath sought in vain to find the Vicar and her monastery, and I ask doth thy presence here also be by her summons?”

“Better the reign in Hell.” Nimson provided, envisaging the Questor might deem them untruthful. Their next words however were cut short by the thunder of hooves as riders broke from the darkness and charged full tilt, smashing into the enemy like tidal waves upon the shore. “Massulvier herr Sucher,” Nimson cried, grasping Corbric by the shoulder. “Thy fire hath brought man, women, and horse from every corner of this decadent forest. Might we see an Arabian sultan, or gilded elves arrive next?”

[Fetzen]

The elongated black object was dancing precariously in the air, protected by disturbing winds from the high mountain ranges surrounding the area. Admittedly, given the fact that the same mountains were already blocking out the very major portion of sunlight it wasn't exactly difficult for anything to appear dark and mysterious, but the arrangement of seemingly infinitely sharp edges that was Funark still could raise suspicion to go beyond the capabilities of paint and burning-in. It looked as if Oddur's only and favourite weapon could be defined as the abscence of spatial access -- a volume that didn't even allow a ray of light to enter and pass through, that repulsed both substance and energy.

Of course this was complete and utter nonsense -- even though the concept would have been a very promising one for a new kind of weapon. The sleek item had merely been hammered out of a carefully selected piece of raw steel and imbued subsequently, nothing more. If he wouldn't concentrate now it would simply drop off his armored fingertip like anything else and he'd have to restart from scratch again. Trying to balance his sword not on weak flesh that was flatted by the weight and thus provided more stability, but on another piece of rounded steel did not only serve the purpose of clearing his mind, but frankly speaking Oddur had maneuvered himself into quite a loss of his bearings.

"And now tell me where to go!" the man whispered towards his weapon, his voice low enough not to disturb its movements and -- hopefully -- not to attract any unwelcomed guests. Maybe he should have dumped a drop of oil onto his gauntlet before doing this ? Not that the stuff would make any improvement on the cutting action Funark could do, but aside from keeping it polished and free of decay it certainly would have helped to reduce friction even further. Slowly and with a near unnoticeable grinding noise the weapon started turning, aligning itself to one of earth's hidden properties his men had exploited so often at sea, in the old times. Point to the north, hilt to the south, the crossguard to the east and west. He hadn't drifted so hard off course, had he ?

Oddur had crossed the Swiss' border several days ago, one of the few occassions where he had had to stick to more densily frequented roads. Otherwise though he had strictly preferred staying away of those and find his way on his own. One could consider this a foolish approach -- or a wise one. Clearly he himself was convinced of the latter being true. Those caravans and traders, more often than not protected by a skeleton crew of more or less well equipped and trained militia if any at all, would only have helped to attract the evil. The vast majority of wicked things could sense human activity and had an idea of the concept of 'more' and 'less', so a rather helpless, slowly moving bunch of fresh blood was bound to be an attractive target. Also it would not have been the first time for him to be mistaken for a new kind of adversary, his near completely pale skin and red eyes misinterpreted as yet another aberration created by the Purgatory instead of a purely natural mishap. His giant size didn't help improve the situation in those cases either, so staying alone had sounded like a very good alternative to him.

Funark turned. Had the north started moving ? It still turned, now pointing aggressively right at its owner's chest. Oddur turned his head violently, trying to catch the now unbalanced sword out of sight while inspecting what was going on behind him. As the large weapon slid through his fingers and the pommel dug itself into the muddy ground, the abomination landed on Oddur's helmet, immediately trying to punch his sharp beak through the narrow vision slots. The foul, corrupted raven was in a frenzy, its hunger driving it to attack without remorse or respect for its own integrity. Oddur used his other hand to swipe the creature off his face, but that only allowed it to release a screech and come back for the second time. Its body was decored with what looked like some kind of out- and overgrowth that lacked feathers, but not a horrid stench. Oddur now grabbed it, immediately yanking one of its wings out of its joint in the process and threw the entire beast so hard on the ground that one could hear bones cracking.

He couldn't let it pass out of its life this way... Having been raised far from any catholic or otherwise ecclesiastical influence, Oddur still felt the need to avoid unnecessary torment if he could do something about it. As there was still movement in the halfway broken body, Oddur reached for Funark. The inscripted blade missed where he had believed the creature's heart to be, putting even more stress on him to get done with this quickly. With one hand maintaining the pressure on the hilt, he let the other gently touch the blade. His eyesight detached from the ordinary world, his pupils wide open but still telling the observer that Oddur's attention was... somewhere else. Somewhere he could draw power from, or somewhere he could carefully release a tiny fraction of power that had been stored away when the weapon had been fabricated. Then there were clouds forming around the pitch black metal. He had to pull back his other hand now or things would become painful for him, too.

What Oddur held now looked like a miniaturized thunderstorm discharging onto his sword, but with no rain involved. Bolts caused water and blood of the corrupted raven to boil and explode in tiny craters, then there finally was ignition. A fire was one of the last things he had wished for here, but it was the cleanest and safest way to dispose of that... thing. Should he wait here for it ? No... too dangerous now that things on the ground could easily spot him as well. The northman got himself moving again, simply dragging Funark behind him as the carcass disintegrated. How long until he'd reach that monastery ? It looked as if he'd have to go up the mountains, but the thought alone made his hulking body protest in silence.

With the dead body having been disposed of, he could finally try and pick up some speed again. Hours passed by during which he hardly allowed himself any rest. He definitely had already entered the correct valley, but it semmed to be even more foul than before. Those trees were crying for being cut down, but to what avail ? Likely nothing that could be entrusted with one's own health would grow on that soil, raising the question how people had been able to survive for so long here. Maybe things were better further up, but that was still to be found out.

