Benjamin Wakesfield headed down the steps of the small porch, back into the cool evening air. He didn’t truly have any care for what others thought of his scars, but it gave him an excuse to head out. He was in no mood to listen to a recruitment speech. He looked around for a stableman, and confirmed his donkey and trunks were being looked after and had been properly documented. He pocketed the receipt of ownership, thankfully one of the workers had seen him come in and he was distinctive enough there was no question he was the owner. At least the guard corps had covered the bill for a night, his funds were stretched quite tight as is and now he had to replace more ammunition than he had planned or expected. He removed a pouch from one of his trunks, and headed out, wrapping himself in an old torn coat for the little warmth it offered and shouldering his rifle, hidden in a cloth wrapping. He strode out of the yard, seeing the priest and the young uniformed woman ahead of him, walking far apart they must have missed each other and heading in separate directions.
He headed for the guard corps headquarters, in the north most part of the city. In theory any guard station would do for collecting bounties, but in his experience he would have to wait a few additional hours while they ran it to headquarters themselves. Best to save himself some time if not the walk. He pushed through the crowd, the churning masses of the entry roads giving away to the smaller but still busy streets of the residential districts. He strode through the streets, ignoring the stares and unpleasant looks. He was in the richer part of the city now, surrounded by the more well off citizens. In his shabby coat and stained trousers they looked at him like a dog carrying something unpleasant in his mouth, while the occasional menial worker simply ignored him, head down to avoid attracting the attention of their supposed betters. He swallowed his disgust and walked on, nothing he could achieve by causing a scene.
He approached the guard corps building and ignored the pair either side of the doors, throwing him dirty looks as he approached and entered. In theory the building was open to the public, but someone that looked like him in this part of the city was never going to be fully welcome. He ignored them, as he did all the rest, and headed for the reception desk. There was no one else in the small hall, beyond some guards passing in and out occasionally. A bored looking worker glanced up from some paperwork on the desk before her, beckoning him over even as her eyes stayed on the paperwork. He reached into his pouch for the pictures of the three outlaws he had slain at the outpost as she said “What is the nature of your business today sir?” in a voice that implied she had thousands of more important things than him to deal with. He frowned inwardly. There was not much crime in this part of the city, at least not the type that would be reported to the corps. It was widely known as the most desirable station in the entire corps for its higher pay and emptier hours. Still, no reason to cause issues for himself.
“Collecting a bounty. Seamus, William and Edward Shaughnessy. Up to date bounty bills and proof of death are included.” He slid the bills and picture across the desk, and she looked up at last, the pen still in one hand as she reviewed the bills and photo, comparing them.
“And what about the other two of this gang of five sir?”
“They weren’t with the three. I read a report that they had been slain elsewhere, though no bounty was claimed.” He answered in his usual monotone, but he felt a small drop of dread spreading.
“Then there’s no bounty to claim is there? Bounty was for a gang of five, not for five individuals after all.”
He stared at her for a few moments, him blinking repeatedly and her staring with a slight smug smile. “Excuse me?” he managed eventually.
“No five proof of deaths, no bounty I’m afraid. New corps law, too many gangs turning in a few of their own to fund their next job I’m given to understand.” She still had that infuriating smile.
He took a deep breath before responding. “Surely proof of three of five is worth a partial bounty?” he said through gritted teeth. He knew her type, the slightest bit of what she could call a disturbance or a threat and he’d be lucky to only spend a night in the cells.
“Afraid not, you should really read the print on the bills sir. Look, here’s a fresh one.” She slid across a newly printed bill, crisp compared to his dog-eared and folded copies, and pointed to a line of barely visible writing across the bottom. He glanced at the faded bill of his, and saw that the edges had already worn away leaving none of it visible on his copy. “No bounty will be paid unless all five members are claimed by the same individual(s)” he read out loud, the worker joining in a sing-song voice, then looking at him with that damned smug smile, her head resting on one hand. “Well at least you know for next time, eh sir? Anything else I can help you with?”
