Far to the south of frozen Rothland, in a kingdom called Mordengard in a land known as Eriador, a carriage trimmed in silver-and-blue and flying the symbol of the Celestine Church—three interlocking silver rings—rumbled along a rutted road on a bleary winter morning. Flanking the coach was a small cadre of church soldiers atop destriers, which snorted tufts of steamy breath in defiance of the brisk wind that whipped at them from across the Eisenmark plain. Within, a priest sat in contemplation as his thoughts burrowed deep into ecclesiastical matters. His unfocused gaze engulfed the leaden sky that formed an airy counterpart to the gray farmlands that swallowed the horizon in all directions. His eyes were as dark as his ebon hair, which he kept short in the style of his people in the balmy Genovan Principalities far to the south. He wore stiff priestly robes, well-starched, in dyes of gray and blue. At his neck a silver collar denoted his status as a member of the Magistratum*. Beside him on the pillowed bench stood a raven, which plucked occasionally at its glossy feathers with its horny black beak.
Time passed, and as the wagon trundled on toward its destination, the bird cocked its head at the priest and spoke in the Vangal tongue. “Boss, I’m bored.”
The priest blinked, disturbed from his reverie, and sighed at the bird without looking at it. “Yes, I know, Avido. Why don’t you read the scriptures?”
“Because the scriptures are boring and don’t translate well into the barbaric language you chose for me. For which I would again like to thank you,” the raven replied sarcastically. It hopped twice toward the seated priest. “I want to stretch my wings. Look for food.”
“The last time I let you do so you became distracted by the play of sunlight upon a river and disappeared for three days.”
“I got lost.”
“My point exactly.”
The bird squawked and flapped its wings. “Let me out, boss. I have to poop. You don’t want me to crap inside this posh carriage, do you? I mean, I will if I have to, but…”
The priest shook his head before cracking the sidecar door. With a cry of avian delight, the raven darted through the opening, took wing, and was gone. He would not return for a day and a half.
Hours passed, and the priest’s thoughts meandered once again to the task that had put him on this journey. In the town of Beauclerc in the kingdom of Arbonne, which lay several hundred miles to the east across the mountainous divide called simply the Alps, the Reverend Stefano Barozzi had spent the past autumn administering affairs for his mentor, Henri Leconte, the Bishop of Beauclerc. Although Stefano technically worked under the authority of the Archdiocese of Verúccia in distant Genova, the Bishop of Beauclerc held some authority within the Magistratum and thus, was mentor and confessor for several Blesséd that were under his charge—clerics, paladins, and others filled with the gods’ Grace.
Stefano reminisced about the day shortly after the autumn equinox when Leconte had knocked at the door of his cell at Beauclerc.
“Am I interrupting?”
“I am repositing arcanography for daily use, Father, but your presence is by no means an interruption. Please, enter.”
“Thank you. How are your studies progressing?”
“I have successfully transposed the sum of several glyphic differentials into a postulate that has merit within the theological schema suggested in the works of Clovis of León. It remains to be seen whether this approach will yield a new understanding of the relationship between the arcane and the divine. Clovis suggested that the schism between the two is false, but I have still failed to discern the root commonality.”
“The schism is likely in method, not in form. In any case, I do not have the luxury of engaging you on this topic today. Have you perchance read Brother Donal’s report from Athingburgh?”
“I haven’t. I’ve been closeted here, in study and in prayer. What news?”
“Donal met a stranger upon the road to one of the outlying communities. The fellow invited him to share his fire, then fell upon him in the night. Manes noctu**.”
“He survived, of course, to write the letter.”
“Yes, and after dispatching the fiend he deduced it to be of a lower order. Which, suggests, of course…”
“…that one or more of a higher order inhabits the region.”
“Exactly.”
“Troubling. What will you do?”
“I’m sending you there before winter takes root. There’s a colony of converts in a place called Oski Faste, near where Brother Donal encountered the beast. I’ve pulled strings in Savognaie; you’re to be assigned to the Mission*** through next fall. Minister to these people, heal their ills of body and spirit, encourage their belief in the one true faith, and be acutely mindful of vampires. If it seems a reasonable risk, destroy any you may find. If not, withdraw and send word to me through Athingburgh—Menric is archbishop there, and he’ll pass on your reports unmolested. Report as regularly as you are able.”