As Oddur was moving along at a rather slow pace, his nose suddenly picked up a wisp of smoke. Something, or someone, had to be nearby. Moving further through the dense forest the abundance of trees momentarily allowed a glimpse of light to pass through between their trunks, revealing the source of it. Torches... Did monsters use torches ? Probably not. He felt drawn to it like a fly, hope rising inside him that there might be other seekers on the same route as he was. Coming closer though he could notice the undead bodies strewn around. What were they called ? He didn't know, but apparently decapitation was the preferred method of getting rid of them. Hopefully those people would notice early enough that he was normal and not yet another adversary, maybe even the hive mind that made its attack now that all its slaves had been disabled...

[Terminal]

“Might we join thee fellow Seeker, to combine our forces and improve upon our chances in surviving this bitter twilight? Dare I presume to know thy destination? We hath sought in vain to find the Vicar and her monastery, and I ask doth thy presence here also be by her summons?”

“Better the reign in Hell.”

Corbic & Nimson

"...Than to serve in heaven." The knight replied in the same feminine voice. Now that they were closer, it was much clearer that the figure was, indeed, a woman, even if still but only for the intonation of her voice from beneath her armet. Although she had raised the starlit blade of her partisan away from the pair, the tip was notably still tilted ever-so-faintly to the side so that to approach her, one would have to stand directly underneath the blade. Her squire, as well, was viewing the both of them with unmasked suspicion. "Indeed, we traverse this fetid maze for that very purpose, good Seeker. Quickly, though. The dead do not rest, we should press on to the mountains where we might converse more safely."

“Thy fire hath brought man, women, and horse from every corner of this decadent forest. Might we see an Arabian sultan, or gilded elves arrive next?”

Nimson

"Speak not of the Fair Folk, fool!" The young man serving as the Questor's squire hissed. "As many of us are here, they might well be summoned! We cannot remain within this morass any longer, we must flee!"

"No." The Questor said simply, crossing her offhand - still bearing a javelin in it - across the Squire's chest so as to halt his efforts to begin trudging through the mud once more. "As I did strike down this path to save our fellow Seeker, we cannot in good conscious abandon our fellow comrades in arms, come to our aid as they have. We must-"

"Those be no Seekers, ye zealous heel!" The young man seethed at her. "You think just because they have come this way that they are also of the light? They could be servitors of the adversary, forewarned of our destination by some wayward agent! Even if not, they can damned well fight their own way out of their mess! We must press on!"

The knight paused for a moment as his words struck upon her. "...Surely there must be a Seeker amongst them..." She said slowly, although it was clear her squire's own suspicion had poisoned her thoughts. "What sayeth you, good Seeker?" She inquired of Corbic and Nimson, the visor of her armet clinking as she turned to face the both of them. As she spoke, she almost nonchalantly raised the javelin in her off hand, twisting it off and to the side to indicate three more of the Decayed encroaching upon the circle of light the four stood within.

[Poet]

𝚂𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙲𝙺

“𝙰𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗, 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛,” 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛’𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚋. 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛. “𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚜 𝙸 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑.

“𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚝. “𝙸 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚎, 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎.” 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗’𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍. “𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜?” 𝙰𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍. “𝙽𝚘, 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎.

“𝙸𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍. 𝙶𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝙰 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝙶𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗. 𝚈𝚎𝚝, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝙴𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚠𝚎𝚙𝚝.”

“𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢.” 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛. “𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛—𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜—𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎?” 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.

“𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚊𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝙸𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢, 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢—𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝. 𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛’𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎. “𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛? 𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚝𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎."

“𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗. 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜.

“𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛.

[VeridianSeeker]

Dobromil broke through the last of the thickets. His body collapsed, the impact bringing it back to the realm of visibility for good. Behind him stood the dark forest of the decayed, in front of him a hidden path that lead up a steep rocky incline. The incline broke up into the sky, forming a craggy mountain, home of the monastery.

Mud caked Dobromil’s boots, soaking all the way up to his knees. He was breathing raggedly and his stomach began to turn, the cold of the magic leaving his body. His knuckles turned white and his fingerless gloves soaked through as he clutched at wet tufts of wild grass, their blades a dark evil green. His body jerked and he heaved, pushing himself onto his knees as his body jerked again. He retched, gagged, and suddenly vomited. Three polished white stones of quartz flowed from his mouth riding a shallow tide of bile, the very same from the ritual. He coughed.

Falling onto his rump he sat for a moment collecting himself, wiping the stones on the wild grasses and forbs. He pulled his leather bag up from its collapsed position and carefully placed the stones in a pouch on the inside of the ingredient bag, right next to some clear cubic stones. Sucking in a relieved breath he procured a beaten yellow stained book from the bag as well as a sharpened pine stick and a small vial of sepia. He thumbed through countless notes and ritual instructions, all written in his handwriting, to the last entry denoting a Hymn of “vague anatomy.” He quickly scribbled the experience he just lived done, proclaiming the ritual a success. Blowing softly on the pages he waited for the sepia to dry before slapping the book shut, wiping the stick’s tip on his tattered breeches and tossing it back into the bag.

Taking one last deep breath he forced himself to his feet and slung his bag over his shoulders, a strap running down each side of his torso and tucking under his arms. He fixed his worn vest, straightened his dirty shirt and pulled his sleeves back down over his biceps. He quickly fixed his breeches and boot length pants as well.

Dobromil fiddled with his leather strap belt around his waist, adjusting the pouches, and small utility knife attached, as he took his first few steps along the path. Only a small trampling of rock grown grass gave the path away, and as the winds picked up, dust began to form in the air. Dobromil tucked his grey patched scarf up over his nose and continued.

The walk was silent, as was his mind. The only thoughts buzzing were the instructions of his guide, long before the poor man met his end. Dobromil couldn’t even blame himself for the loss of the scout, the man having been snagged in the middle of the night by some monster of the purgatory. Dobromil hadn’t seen it happen, but he could speculate from the camp when he woke up. The man likely wandered off to urinate, but found more than a willing tree.