Wakesfield slung the rifle up, and levelled it at her head. He enjoyed the panic on her face, and saw her raise her hands to plead the moment before he pulled the trigger, painting the wall behind her with a spray of gore. An officer burst through the door as he worked the action and reloaded, and he caught him in the guts. He fell clutching his stomach, he would linger a while in agony but it was a fatal shot. The two guards he had passed outside burst in the door, halberds levelled at him, and he took ones eye with a shot. He reloaded as the first fell and the second charged, bringing the rifle back up to-
“Sir? I said anything else I can help you with?”
He blinked, snapping out of his brief but enjoyable fantasy. “No. Good day” he replied curtly, spun on his heel and headed out, ignoring what sounded like a small chuckle behind him. He walked aimlessly, heading vaguely in the direction of the yard to collect his animal and things. He kept his face still as he swore and cursed internally. He was used to dealing with the twisting shenanigans of the corps but this was beyond anything previous, to completely deny him even a partial bounty. He cursed himself for falling for it, for the risk he had taken for now no reward. But he had needed to, he reassured himself. He was low on everything, and the fifty dollar bounty of the gang would have gone a long way to clearing away his supply issues. He stood under a lamp, leaning his back against it for a moment and ignoring the guard eying him suspiciously from across the street. He was unsure what he was to do now. He had barely enough left for a night’s stay somewhere cheap, let alone the supplies he needed. He sighed, and started to ponder his options.
He patted the pouch he had gotten from the dwarf. He had weighed it briefly in his hand before putting it in a vest pocket. It felt like a few dollars, hopefully it would buy him at least a day or two. He opened the pouch, his mind mostly elsewhere, and stopped, all his scattered thoughts now focused on the pouch. He closed it, gave it a few moments while he rubbed his eyes under the spectacles and opened it once more. He looked down at the plates, five of them, shining under the lamp. They did not have the dull look of a dollar plate, they had the false gold gleam of a twenty dollar plate. He slowly and carefully took one out, holding it in the light as he exhaled a long breath through his teeth.
One hundred dollars. His mind raced. He suddenly had enough to clear away his supply issues, and then some. He tried to think of the last time he had this much on his person, and failed to find a time. He snapped out of his internal revelry and saw the guard approaching. He frowned, placed the pouch back into his vest pocket and held his coat closed over it, one hand inside the coat to keep a hand over the pouch. He walked swiftly through the streets, scattering some folk ahead of him, ignoring their curses and gasps at his scars. He thought of the days he had spent on old bounties, camped in freezing rain and howling woods as he waited for a bounty, some of which never appeared. He had worked worse than the days battle for far less. Maybe it was worth hearing out the dwarf after all. He headed back in the direction of the yard, breaking into a jog.
Felix stood at the exit of the yards, looking out into the city. He told himself the crowd was nothing, he had fought and bled in front of thousands at a time, to no avail. He had always been separate from the crowd, never mingling with them. Even when travelling through the city he had been secure in a carriage, usually seeing the people only through small slits. The wall of people before him terrified him, a constant flow even at this late hour. He had known every face in the village he had called home for so long, and now he was looking into an ocean of strangers. Even the shapes were odd, the mixed people strange to him after so long. He had of course known many different people in the arena, variety was the spice of combat after all. He had fought alongside and against many that he saw now, centaurs, reptilians, goblins, orcs, even the fey-touched were at one time familiar to him. But the village had been human apart from Miss Dunkos, and the touches of strangeness threw him even further. He was also concerned by how damn tall everyone seemed to be. He had once towered over most, now he had to look up to properly look into the eyes of any in the crowd that wasn’t a dwarf or goblin.
He stood with his back to the wall of the yards, looking for a gap he could fit into. The press was too much, and none stopped as he occasionally tried to get their attention. In truth he was lost. How was he supposed to find a single person in this city with just a name to go off? He cursed himself for not keeping up more with correspondence, or at least the news. He had read a great deal, but always turned away from the news of the world outside the village, it was always so dark and miserable. He eventually headed back into the yard, pushing the sweater up to cover his mouth, or more accurately to smell it better. He had removed it when the fighting had started so it was unmarred, but his sweat had soaked into it over the journey. Nevertheless it still smelt faintly of Theresa, it smelt of home. He walked slowly back into the yard, and caught the attention of one of the workers that looked to be a little less busy than the rest.
