In the beginning…
There was, Everything.
The whole of the universe, not yet formed but there none the less. It existed in condensed forms of essence. Concepts of a thing not quite real… yet. For all of these concepts knew no shape. Every concept and facet of reality were merely threads tangled together in the vastness of an empty universe. Until, there was Order. Suddenly every thread had a place and a purpose and Order bound them into the great tapestry of the universe and from this Tapestry, life sprang forth in all of its many facets. At the end of the tapestry, Order cut the heads of each thread, binding them as they thrashed. for the weaver had a singular purpose. To rule over all the colors of the tapestry. To guide its many threads into its own image. For a time there was quiet. For the people who sprang from the tapestry, there was only one God, Odrain the Weaver, the God of Order. For how could it not be so? There were no gods who survived to be mentioned. Until a single thread frayed and haggard, split from the whole of the cloth, and landed softly, on the shoulder of a priest.
Chapter 1.
A Broken Wheel
“It’s your own!” THWACK! “Fool fault!” THWACK!
“That it’s broken!” THWACK! “So hold it!” THWACK! “Higher!”
The warm afternoon air split with the pointed grumbling and punctuating blows of a wooden mallet. The rest of the country side was still, as if not daring the wrath of the diminutive woman hammering the spare wheel onto a cart whose better days were long forgotten since before she was even born. Holding it up was a great bear of a man who despite holding half the weight of the cart up to waist level for his companion, seemed as unperturbed as the field of wild grass beside the road. As the grass flexed and waved beneath the wind, so too did Theodren weather the tirade of the decidedly pregnant woman hammering at the replacement wheel.
After several more hammer blows and much grumbling, the repair and her catharsis were complete. Stepping back to admire her work she blew a fire red lock of unruly hair from her face. “Right! Think that’s done it your holiness” though the last part was dripping with sarcasm there was no malice. She rather liked the quiet brute who lowered the cart with a thud. “Sorry Elaina…” he grimaced.
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“Come on Theo I need to get home to start supper before Evan makes another attempt.” They both shuddered, the memory of Evan’s blackened sludge he called “stew” still wafted, unwelcome through their memories.
“I’ll get your steed” he agreed with an amused eye brow. Elaina snorted, “calling Queenie a steed is like calling you bishop” He frowned in mock indignation, “hey! I am a bishop” she arched a brow “there’s pig shit on your frock your grace.”
Settling the mule to the front of her wagon he sighed defeated. “Though the Weaver works in mysterious ways, I do not. So… pig shit.”
It was true that Theodren indeed was a bishop, and entitled to the airs and graces of a minor lord. He had no taste for such things.
He found the best way to serve his community was not through empty sermons or passing benedictions, but through actively lending his rather large hands to tasks in need of accomplishing. Like for example, mucking out the stalls of Pieter the pig farmer who had fallen ill.
Elaina sighed. She stretched up on her toes and gave the humble priest a chaste kiss on the cheek. “We know.” She looked at him. With a hand on her belly she climbed into the cart where he passed her the reins.
“We’re going to be alright Theo.” She insisted, seeking out the eye contact he was reluctant to give. “I know you will.” He muttered. Wearing a tense smile, she turned to the road snapping the reins, Queenie let out a huff and set off.
The cart rattled down the hill toward the small collection of squat thatched buildings the locals referred to only as “Town”. As Elaina faded from sight, Theodren turned on his heel and strode back to his church.
“Church” was a generous term, it was made of stone and housed an altar. But that was where the similarities ended. The squat building was gray from roof to floor. While it once would have been considered a masterpiece of mathematical precision in a style of simplicity almost spartan. The years had taken its toll.
Skewed ever so slightly by a foundation cracked by decades of wear. Vines grew over the walls as if the very land itself worked to reclaim the garish block of unnatural lines and stone insisting upon an orderliness that was foreign to the rolling hills of the hamlet in which Theodren now lived.
Climbing the worn steps, he chewed at his lip. He would need books. Many books. He thought to himself. As he walked into his private quarters he found himself before the mountain he had already set aside when Elaina had come for his insight. Elaina was pregnant, the signs were clear and she had come to the church for a reading and a blessing as most expecting mothers did. Theodren had been overjoyed to hear of his friend's budding family. But when he had administered the reading of order for her… the signs showed struggle… and death.