Not feeling right about the situation, and not knowing if the man was alive, Dobromil simply left the camp untouched, the man’s belongings where he had left them. Many years ago Dobromil may have championed a grand adventurous search and rescue mission, but nowadays he knew the foolhardiness of the thought, especially considering how common such a situation was during the nights of purgatory. Besides, Dobromil was a broken spear and he knew it.

Dobromil kicked a stone and shoved his hands into his breech pockets, having sewn them on the side with slightly mismatched coloured cloth. He looked like a beggar, and he knew it. All the money he could obtain was put towards purchasing ingredients that he couldn’t gather on his own. He didn’t find much use for money anymore anyways. He had no home, no property, nothing to upkeep but his health. It was probably for the best, he had turned into a slob. Where he once had careful manners and an extremely clean attitude, he had replaced with greatly disorganized and uncaring facade. Only the interior of his coveted bag lived as proof of his hidden penchant for cleanliness and organization. It lived almost as a metaphor, his desire for order and purity only obtainable on the inside in such a chaotic world. So, yes, he was a mess, but a mess with a reason and desire.

His boots scuffed to a stop and his eyes focused back in reality, drifting away from his internal monologue. He was there. In front of his stood three confused looking maidens, their clothes and skin contrasting Dobromil’s with extreme cleanliness. Behind them the door to the monastery was open, the trio assumingly having seen Dobromil coming while he was lost in his mind.

They stared at each other for a second too long in silence before one of the maidens, a young woman with straight black hair spoke up, ”Seeker?”

”Yes, I have come to see the Vicar,” Dobromil answered simply, pulling his scarf down from his face, ”Can you take me to her?”

”Our Lady have instructed us to first see to your needs, to see that you are well rested and satisfied,” The Maiden answered.

Dobromil squinted, his usual look of anger and disappointment turning into a bubbling cynicism, ”I will be rested and satisfied once I have learned the location of the Herald.”

The maiden’s face betrayed frustration, ”Very well, I will send one of us to her. Come this way in the meantime.”

Dobromil nodded, “Much thank-” His stomach began to bubble and groan as he mounted the steps to follow the trio, one looking back at him with a knowing look. Dobromil could have sworn he heard a smart remark under the breath of the youngest of the trio.

The man sighed in defeat, ”Perhaps you can grant me one more favour.”

The black haired maiden looked back at him, the question on her face rather than words. Dobromil looked down and the maiden could have sworn she heard shame in his voice, ”I need food and water.”

[Nib]

The forest was silent as though it were holding its breath, or its breath had left it long ago. The latter seemed the more likely. The forest and its denizens had become warped and twisted almost beyond all recognition, much like the world at large. Great fissures had been gouged into the earth and would spew geysers of flame, whole cities left to rot and collapse, and forests like the lay decayed and corrupted. The trees were bowed and gnarled like the elderly, though few in this new world ever saw their elder years now. A crow alighted on a branch; it had nearly doubled in size, its beak looked more like a sharpened blade ready to taste blood, its talons more like daggers, and its feathers somehow looked darker as if made of pure shadow. Its eyes, however, rather than staring out with a blood-thirsty craze were instead unusually focused and alert. It was focused on the armored Seeker and his followers as they drudged past atop their horses. They made their way into the forest, talking amongst themselves. When they suddenly took off at a charge into the forest, the crow took off from the branch and flew over head. It continued watching as the line of horse-mounted warrior charged through the muck and slammed into a group of Decayed. With a soft croak, the crow landed upon another gnarled and dropping branch. With a quiver of its eyes, the thirst for blood returned to its gaze and something silvery seemed to fall from it as if cut.

Groaning, Alistair rubbed at his eyes. Shifting his gaze always made it feel as though he’d been reading through the night, again. With a final shake of his head, Alistair stood from his kneeling position on the soft forest floor. He brushed away what he could of the mud and crumbled leaves from his trousers. Judging from the information gathered from the crow’s sight, that large group of Seekers were fighting the Decayed a ways behind him. How convenient. They should keep the things busy and draw more their way. Looking over his shoulder, Alistair could also make out the faint glow of a fire off in the distance. As best he could tell, the fighting group wasn’t quite at the fire. Between both distractions, though, he should have no further problems as he continued his way to the monastery. After the mishap with that foolish scout, he would not object to an easier road. Why would the idiot not just leave Alistair be? Why had he insisted on finding and following him?

He claimed it was his duty to lead Alistair to the monastery to meet the Vicar, but he had been fine on his own. Alistair had stopped off at one of his many dead drops; this one was ironically located in the crevice at the base of a statue depicting one of the angels. There, Wilhelm had left him the invitation to the monastery and the best he could find of a map right up to its doors. He hadn’t needed the aid of a scout, so he took off on his own rather than attempting to meet up with his assigned guide. That, unfortunately, had not stopped him from somehow finding Alistair as he first entered the forest of decay. From there one the boy refused to let the Seeker from his sight and dogged his heels.

“Seeker, please... “

The boy’s last words fell upon Alistair’s ears as he skulked away into the darkness. A hoard of Decayed fell upon the lad and tore him asunder. With a nimble grace, the Seeker made it up one of the gnarled trees. He knew not how long he sat there and listened to the boy die and those things shuffle about. Eventually, silence fell back over the forest like a blanket. As the shuffling footsteps of the Decayed sank back into the darkness, Alistair slipped back to the ground like a whisper.

“That damned boy nearly got us both killed… why would he not listen?”