“Scuse me fella, where’d be best to head if I was lookin’ for someone?”
The worker continued loading crates into a wagon as he thought, then answered. “Suppose it depends on the type of looking and the type of someone. Guard corps best bet if they took somethin’ off you I’d guess.”
Felix waved a hand dismissively. “Nah, nah. Lookin’ for a businessman, problem bein’ I don’t know the business.” He paused a moment. “Come to think I only got the one name, think it’s the family name but could be the fore I s’pose.”
The worker paused and gave him a curious look. “Bit of a needle in the ol’ haystack then ain’t it. Could try walking the districts, see if you recognise a name. Every business’ll have a crest somewhere on it, let you know what family’s running it. Failing that you could try the merchant’s guild, they’d have records if you feel like spending a few weeks searching.”
Felix’s face wrinkled. He was still tired and sore from the day’s battle, the thought of marching through endless streets seemed a miserable prospect. “Well, might sleep on it, see what’s what in the light of day. Thank ya kindly anyway.” He tipped a salute to the worker, and turned to head out, but was stopped by a questioning look.
“Here, you one of the five came in earlier? Ones fought off the weevils?”
Felix smiled, and gave a small nod. “That I am, how’d you guess?”
“You’re still covered in weevil bits old timer” replied the worker with a grin, pointing at Felix’s stained trousers. “Not bad at all for an older fella. Where’d you learn to fight?”
Felix puffed out his chest, the effect ruined by his protruding pot belly. “Well jus’ so happens that in my youth I was a champion of the arena over in Conquest. You happen to be talkin’ to the Phoenix of the Sands himself.” His proud smile faltered as the worker gave a mean-spirited laugh.
“Pull the other one grandad, everyone knows the Phoenix died right after his last match. I happen to have been there myself, my dad took me. Saw the Phoenix walk off after Noble Jovis skewered him and heard the announcement the day after, with me own ears and all. Besides, the Phoenix was taller than any other man, and his hair was long and glowed. You don’t exactly fit the description.”
“What? I ain’t dead! Jovis never touched me proper, was just my last match is all!” Felix looked down at his belly, and rubbed a hand over his head. There had been some fighters taller, but he had always stood tall, figuratively and literally. He wondered what had happened to cause the ground to be so much closer.
The worker shrugged. “Look grandad, don’t know why you want to add to a tale already grand enough, but the Phoenix is dead. Still got a memorial cup somewhere even.” He turned back to the crates, evidently done with the conversation. Felix stared at his back, fuming for a bit before stomping away muttering to himself.
He returned to his spot outside the yard, looking into the crowd as he muttered angrily. “Must have been that sumbitch owned me. Couldn’t let me have that last victory, had to turn it against me” he thought to himself. A part of him was telling himself it didn’t matter, it was decades ago. But he raged at it, a pride he didn’t know he still had was wounded. He angrily kicked the wall, and heard the clink of coin plates in his pocket. He had nearly forgotten about the pouch from the dwarf. He looked at the pouch, plain except for a small stitched emblem, an H overlaid on another H. He thought about the words of the dwarf, and what little he had heard of the House. He had some stories, but the fame of the House of Heroes had greatly diminished as of late.
He gripped the pouch tightly. It would do. He was not going to let this stand, he could not. His legacy tainted by a false defeat. He would make them remember him, and prove he was still kicking. Plus, the dwarf had said they could help him track down Sullimore. Worse case maybe when his name was shouted from the rooftops again Sullimore would come find him. He headed back into the yard, ignoring the worker giving him an amused look as he passed. The dwarf would most likely still be inside, he was going to see if the offer was still open.