“I will. Am I going alone?”
“No. I’m going to purchase a mark of passage across Franconia† so that you may journey to Ottschtul in Mordengard. There is a templar there who is noted for the strength of her powers against the unliving."
“You are speaking of Ilse of Reifsnyder, who wields Saint Carlo’s holy mace.”
“Just so. I intend to have her assigned to the Mission, both for her expertise in dealing with undead, and for her potential candidacy within the order. Observe her, but do not reveal the true nature of the assignment until we have reviewed her merits.”
“It will be as you say.”
“Good. As well, I have learned that a son of Oski Faste studies under the mage Zurmlurd, near Ottschtul upon the Eisenmark. I will issue a sending to Zurmlurd and arrange a meeting. The wizard has donated large sums to the church in Mordengard and might be inclined to part with his apprentice for a time, given the nature of the mission. He has little love for the Arbonnese, but far less for the undead.”
“When will I depart?”
“As soon as I can make the arrangements. A week, perhaps. You may take confession with me any evening after Vespers between now and then.”
“I will do so tonight. Tomorrow I will summon a familiar, by your leave. I am aware of the dangers inherent in veering too far into diablerie, but as devils go the familiar is rather benign. The northmen, it is said, cling to their superstitions, blending them with the civilized practices of our faith. In their ancient belief, Otan the Wise possessed two ravens, Hugin and Munin, who brought him tidings each day. A raven would be a useful tool in helping to establish authority and legitimacy among the barbarians.”
“Given the circumstances, I will allow this. Let me leave you to your studies, then. I’ll await you tonight in my chamber.”
“Thank you, Father. Good day.”
A rap upon the carriage window startled Stefano from his recollection. Banquo, sergeant-at-arms and church knight, leant over his saddle and gestured. Stefano opened the coach’s door. “Yes?”
“Brother Camillo’s rode on ahead to make arrangements at an inn, Brother. We’ll be lodging soon. Tomorrow we’ll make Ottschtul, barring troubles.”
”Thank you, Brother. When we’re settled I’ll lead a service and take confessions.”
“Most kind, Stefano. Shortly, then.” The knight nodded and spurred his horse back to the front of the coach.
Stefano looked at the sky, wondered where Avido had gotten off to this time, and sighed.
*The arm of the church that is home to clerics, paladins, and variants thereof. The Magistratum is counterpart to the Pastorate, under whose purview the majority of the laity and parish priests take office. Sound familiar? Not being a theology student myself but wanting to add a semblance of religious authenticity to my campaign world, I fully admit that I have lifted whole cloth the structure of the Church of Oronthan from Sepulchrave II’s Tales of Wyre. The biggest difference between Sep’s church and mine is that his is monotheistic, while I use a modified pantheon of the standard D&D gods for my Celestine Church. The patriarchs of both religions, however, are called the Bright God. I’m such a fanboi—I couldn’t resist. Three guesses who the Bright God is in the standard D&D pantheon.
By the way, if you haven’t read Sep’s story hour by now, I can only marvel at how you’ve gotten to this thread while somehow bypassing his. I strongly recommend that you read Sepulchrave II—immediately!—if you have not already done so.
**Lit. “spirit of the dead which walks by night.” A vampire.
***The Mission is the wing of the church devoted to proselytizing and converting heathens. It falls under the purview of the Magistratum. If you’re a Sep fan, you know this already.
†Franconia is a disputed region rich in arable land and mineral resources that lies between Arbonne and Mordengard. The two kingdoms have warred over it, inconclusively, for a century. The Peacock War, as it is known, is a difficulty for the Celestine Church, which is the state religion of both kingdoms. Church officials are one of the few factions that can buy passage from one country to the other unmolested, though Mord and Arbonnese priests are generally unwelcome in the opposing country. Stefano, as a Genovan subject as well as a priest, is a doubly-neutral party in the conflict, and thus the perfect person for the assignment.