At a small clearing in the midst of a cluster of trees, Alistair stopped and knelt upon the ground. From the pack slung across his shoulders he pulled a slightly tattered piece of parchment with a hand-drawn map sprawling across its surface. Running his gloved fingers across the parchment, Alistair followed his progress through the forest and saw he had half of his journey left before him. From the same pack, he also pulled a spool of silvery thread and a vial of a mixed powdered substance, and a flask of wine. After taking a swig from the flask, he poured a fraction of the spirit into the vial, replaced the cork and sloshed it back and forth until the powder was floating around in the liquid. Then, with deft hands he pulled a length of string from the spool, cut it and tied a loop on one end. Into the vial went the silvery string and stayed for several minutes. After pulling the loop of string from the liquid, Alistair replaced the vial in his satchel and grew perfectly still with eyes shut. The loop dangled and spun lightly from his fingers as he sat with his breath shallow, as if waiting.

With a monstrous croak and the sound of snapping undergrowth and beating of feathery wings, a devilish-looking crow darted from the forest. It flew like an arrow through the night air right at the kneeling Seeker. As it neared, Alistair’s eyes sprang open, and he fell to the left out of the demon’s trajectory. In his hand he now also clutched a sickly black feather snatched from the blood-thirsty avian. Before it could turn and dive again, he wrapped the loop around the feather and pulled it tight. The thread glowed with a haunting purple light as the crow landed harmlessly next to Alistair, the craze gone from its eyes and replaced with an unnatural focus. Alistair’s own vision blurred before shifting lower to the ground. He saw himself kneeling on the forest floor holding the glowing thread tied to the feather. After a brief adjustment, the crow took off, and Alistair was looking down upon the dead forest.

[Torack]

Hondem wheeled his horse around and saw through the trees and darkness a glowing white light, not too far from where he charged through the Decayed moments before, and considered going back towards it but seeing that they weren't fighting and were in no danger, he doubted he needed delay going to the Vicar any more than he already had. Instead, he waited in silence for until the scout approached them, struggling through the muck and using the trees as support, his face looking haggard and red. Once he was nearby, Hondem moved his horse towards him. "Are there any more of the Decayed left that we haven't killed?" he asked.

The scout shook his head, taking a few moments to catch his breath. "The few remaining are headed towards that white light yonder," he said. "I heard voices coming from there, Seekers speaking to each other I think."

"Then they should be more than capable of handling those dread creatures," he said and returned to his companions. "Jayden, allow the scout to ride with you, he cannot be of much use to us out of breath as he is."

"Aye," his companion said and held out a hand to let the scout up onto his horse, and once mounted rode out ahead.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, save for the scout who corrected their course every once in a while. And with every minute that passed, Hondem Raz couldn't help but feel a dread apprehensiveness grow within him. Who was this Vicar that would point them to the Herald? Was she one of his victims turned to a life of service and solitude after having suffered his cruelty? And if she were, would she deprive him of his redemption in favour of seeking vengeance? He knew these thoughts unreasonable, perhaps even insane to think that the Vicar could be one of his victims, the chances were too low for such a thing, and yet the doubts plagued him. A part of him whispering that he wasn't good enough for this, that he didn't deserve to be there and that by doing it at all was spitting in the faces of the true Seekers. What type of Seeker would have done his crimes, who would go to the Herald with a black and ruined heart?

His fears welled up within him, constricting in his chest as he suddenly felt too tight inside his own armour. His breathing came in shallow gasps as they neared the tree line, his thoughts increasing in their insistence that the Vicar would turn him away. She needed Seekers, but he wasn't a Seeker, he was a fraud! Turn back, his inner voice screamed and taunted at him, turn back for only the holy can seek redemption! And yet, despite slumping forward and nearly drenched in sweat from the internal barrage his depression and doubts cast at him, he continued on. The Vicar would accept him, he told himself, and the Seeker would not turn him away. He would seek penance, he would punish himself with the most brutal punishments and he would take it with the upmost patience as his victims had.

"We are here," the scout said at the base of a rocky climb. "I'm afraid however, your horses will have to remain here while you are inside."

"No matter," Hondem Raz said as he dismounted hearing some grumbling from the others. He took a moment to look up at the monastery, once again feeling that tightness in his chest. He took in several deep breaths and nodded to himself. "Well, shall we?" And he ascended the steps, his armour clinking with his every movement until he finally reached his destination where he saw three women dressed in plain yet clean clothes standing in front of the entrance. Manners would have seen that he remove his helmet in such cases, yet past experiences taught him to do so would only be met with hostility and open prejudice, even within the houses of the holy.

"We welcome you, Seeker," the one in the middle said with a nod of her head. "And your followers. You are all welcome to the monastery. "Our Lady has instructed us to see to your comfort, that you are well rested and satisfied."

Hondem reeled at the word as though struck a massive blow, taking a step back as his heart rate and breathing increased several fold. His head was a rush of blood and yet he felt cold to his bones; he thought he had beaten his desires, that he had moved past his dark nature, and yet looking upon those three women before him, especially the one in the middle, he wanted nothing more than to ravage them. He took another step back and peeled his eyes away from the three as he turned and shoved his companions out of his way; he wanted to be away from there, away from the temptation that this place offered, a potential for him to relapse and forever condemn himself.

"Hondem!" Jeanne said in a harsh whisper, stepping in front of him as she grabbed him by the furs on his shoulders at the top of steps. "What in the blazing hells is the matter with you?"

He tried to respond and yet he found no words, he could barely even breathe. Condemned his thoughts kept saying, condemned and forever more a fraud not remotely worthy of being a Seeker.

"Hondem!"

Fraud! There is nothing worse in the eyes of the Herald than the hypocrite! Turn back before your are smote down for the cretin you are!

He felt his helmet being pulled off and for a moment felt the cool night air on his light brown face before a savage slap sent him crashing down onto a knee. He blinked, seeing nothing but stars for moment, then breathed out as though snapping out of a trance and looked up to see Jeanne standing above him with a worried look on her face, the others standing close by, all watching him save for the three women which seemed to be keeping their distance. He turned his face from theirs, allowing his shoulder-length oiled, kinky black hair to obscure his face from theirs.