Winifred stood in front of the merchant’s guild main building, awed by the size. The building dominated the sky, looming over her head. The directions had nearly been unnecessary, she guessed there was few places in the city one could lose sight of the thing. The exterior was a polished grey stone, intricately carved with imagery and frescoes of trade and wealth. The front entrances were flanked by enormous stone columns, carved and decorated with gold painted leaves and grapes. It looked more like a temple than the bank she had expected. It had not taken her long to make it to the centre of the city where the building sat like a massive pin, holding the entire city in place on the map. She wished she had had time to wash herself properly, her uniform was still stained from travel and the battle. But she had been advised to get herself registered before anything, she would have trouble simply renting a room without some valid paperwork. Even the men tending to Cullen had been hesitant to allow her access to the hound without any identification when she had stopped in to check on him, until the one that had taken him had vouched for her. She took a deep breath, put on an air of confidence she didn’t feel, and headed inside through one of the sets of doors.
The interior reinforced her image of the building as a temple. Marble floors, stone staircases, a quiet hush, everything spoke of a place of worship. There were seven massive scales at one end of the hall, lit from underneath by blue flames. She looked around the other end of the hall, and saw there were several desks manned by men and women of different races, all wearing identical grey and black suits with white shirts. She saw hanging signs denoting the services, and headed for the section marked “Documents”, it seemed her best option. The floor was busy despite the late hour, many small meetings happening in the space, though there was no queue through the velvet ropes. As she strode through the marked passage a woman at the closest desk waved her over, and she gave Winifred a polite smile as she sat down. Winifred saw she had vines of some red flower growing from her temples and weaving into her hair, and she swallowed her distaste and kept a blank expression as the woman asked “Hello, I’m Maisie, how can I help you tonight miss?”
Winifred tried to smooth out her uniform. She felt very out of place in her stained clothes. She had last washed her clothes at a stop the day before, but she was aware of her own stink. “Hello, I was told to come here for registration, I’m an, arrival, I think is the term?”
The flower girl perked up, and looked at Winifred with new interest. “Oh. Oh my. Umm, could you wait a moment please miss, I just need to check the procedures, haven’t had an arrival in quite some time.
Winifred faked a smile and gave a flat “Of course”, sitting awkwardly as the woman took a large book from the desk and leafed through it. Occasionally the woman looked up and flashed a nervous smile, the minutes passing as Winifred tried not to stare at the vines. She was sure that her city, the nebulous memory with little form remaining, had removed all non-humans, and they were the better for it. A voice rang in her head at the thought, an older man’s voice. “If we was as perfect as we like to believe, wouldn’t be no need for police now would there foolish girl?” She was getting annoyed at the voice, it always seemed to arrive as a memory of a contradiction or argument with whatever she was thinking of. She shook her head slightly as if to dislodge the voice, and waited for the young woman to finish her search in the book.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
After a few minutes, the flower girl looked up, closing the book. “Alright miss, apologies for the wait and thank you for your patience. So we’ll just have to take you into a private office and have a quick test done, nothing too odd, will only take a moment. Winifred flashed another false smile and stood as the woman did, following her through the hall and through a fine looking door into a small office, containing a set of chairs. “I’ll be just a moment miss, just have to fetch the viewer to verify.” Winifred didn’t quite understand that, but assumed it would make itself apparent shortly. There was a pitcher of water and a glass on the table, and she helped herself as she waited, looking out at the sky visible through small windows set high in the walls of the room.
The woman returned before too long, accompanied by a thin middle aged man, again wearing the same suit as the other workers. He stood calmly and silently at the wall, carefully taking off his glasses and putting them away as the girl explained. “He’s just going to take a look at you, confirm you’re an arrival and not a fraudster, standard procedure. Could you just look at Jacob and answer any questions truthfully please?” Winifred nodded, turning to the man.
The man looked directly at her, and made…a noise. Winifred was quite hard to put it into words. It sounded wet but had clacks inside, it made her eyes water to hear it. His eyes bulged, and the pupils grew to obscure the whites. For a moment she thought they would pop clear from his sockets, but he seemed quite calm. He looked at her for a moment, then his eyes returned to normal, and he rubbed them as he took something from his pocket. He spoke as he fiddled with a small glass bottle and dropper. “She’s an arrival alright, clear as day.” He looked up, and a drop of some clear liquid fell into each eye from the dropper before he replaced his glasses.
