Upon the Weedsea
The elderly man pulled the cloak tight across his shoulders. Shivering, he sapped as much warmth from the fur-lined cloth as possible. The heavy and just-as-ancient plate mail strapped around torso, arms and legs seemed to leech the heat from his bones. He shivered uncontrollably.
Above, a crystal clear sky framed a larger than average moon. A pallid halo surrounded the body which had been tinged red for days. The fresh scent of snow assaulted his nostrils, but no precipitation had fallen yet. Probably tomorrow, the priest thought momentarily distracted by his surroundings.
He struggled to a stop, resting against one of the many sparse trees upon the Weedsea. The heavy metal, so long absent from his daily wear, had rubbed the withering flesh below it. He now felt warmth dripping against his torso and down his legs: his own fresh blood. A few quick words of prayer to Ceria and all of the wounds closed. The vitae which now sloshed back and forth would only cause fresh wounds faster.
For a moment he considered removing the armor, then thought better of it. He questioned whether or not the thought was even his own.
“I’m not that foolish, beast,” he hissed into the empty fields, the empty night.
Fitz sunk to the earth, reaching for a few rations. The cleric tracked about as well as any other priest which is to say not well at all. Yet, he had noted with certainty obvious signs of passage among the high stalks of wheat. The beast had bent handfuls here and there, an unnatural and mortal wrenching for the plants. It was these obvious signs Fitz, High Priest of Ceria, followed cautiously.
“I wonder how Magnus is doing these days.” Filling the quiet with idle words, the priest then filled his mouth with the dried trail rations he had brought. Years had passed since Fitz had given up the adventuring life. Years dedicated to the service of Ceria and spreading her words across the Valus. He had retired to the Weedsea to lead his home congregation, to marry and to raise the two darling sons he had been blessed with.
Never forget where you have come from, where you have been, a sage had enigmatically told the cleric once. By returning home, the High Priest had tried to follow the advice. He had given up on his self-appointed task of hunting the beast which had consumed several of his years following the adventures alongside Tobias, Magnus, and Motega. Fitz shuddered again. The chill was deepening.
Of course the words given by the sage were misinterpreted. The pem, never forthcoming, had meant to not forget adventuring. More importantly, he had meant not to forget the beast.
Fitz placed it where all things now past go; into the devouring maw of fading memories. And that was when the beast chose to strike. It wiped out his congregation. It roasted his children alive on spits, no better than a wild boar. Then, the beast raped and sodomized his wife, a priestess of Ceria, before beheading her. He had left his mark engraved upon her brow; a calling card, a foul memory, a tempting challenge.
The High Priest of Ceria, possibly the most powerful cleric of the Goddess upon the Valus, had nearly lost his faith. In a rage, he burned the fields around his home. The bodies of the dead burned as well. If life was to imitate hell, the cleric had thought, then the temperature better be right. While the fires burned he stormed into the house shared with the woman he had devoted his heart to. There, he destroyed everything within reach. Plates and mugs, furniture, all shattered and burned. In his rage, the priest stumbled across an old chest. He threw it open, vengeance preparing to rain down upon the contents. In the chest a dusty scythe and armor rested haphazardly, contemptuously glaring at the priest.
The meaning of the sage’s words smacked him in that moment upon his face. He hefted the scythe and donned the armor. Ceria, herself, was reaching out through this tragedy and instructing the High Priest to finish what he had begun so long ago. Finish the job, end the suffering, and reap what has been sown. Fitz left at that moment.
The beast had waited, not far from the flames. And the chase began. Five nights later, the cleric felt no closer to his goal. Exhaustion sipped bitterly upon his body and soul. Whatever exhaustion left, obsession filled. Life was a never waking hell of torment.
The priest smiled. He stood, keeping his back toward the tree and drew the scythe.
“You should know better than to stand upwind, beast. The stench of brimstone surrounds you.”
“I do know better,” the multi-toned, familiar and unfamiliar voice answered. Its voice was nails dragged slowly across the hardest steel imposed upon a luring yet sultry and familiar tone. “I merely wished to speak with you, before I killed you.”
The priest turned. Unnatural shadow covered most of its form. Blazing eyes glared from within the dark cocoon. He lifted the scythe, its old weight feeling almost intimate again. “Would you like to repent for your sins then, friend?”
The beast laughed mockingly. “Of course not. I simply wondered, do you still carry your faith? You have suffered so much these past few days…I had hoped that maybe some of Lord Tobias’ words may have struck home.”
Fitz grimaced. “My faith is as strong as ever, if not more so. I am sorry that you will not repent. Mayhaps Ceria will forgive you for your crimes anyway.”
“I won’t be meeting her tonight. No, tonight is the night when you meet your own Goddess. Tonight is the night when you realize your life has been wasted on false idolatry.” The creature stalked forward, leaving the shroud of shadow behind. Its form, one part human, one part wolf and one part fiend was twisted into an aberration beyond repair. Razor claws spread from its paw-like hands. Ragged fangs lined the blunted snout that smiled viciously.
“One of us will perish tonight,” Fitz conceded. “If Ceria is with me, I will not fall.” The priest lashed out, the silvery sickle of a blade touching nothing but air.
[/end pimping]