"Thank you," he said as he pushed himself up with a grunt.

"You were having a panic attack," Jeanne said, still giving him a worried look.

He nodded as he looked around for his helmet, walked over to it and put it back on. "It happens," he said and walked back to the three women. "I apologize for that. Please, if you would take us to the Vicar we would be most grateful."

[VeridianSeeker]

The three maidens watched Dobromil eat in what could be described as the most uncomfortable silence. The man sat blankly staring forward, the women standing to his side, their thumbs twidling as Dobromil quickly devoured a puffy piece of bread, cheese stuffed in between.

Their interaction had been once of silence. At one time the black haired one began to talk to Dobromil about their purposes at the monastery, but it was quickly cut down once she brought up their duty to bear young. Dobromil was no longer kind, he was no longer soft, and when he was prompted with their mission, he scorched their purpose as a foolish and selfish endeavour, one that brought life into a land of torment for ones own selfish ideals of continuity. Since the isolated insult, the women opted to staring at him with anger, and he was seemingly content.

One could question his motivation for upsetting the women, his reasonings for causing a bitter divide.There may have been a time he would have listened openly, or even with energetic curiousity, a time where he may have questioned them and found joy in joining with them in a new perspective, one to add to his own, but such times where gone. Silence reigned supreme, and Dobromil was seemingly content. An empty pang dwelled in his chest, and he found it easier to contain with a shut mouth.

Hondem Raz walked into the monastery behind the three women, tailing him were his six companions, all of them looking around the simple place. His lot weren't the holiest of people, having been shaped by the purgatory and by the near constant warfare that it came with, one learned on the road to take whatever one could. Looking back, he saw a few of them pocket some trinkets, Fenril in particular giving him a savage grin as he put a large cup into his pack and once they passed the antechamber, the three maidens turned to them. "We can give you food and water or you can go directly to the Vicar, Seeker," the one in the middle said.

Looking around, he could see his men were hungry and worn, food would do them much good he thought. "We will take your food and water," he said and they were led to the mess hall where he saw three other maidens standing near a skinny man in tattered clothes eating down the food in front of him as though he'd never eaten anything in his life. Hondem approached the man and sat on the bench opposite him, his heavy gauntlets causing a hollow thud on the wooden table. "I'll have whatever he's having," Hondem Raz said and nodded to the man. "Well met, Seeker."

Dobromil stared at the man for a hollow second, chewing a particularly cheesy bite of his sandwich. After a dry swallow he nodded, "Well met."

Hondem was expecting more and when he realized he wasn't going to get any, he looked around uncertainly, seeing the others of his group sitting in small clusters of twos a bit away from them, talking amongst themselves. Looking back to the skinny man, he cleared his throat. "Hondem Raz," he said, "I hear finding the Herald is going to be quite the challenge."

"Dobromil Vavrinec Zivon," Dobromil answered as he swallowed another bite, "and I'm sure it will be. If it was easy, this wouldn't be purgatory, and there wouldn't be people like..."

Dobromil took a long sip of his water, letting the wooden cup fall back to his table, his eyes squinting with skepticism, "us." It almost sounded like a question as his grey eyes studied Hondem's armored mask.

Hondem was about to retort when a plate of bread was put before him, and the conundrum of having to choose whether to remove his helmet and eat the food or let it stay on the table and get cold struck him as he stared at the plate. But the fact that the man in front of him didn't seem like easily trusting type along with his somewhat hostile nature towards him made him decide removing his helmet was perhaps a bad idea. "Indeed," he answered, looking up. "Only those willing to fight and sacrifice everything can find the Herald. Those willing to cross any line, perhaps."

Silence hung in the air for a moment as Dobromil slowed his chewing, his hard stare unwavering. He shoved the final bite of his sandwich into his mouth and dusted his fingers of the crumbs. He swallowed, "If you say so."

Dobromil stood up, looking down at Hondem as he turned to leave, "Why do you wear a helmet at the table of a monastery?" His voice was low, raspy, and perhaps not wanting an answer.

Hondem stood with Dobromil, his hand casually resting on the pommel of his blade. "Makes life easier," he said to Dobromi's back. "More curious perhaps is why you walk around with no weapons or armour. Exactly how do you hope to defend the Herald?"

"How indeed," Dobromil kept his back to Hondem, a wince in his left eye, regretting the hook he had given Hondem to pull him back into conversation. He grabbed his bag and swung it over his shoulders, "yet here I am."

Suspicions began to grow in Hondem's mind regarding the man that had turned his back on him, and quickly stepped around the table to stand in front of him, seeing the rest of his companions move to surround them, gripping their weapons as the tension grew. "Yet here you are," Hondem repeated getting closer to the man, loosening his sword from its sheath. "One might find that incredibly suspicious, or just plain stupid."

"If the man survived getting here with no weapons," Cristobal said, "I say we let him go. Perhaps he may have some skill that could be useful."

"Or he could be an agent of the Adversary," Jayden said, pulling his morning star from its loop. "Exactly how did he get all the way here in this Purgatory with naught but the filthy clothes on his back."

"Kill!" Festren said stepping forward, snapping his filed teeth at Dobromil.

Hondem pulled his sword out of his sheath and laid the tip at his neck, the others around him pulling their weapons out as well. "Explain," he said.

The maidens scattered, most running to go get help, the black haired one chattered on the outskirts of the scene, attempting to talk everyone down. Dobromil's brow was knitted as he leaned backwards a bit, keeping the point from touching him. He looked back up at Hondem, his eyes squinting to two angry lines.

"Fine," Dobromil hissed as he dug his right hand into the pouch on his belt. Pulling it out he held three clear coin shaped quartz, one inbetween each finger. He held his palm out for Hondem to see, runic writing embedded in the palm of his glove.