“Wait, that’s it? How can you be sure?” Winifred wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but it hadn’t been that.
The man sighed. “Right, so on this continent we have what we call Words, with a capital W, they-“ he was cut off by a raised hand from Winifred. “I know what the Words are, and am assuming you used one that enhanced your sight, but how could you tell?”
He looked at her with a curious raised eyebrow, and adjusted his glasses as he answered. “Well, it’s a bit hard to put into words, it’s more of a feeling. Best I can put it is anyone born on the continent is a normal rainbow, I look at them and see the usual colours. For arrivals like yourself, there’s an extra colour, or a missing one, or they’re out of order, that type of thing.”
Winifred nodded, honestly she thought it a good explanation. “Do I have an extra colour?” she wanted to kick herself, she wasn’t sure why she asked.
“It’s not that literal” he said with a small smirk. “Anything else you need Maisie?”
“No, thank you Jacob.” The flower girl, Maisie, turned to Winifred as Jacob left without another word. “So then miss, we can get started on the paperwork!” She seemed far too excited for Winifred’s tastes as she produced a stack of papers from a satchel slung over her shoulder. Before she had set it on the table, she froze as a new voice spoke.
“No need for that Maisie, I took the liberty of filling in Miss Buckshield’s paperwork in advance and placing it in your mailbox. She’s going to be the talk of the town come morning I believe.” The voice dripped like honey, and sounded utterly calm while also in total control of the room. The owner of the voice didn’t quite match his voices gravity. His suit was finely tailored, obviously of the best materials, and the top hat he held by the rim was tastefully decorated with a small gold leaf around the bottom of the crown, but the man himself was short, with limbs that looked too thin for his fat and almost spherical torso. His face transitioned into a series of chins that lead into his chest with no sign of a neck or jawline, and his brown hair was vanished at the top barring a greased down smear of thin hair spread across the baldness in a desperate and failed cover up. His eyes were too small for his head, but they near twinkled blue in the oil lamps of the room. Maisie stood at attention, totally silent as he waved a gloved hand at her. “Kindly get that paperwork along to the appropriate offices Maisie, I would like a quick chat with the miss in private.” His eyes never left Winifred, a small confident smile on his face, a thin curly moustache sitting below a barely there nose.
He gave a theatrical bow, still keeping his eyes on Winifred. “A pleasure, Miss Buckshield. I have the honour of being Sir Thaddeus Fauntelroy the Fifth, current chairman of the esteemed merchant’s guild. Please forgive the dramatics and my discourtesy of filling in the paperwork in advance, but I received word of the day’s events and took it upon myself to grease the wheels for one as deserving as yourself. I can assure you the details are all correct, one does not hold the position I do without having their information correct.”
Winifred blinked, unsure how to deal with the rotund being assaulting her with a charm offensive. “Umm, my thanks sir. I must admit I’m rather lost though, I assumed I’d be given some information on what’s next?”
He gave a small chuckle before answering. “What’s next? Why my dear, it’s time to get you to work of course! No mouth shall go unfed long as they are willing to work!” he exclaimed, pointing a stubby finger at her for emphasis. “I have lined up a position starts tomorrow, our janitorial staff desperately need some new recruits, pays almost two dollars a day!”
Winifred bristled at the suggestion, her confusion swiftly replaced by indignation. She gritted her teeth to keep her voice level. “Well sir, I would prefer something in law enforcement, I cannot remember all but I remember being a constable before my arrival.”
He gave a shake of the head and responded in a voice that dripped with sympathy, though his smile never left. “I’m afraid the guard corps do not open for another recruitment batch for some weeks, but I’m sure we can get you an application when the time comes. Meanwhile we can keep your head above water keeping our floors clean, before you clean our streets.”