Curious, Hondem pulled his sword back and stepped forward to look at the small stones. As soon as he did Dobromil muttered something under his breath and then there was a loud head splitting clap, the entire room blinking with a disorienting flash of light. As the negatives faded from the blinding light and everything receded back to normal, save the ringing in the ears, Dobromil was at the other side of the room, by the door.

"I'm just plain stupid," he answered as he opened the door and slipped out.

"Get that cretin," Remus cried out, stumbling onto a table and falling to the ground. Hondem blinked the lights away as he stormed towards the door just as Dobromil slipped through, shoving the few remaining maidens out of his way. But once he reached it and had a hand on the knob, he began to have second thoughts of going through and giving chase, and instead leaned against an adjacent wall, shaking the last of the flashing lights from his eyes.

"Leave him," he said to the others that approached the door, grinning behind his helmet and said no more as he returned to the bench and sat.

@Torack and I

[Poet]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚕. 𝙸𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚢 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚛, 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝙷𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜, 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛, 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝.

𝙾𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎.

“𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍𝚜 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜. 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚠𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚆𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛.

“𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙴𝚊𝚜𝚝. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜, 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 ‘𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐’ 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛. 𝙵𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍.

“𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝙱𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝙸 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕, 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 ‘𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛’. 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍. 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚎, 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙸 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚖 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚢𝚎.

“𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝙷𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙸 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚊𝚝𝚑. 𝚂𝚘, 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎: 𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝙻𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝙴𝚟𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚊 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛.

“𝙼𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛…,” 𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍. “𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑. 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑? 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝.” 𝙰 𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝙼𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎’𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚝. “𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚐, 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚢. 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚜, 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝙼𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗.

“𝙶𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜.” 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚍. “𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍. 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍,” 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎.

“𝙴𝚗𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚑,” 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝙼𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜. 𝙾𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚕. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝙼𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍, 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍, 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚛.

𝚂𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙲𝙺

𝚅𝙸𝙲𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚈 𝙳𝙴𝙼𝙰𝙽𝙳𝚂
✳ 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚊 𝚖𝚢𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜.
✳ 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝙷𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚖 𝚁𝚊𝚣.
✳ 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝙻𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝙶𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝙴𝚕𝚐𝚎𝚋𝚊𝚛.
✳ 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝙵𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚃𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎.
✳ 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.
✳ 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 by 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎.

𝙳𝙸𝚂𝙰𝙳𝚅𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙶𝙴𝚂
𝚂𝙸𝚉𝙴 — 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝙰𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚍𝚎.
𝙵𝙸𝚁𝙴 — 𝙳𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎.
𝚄𝙽𝙷𝙾𝙻𝚈 — 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

𝙰𝙳𝚅𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙶𝙴𝚂
𝚂𝙸𝚉𝙴 — 𝙳𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎, 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚖.
𝙽𝙴𝙵𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙾𝚄𝚂 — 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝙷𝚎𝚡𝚎𝚜.

𝙰𝚃𝚃𝙰𝙲𝙺𝚂
𝙲𝙻𝙰𝚆 𝚂𝚆𝙸𝙿𝙴 — 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚎 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚠 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚕𝚎.
𝙶𝚁𝙰𝙱 — 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛.
𝙿𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙲𝙴 — 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑.
𝙶𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳 𝙱𝙻𝙰𝚂𝚃 — 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙶𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴
𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎.

[Terminal]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍, 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚛.

No sooner had Vicar Lucille's excoriated husk tumbled down amongst the humbled altar with a wet thud than a javelin screamed through the air and tore into the Pallid Beast's chest. As large as the hulking, lupine fiend was, it recoiled with a draconian howl at the massive projectile burrowed betwixt its flesh like a workman's nail.

"Empty, callous caitiff - the only graver folly made than to seek violence in this sacred hall against us was whatever fall you suffered to lead you into the dark clasp of the adversary." The Questor pulled another javelin from Amaign's preferred bolt before the boy then scurried away, seeking shelter from the coming battle. The Questor's armor was only lightly dappled with a scant few drops of the Vicar's blood, despite her having advaced to the forefront of the assembled group upon the creature's reveal, but a long ribbon of crimson had splashed itself across her face and the side of her autumn hair, just beneath her stern eyes. "Make peace with thy demons, your reproof is nigh!" Levia's words chopped through the word like a whip as she shouted scorn at the creature. Extending her partisan to point at the Pallid Beast, she began to charge straight at it, seemingly undaunted by its stature.

"Victory is preordained!" She cried triumphantly as she sprinted directly at the creature. Seething at the charging Seeker, the Pallid Beast raised its wicked clawed left hand and slammed it down - only for the Questor to dash to the side with surprising nimbleness, the Seeker's long hair trailing through the air behind her like a billowing cape as she stabbed down at the creature's hand with her partisan, impaling the beast's left hand and driving the weapon deep into the stone floor of the monastery beneath - the injury itself seemed almost bloodless, the creature's parted flesh the only evidence of injury about it. The Pallid Beast, howling with rancor, awkwardly extended its right arm to slash at the knight, but Levia abandoned her partisan, her grip slackening as she backed away and began to heft her second javelin outside of the beast's now hindered reach.

[Dusty]

A terrible shame struck Corbric’s heart and guilt coiled in his stomach causing him no end of distress. Their sworn duty first to the Herald besought they move on towards their destination, and yet honor bade them stay and deliver aid to the mounted warriors. Such impasse was there in these options that the guardsman became rigid in his countenance and he remained unresponsive, giving in reply only the slenderest, most confounded shake of his head. Beside him the scout grew more nervous and impatient by the second until at last he could bare it no more.

“Thy decision is mute bold Suchers.” Nimson proclaimed in agitation. “Turn thy mind from unbearable decisions and make swift our departure. The enemy hath been scattered by the riders who even now withdraw, no doubt to some haven or sanctuary. Our opportunity to do likewise might yet become forfeit should we tarry a moment more.”

“Indeed, so lead on brave knight and let us depart this accursed woodland once and for all.” Corbric agreed, interminably beholden for the scout’s intervention upon his moral dilemma. Taking up his bardiche the guardsman delivered a fatal blow to the closest of the three oncoming decayed, slaying the creature before it could beset one of their number. Setting his boot against the fallen’s exposed spine, Corbric wrenched free his curved blade from its skull, his weary arms gaining no repose from the act.

The knight, meanwhile, simply settled for jabbing at the next of the Decayed in the knee with the tip of their extended javelin, felling the rotten refuse to lay prone in the mud. She then strode forward, her pace quickened by the want to depart from the woods, her starlit partisan held aloft and ahead of her like a torch, fully illuminating the surrounding environs. Deep shadows were cast behind the nearest trees, but by and large Corbric and Nimson could now see clearly through the gloom that had obscured many of the decayed previously. The knight did not seem interested in engaging any of the dregs who arose from the sodden earth around them as they weaved between the trees, only pausing to cut down their number when going around would have been too inconvenient. The darkened, corrupted blood that would otherwise have stained the blade of her spear seemed to melt away like water seeping through a cloth skein as the light of her hymn shone through it. Her squire fell in line behind her, trailing nearer to Corbric and Nimson as they proceeded. Turning his head back to Nimson, he uttered a query in some vaguely familiar foreign language that neither Nimson nor Corbric could place.

The scout appeared perplexed by Amaign’s question, Corbric however recognized the words, so similar were they to his homeland’s tongue. “Doth thou speak Latin?” Corbric requested, for Nimson’s sake above all else. “I, Corbric Elgebar hail from the Switzerland Alps, and Nimson from the far northlands.”

“Well enough.” The squire said. “I thought thy companion’s accent was familiar, must have been mine ears playing tricks. I am Amaign, I hail from Bremen, far to the North...so I am told. Just so ye know, I was born into purgatory anew. I hath not lived before, so permit any ignorance on mine part.”

“Well met Amaign,” the guardsman replied. “And might I request thy lady’s name and station? For such a woman as her is not a common sight nowadays, nor any day before.” Corbric peered ahead towards the intrepid knight that led them, unfaltering in her assuredness and purpose. Indeed for all his days, and especially those most recent Corbric could never claim to have met a more valiant nor mysterious woman. His curiosity was pricked and he looked expectantly towards the squire, awaiting answers.

Amaign’s pace faltered, a conflicted expression of hurried contemplation streaking across his face. “...I prithee to reserve any judgment if you should have heard of her before. She is Levia Gerlinde, anointed Questor and Seeker. I know not whither she hails.”

Corbric seemed uncertain at this revelation, conversely Nimson due to his station under the Vicar recalled hearing of one by the name Levia Gerlinde and expressed as much, though in clear admindence to his lack of true knowledge of her deeds or misdeeds as they stood. Only possessing a common understanding of her prowess, and unladylike manner.

At that notion Amaign nearly dropped the bolt of javelins he carried in his haste to wave a hand at Nimson in exasperation. “Speak not of unladylike conduct, you’ll…” He paused to mutter something unintelligible and roll his eyes. “...That aside, though it be not mine place to speak of her deeds, know that though I hath mine own misgivings of her, the Questor is as selfless and forthright as one could ask for in a Seeker - and know also should you hear otherwise, or of any…” He stopped speaking, frowning for a moment as if mulling over what word to use before resuming. “...of any unlikely claims, she hath never uttered a lie or mistruth in all the years I have known her, and she does not tolerate deceit. She would never stoop to common perfidy for the sake of her own vainglory.”

“To that, brave Amagin...” Corbric granted, tracing out the symbol of light upon his chest in a moment of reflection and respect. “...There resides in my mind no doubt. Tis a truth we will declare in bold voices that all the world might hear and understand. For the mere right to as of yet be drawing breath, we are indebted to her.” As he finished his eulogy their company reached the edge of the forest and emerged onto the mountain's base.

Levia paused briefly to stamp the muck from her grieves and boots before proceeding, waving a hand over the edge of her partisan and, with the faintest of murmurs, causing the tantalizing starlit glow to fade away. In the gray twilight of purgatory’s darkened skies, she led them onwards up, into the mountains along an incline that, although steep, was mostly grass and dirt rather than jagged rock. The writhing forms of the decayed in the forest seemed to groan and heave along the shadowed border of the woods, but they did not emerge to pursue the group further.

Having ascended the ridge, Levia raised a hand in indication that they should all step and rest. Settling again a nearby bolder, she removed the gauntlets about her hands, one after the other, and then began to remove the pins securing her armet in place whilst Amaign introduced Corbric and Nimson to her.

Undoing the last clasp, Levia peeled the front end of her armet away from her face, handing it to Amaign before then removing the back-end of the helmet as well. Her long, autumn-colored hair, tucked beneath the leather under her gorget, she carefully pulled out in messy strands with a look of consternation as she spoke.
“Well met, Corbric, Seeker of the Alps, and Nimson. I am Levia Gerlinde, and prior to the fall of our fair land I did remain in Normandy. I am only a Seeker as of...eightfold lifespans ago, perhaps? I spent many lives attempting to live simply, come the terror of the adversary upon our lands. Since then I journeyed many paths and places. Before I received word of this Vicar and her…” A particular, begrieved expression crossed her face, though whether due to the topic of the strain of pulling her hair out of her armor was uncertain. “...alleged visions of the Herald, I bore thought of heading South, across the great sea, to try and discern what became of the lands of bygone Carthage.”

”Our tales are most similar Lady Gerlinde.” Corbric in turn removed his sallet, gripping the battle stained helm under the crook of his arm. “Tis my hope that this will indeed be the finale of my search, and that the world shall be redeemed of its despair. I can give thee some closure in regards to the fate of all that South and East of the Alps. T’would be fair to state that the situation fares them no better, if not worse.”