She stood up, her cheeks flushed and ears burning. “I will be taking no such position sir. I will find my own way. Where can I receive my documentation, that I may leave this building as soon as possible?”
He kept the smile locked as he produced a cigar from somewhere, idly sniffing it and looking at it thoughtfully. “Well I cannot of course force you into employment you do not desire. I’m sure you can arrange some work or other for yourself. We can have your documents sent along to whatever place you find yourself miss, no matter the repute of said place.”
She bit her tongue to silence herself. The dismissive way he spoke stoked her anger, and she dug her nails into her palms to resist her instinct to insult him, but she recognised someone that could make her life very difficult when confronted with it. She shifted her feet and felt the weight of the pouch she had received from the half-man. She remembered his offer, and headed for the door, brushing past the fat man. “Have it sent to the House of Heroes, I’ve already received an offer from them.”
He nodded at her, the cigar now clenched between uneven crooked teeth. “That can be arranged without issue miss. Please take this as a gift, it may be of use to you.” He handed her a folded parchment, and left ahead of her with a bow.
She looked out of the office as he strolled through the hall, then down at the parchment in her hand. She unfolded it as she left the building, and saw it was a map of the city. It was well made and plain to understand, with the building she now stood outside of marked dead centre, and the House of Heroes’ location simple to find. She didn’t like how much he seemed to know, nor his condescending attitude towards her, but she headed off for lack of better options, carried by a petty anger.
Fuath walked through the streets, his emotions a mix of disappointment, shame and excitement. For a moment he had been taken in by the dwarf’s words, allowing himself to be swayed from his path. He had been thinking of one of the books he had read in his small room, the only text that wasn’t proper study material. He was never sure how it had arrived, presumably it was added in error and never caught. The book sung to him of high adventure, of brave knights slaying dragons and epic tales. He had kept it carefully hidden under a pile of used candle stubs. While there was no rule he was aware of prohibiting the book, he was sure it would be taken away as inappropriate for his studies. It had been a distraction, something best left forgotten, but had returned to it time and time again, imagining himself as the hero, to his shame. Best he continue his true path.
He now stood in front of the main temple of the Mourning One. It had been easy to find, the jet black stone towering over the nearby buildings. Torches and braziers lit the building in the evening sky, highlighting the outline against the sky. He began the climb up the steps into the main cathedral, his feet making gentle clacking noises against the well-worn steps. He stepped aside for a funeral procession, dipping his head respectfully as he passed, and dodged through the scattered groups moving up and down the steps. He entered the main hall, saw the many groups milling about in the huge open space and approached a man that looked to be wearing an appropriately handsome robe, standing before one of the many altars and carefully leafing through a large book.
“Excuse me brother, I seek a priest of the temple for an important matter.” He kept his head bowed, remembering the books of etiquette he had memorized.
“Funerals and rites can be organised at the desks at the front my child. Donations go in the boxes.” He sounded bored, and did not look up from his work.
Fuath bowed further, even though the priest still had not looked his way. “Forgive me brother, I am neither here for a passing nor a donation. I have come to be properly ordained.”
The priest turned at last, and his eyes widened as he took in Fuath’s form and face. “Uhhh, well we handle ordainments here…are you sure you know what ordainment means? As in, you wish to be made a priest in full?”
Fuath raised his head proper, his form towering over the priest who shrank back slightly. “Yes brother, I have competed my studies and am ready to enter into the Mourning One’s service.”
The priest’s mouth flapped open and shut for a few moments before he spoke. “Well, which order do you hail from? Do you have a letter of confirmation from your bishop?”
Fuath shrank down. He had nothing of the sort, and had not spoken to anyone in such a position. “I must confess I do not brother. I was only in touch with Brother Macstrophe, he assisted me with my studies. I was trained to represent the Order of Grim Tidings.”