Whilst they spoke Nimson turned in a full rotation, casting his sharp eyed gaze up and down the mountain sides that now dominated the landscape about them. “Suchers!” He yelled, his excitement unmistakable. “I know where we now stand, the monastery is within a short march in yon route, should we make haste we shall arrive before the morn.”

“That is good indeed to hear, for though our final destination be preordained, I shall permit I was prepared to endure only a great tedium of roaming through these foreign crevices in search.” Levia proclaimed, visibly sighing with relief. “If thee are not awaiting any others, perhaps we shall embark once more? If thou have foreknowledge of this realm, it would please me to follow your guidance.”

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By Nimson’s established course the company moved out and made good time through the mountain trails facing no other hardship throughout. Their arrival, which Nimson prewarned in advanced, was observed by a number of young maidens awaiting them just outside the monastery's concealed entrance, watching with the silent nervous eyes of youthful curiosity.

Levia’s body stiffened as their group approached, her eyes narrowing as she looked the maidens up and down with an expression of barely-concealed contempt.

“...Such transparent and misbegotten intent do these sort bear. To this day, one of my greatest regrets is living such as they, in shallow and wanton womanhood. They seek to forestall our purpose with their own, baser pursuits.” Her voice was uttered in all-but a snarl. Immediately behind her, Amaign wordlessly signalled Corbric and Nimson with an expression of warning, waving a hand errantly before turning back to face the approaching maidens.

“Mayhap frivolous innocence is a blessing to those of their age and stature.” Corbric cajoled, his hardened heart softening at the sight of the young beauties.

“Hark, see not their apparent youth! Remember where you are, good Seeker!” Levia snapped. “They are all likely of many lifetimes and should know better! The flesh is frail and temporary.” Amaign was staring daggers at Corbric behind Levia’s back, silently waving his hand once more, gesturing for the Seeker to quiet.

Oblivious to Amaign’s efforts the guardsman smiled at those waiting to attend them, respectfully disagreeing with the Quester’s cautions. “And yet perhaps they are like thy Squire, and know nothing of this cruel and bleak world we live in. Content to endure and foil the adversary in their own way. Even if not, how tempting is it to remain within the confines and safety of these walls rather than face the horrors unknown.”

“Do not permit them to waylay thee from thine post, Seeker.” Levia said with a measure of exasperation.

Levia’s disagreements struck a morbid chord in Corbric’s soul and he turned his head away from her in shame. Excuses rushed forth only to perish upon his tongue, as he could not bring himself to counter her, nor justify his moment of weakness. Abashed the guardsman drew his gaze with much difficulty from the young maidens, wishing for all the world it wasn’t so. “Thou speak truth of course.” He admitted at great length. “Our sworn duty is to the Herald, and pleasuring myself to no true end would be folly. I must never abandon my post, nor willingly jeopardize it through foolish acts. Never again…”

The Questor had not seemed to catch the gravity underlying his voice, nor the significance of his last words. “Ye, and thee shall be an exemplar of our ken, Sir Corbric.” She said, her voice coming back upon civility. “Permit me to handle these sordid waifs, so that we might not be forestalled.” She strode forward ahead of the group in order to intercept the maidens, just before the entrance to the monastery.

The three men caught only the faint sound of the maidens first few words to Levia before the Questor launched into some form of tirade, forcing the maidens to recoil in shock from whatever she said. She pointed an accusatory finger at one of the girls, saying something particularly acrimonious that sent the poor lass fleeing back into the monastery in tears. By the time the three came within coherent earshot once more, the brunt of the Questor’s storm had passed.

“...can well enough see to our own ‘needs,’ and should we have cause to call for you it shall be made so - until then, go thither! Plague us not unduly!” The maidens, stammering their addled assent, parted and made way for the group as they finally made their way within.

“...What I was trying to say earlier, Sir Corbric,” Amaign said through gritted teeth. “Was not to get her started about unladylike behavior. There goes our pleasant interlude.”

“Aye,” Nimson agreed, having been in great suspense to return and find company amongst the ladies of his home. “And they shall be terrified beyond words for a fortnite no doubt.”

“Perhaps it was unnecessary to frighten them so.” Corbric confessed, having not yet fully recuperated his thoughts. “But temptations of the flesh are little different than those of gold and silver, and I do not wish to be tempted to tarry long.”

“Says thee.” Nimson muttered irritably. “I shall remain here...”

“...If the intrusion be not unwelcome, I might rejoin thee.” Amaign indicated with some hesitation. “Permit me but a moment to seek leave from the Questor further within, that I might deposit mine burdens somewhere secure.”

888888888888

Corbric’s armor and clothing, having been freshly cleaned and oiled the previous evening by no lacking effort now dripped crimson, soaked through with the Vicar’s blood. Throwing off a gauntlet the guardsman wiped clean his eyes so that he might see, blinking away the stinging annoyance that clung therein. Freed of his blinding prison Crobric retrieved his bardiche, leveling the polearm so as to impale the Pallid Beast that stood over them. He hesitated for the briefest of moments and by good fortune he did, such an act would have been the death of him. At that moment the Beast’s counter towards Levia failed, and the unintended backswing tore the bardiche from Corbric’s hands and threw him from his feet, the serrated claws missing his chest by a hair’s breadth. Clattering across the stone floor Corbric rolled to a halt, regaining his feet and drawing his sword in a single fluid motion.

“Brothers and sisters in arms, we are many and this abomination is but one. Surround her from all sides and foray at indiscriminate intervals and we shall smite her down forthwith!” This stated Corbric began edging around the Pallid’s Beast’s exposed flank, darting forward to strike with his blade, only to retreat should she turn to face him.