The priest’s mouth narrowed into an o-shape and his eyebrows furrowed. “I have heard of neither sir. Could you remain here please? I think this might need the intervention of the Grand Mother.” He shuffled off without waiting for a reply, occasional glances thrown back at Fuath. Fuath remained where he was, curiously looking down at the book the priest had been looking over. It was familiar, a copy of his own holy book, though much more ornate. There were illustrations he had never seen, and even the letters were more intricately inscribed than the plain copy he held in a pocket of his robe near his chest. He dared not turn the page, but pored over every detail of the pages open before him. Before long, the priest returned, moving swiftly with small hopping steps, just shy of an open jog. He took a moment to catch his breath before speaking. “Could you come with me sir? The Mother would like to meet with you.” Fuath nodded, and followed the priest as he returned back the way he had come, his long strides easily keeping up with the priest’s hopping steps, the priest throwing constant nervous glances back at Fuath as his feet clicked off the stone floor.
Fuath was ushered into a small, plain office. The only furniture was a single wooden chair, set to face a relief of the Mourning One, carved into the stone itself. Evening light filtered through several round windows, with a few candles dotted around the room providing most of the illumination. A short woman was kneeling with her back them as they entered, and stood in silence, waiting for her to acknowledge them. Eventually, with a loud creaking of her knees and a few muttered words she stood and turned to look at them. Only her face was visible, the traditional mourning veil thrown back over her head while a simple robe with a white band around either arm covered her body. She was a short woman, with deep set wrinkles and a rather flat face. A crookedness in her nose suggested it had been broken at some point and never set right. “This the one then?” her voice was hoarse and raspy, but carried a firm commanding tone. She was not a woman used to having to speak twice.
“He is Mother. From the Order of the Grim Tidings he says, though I confess I have never heard of it.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Before your time Stefan. Not the type of order ever boasts a large congregation.” She turned to look properly at Fuath, her eyes scanning him from head to toe. Despite the concealment of his robe he felt naked. He had committed no major sins he was aware of, but Fuath felt as if she was seeing everyone wrong action he had ever taken, carefully cataloguing them as she looked at him. “Tall thing aren’t you. Didn’t know Madefolk could catch religion. What made you join a monastery then?”
Fuath rung his hands together nervously. “I...do not know, if I’m quite honest. All I remember is being there, studying to be ordained. But, but I am sure it is what I desire” he added swiftly, feeling as if he had lost points in some inscrutable exam.
The old woman looked at him, her gaze penetrating him to the core for some time before speaking again. “Well I’ve heard worse reasons, I can assure you.” Her voice took on a more formal, ordering tone as she commanded “Speak now the tenets of your order.”
Fuath stood up confidently, this was something he could be totally sure of. “We work to safeguard those who should not yet be mourned, bring peace to those who are, and bring an end to those whose lives are not worth mourning.”
She moved her lips as she spoke, reciting the words silently along with him, and nodded as she spoke. “A tad old fashioned, but bang on. Right, just a quick test then, and we’ll get you lined up to be ordained.”
The priest stood forward, his hands raised as he shook his head. “Forgive me Mother but this is most unusual, I’ve never heard of this order, we cannot ordain him just because…” he withered under her glare, shrinking back as he trailed off into silence.
“The things you haven’t heard of could fill every book in our library sonny, leave this to your elders.” She turned, bending slowly to fetch something behind her, muttering complaints as she did. Fuath stood forward to assist her, offering her a hand which she took with a grateful nod. “The Order of Grim Tidings is, or was at least, one of our most militant sects” she announced, as she handed up a flowerpot bearing a wilted, browned flower to Fuath. “Saw it as their mission to bring an end to those who would cut short the lives of others. As you may expect they had a high turnover, going around looking for trouble like that, not to mention the legal trouble they cause. They’ve been marked as extinct a few times over in the records, then a few of them would wander in out of some hidden recluse and make themselves known.” She stood with Fuath’s help, one arm wrapped around his as she held a small flowerpot overgrown with loose weeds. The priest stood silently, his ears turning a bright red.
She placed her flowerpot on the table, and nodded at Fuath to do the same. “Right love, let’s see if you have the Words like a proper initiate. When you’re ready, give this one a proper chance” she commanded, as she pointed at the overgrown pot. Fuath nodded nervously, and stood forward, cupping both hands over the pot, being careful not to disturb the small nest of weeds. His eyes dimmed, and the room filled with the Word of Life for a moment, the old woman nodding approvingly as the priest stared in astonishment. The Word faded and he removed his hands after a moment. The weeds had grown, now hanging slightly over the edge of the pot. In the centre, a new vine grew straight and proud, a fine healthy green.
“Well done lad. Now, have you the other Word? Your order place a bit more importance than most on that one I believe.”
Fuath nodded, a touch more nervous now. “I do, though I confess I have not had reason to use it in quite some time.”
She gave no nod or shake of her head, merely a stare accompanied by “Not a bad habit, it’s not something to be used lightly. Just a touch, we have decent cause to confirm your status here, and this one’s long past it’s time.”
He nodded, and cupped his hands over the wilted flower. The room filled with a drone, a dreadful buzzing of devouring insects and a wet unpleasant feeling pervaded all. The priest shivered, and Fuath felt his jaw tighten against his skull. It took a short moment, and when he removed the hands the flower was a small pile of neat dust in the pot.
The Mother slapped him on the back, knocking him forward with the force. “Well done lad, textbook use. Shouldn’t be an issue with your ordainment, just we’ll have to get the various bishops together to approve you in place of a brother or sister superior.”
Fuath went from radiating pride and happiness to disappointment. “Ah, will that take some time? I had hoped to commence my duties as soon as I could…”
She scratched her chin, her fingers making scraping noises off the rough skin. “Could be some time aye, at best a few weeks while we wrangle them all into one room and get them to stop shouting at each other and approve you. We can get you marked as a proper initiate at least, give you pass to perform rites and the like if you happen on anyone needs them.” She nodded at the priest, who was staring openly at Fuath, and he shuffled forward taking something from a pouch on his robe.
“Here brother, the mark of the temple. It will confirm you as officially recognised if not ordained. I’m sure there won’t be any issue once we have the arrangements. As the Mourning Lady has granted you her Words, none can truly deny your right to be ordained.” There was an apologetic tone to his voice as he handed over a small wooden emblem, carved with the veil icon of the temple.
The Grand Mother waved a hand at them both. “Right on with you, I’m sure you have things to do while you wait.”
The priest turned to leave with a bow, but paused as he saw Fuath standing awkwardly. “Umm, if I may ask…what should I do?”
The Mother gave him another of those piercing looks as she responded. “Well you won’t be getting a wage until you’re ordained, but you’ll have meals and a place to sleep in any temple long as you carry that” she pointed at the emblem Fuath held clasped between both hands. “We have plenty of chores need doing around here if you’re looking to keep busy.”
Fuath shuffled awkwardly. “Ah, thank you, but, I had hoped to follow my tenets, not that serving the temple is beneath me or anything…” he felt awkward and nervous, and ashamed for what was surely seen as ingratitude, but the Mother gave no sign of anything other than curiosity as she stared at him for a few moments before speaking.
“Well, could always get out and attach yourself to some fools headed out to sort trouble. I hear the guard corps allow for initiates to sign on, they always welcome a healer.”
Fuath thought of the pouch still in his pocket, and radiated happiness. “I believe I know just such a group.”
Naran sat on a bench, watching the evening crowds pass by as she ate a bundle of meat on a stick she had bought from a vendor. The pouch from the dwarf had contained far more than she had expected. She chewed the meat, thinking on her situation and goals as she worked the gristle between her teeth. She wanted to know more about the world, but in truth she had no idea how to go about it. It seemed foolish to simply ask around at businesses until she stumbled upon something relevant. She continued chewing, another bite leaving a small mark of grease on her lips. A Speaker must be confident and make decisions, not sit in idleness, she thought to herself. She stood up, and looked up at the road sign beside her. She picked out the one that read “House of Heroes” in faded script, and set out. She had no better leads to follow, and best to do something rather than nothing. In the worst case she could simply leave and try elsewhere.
The meat was really quite good.
