Mark
CreativeMountainGames.com
Darkness and Light
"We'll take the flock into town, sell them to the butcher and I'll want to be back out on the road for home by mid-morning," pledged Gayle de`Prey to his young son, Arim. Hardly a flock, the ten sheep were underfed and mottled about the fleece but they would have to bring their price if the family was to survive the next cold season. "I'll not be staying the long in Jalston," he warned. "They hanged your brother for the mischief he caused last year and I'll not be happy losing my other son because he can't keep his fingers from another man's purse. Mind your step while in these walls, Arim."
With a shout to press them on, Gayle hurried his woolen charges toward the open gate of the county seat and cast his eye toward his boy to assess if his words had made an impression. Doubtful of their effect, he shook his head and continued between the buildings lying outside the walled town still hopeful that the last of his offspring might survive a reckless youth to become a man of respect, if not wealth.
Upon the wall old Slort hacked up a lump of the dust he'd been ingesting from the night shift he shared with Haggerty. Now that the gates were open and the sun had risen they only had a short while yet until their relief would come. After clearing his throat he turned to his young companion and erstwhile trainee and commented on the morning influx of outlanders.
"See that bunch of sheep, there? The fellow herding them had a son who was hung from the walls last summer. That whelp he has with him was involved, too, I warranted at the time but no one could be coaxed to say a word against him. Might be he was only in the area but I say 'Hang `em both up and show the rabble you won't stand for that kind of actin' up!' That's just me, maybe, but if you don't keep `em in line, don't show no respect for the law."
Slort finished his nightly duties with a parcel of his wisdom each shift and felt satisfied he'd done his job. He rarely minded training the younger guards because it afforded him the chance to grab some sleep in the latest hours and the trainees didn't often make sport of his incredibly prominent nose and the hair that sprang prodigiously from ears like vines on a cottage.
"Look sharp, there, Haggerty!" Slort barked as he glanced down over the East Side of the tower before relieving himself over the parapet. "I've got some business to conduct with the Primus of Liquids."
Slort's disrespect for the Elder Gods of the Elements, and the tired way he always referred to his crude morning constitutional notwithstanding, Haggerty watched as the herdsman and his son passed under the gate, between the towers and headed toward the slaughterman's pen just inside of Jalston. Crossing the tower to afford himself a view of the interior side of his section of the walls, Haggerty's gaze drifted past the butcher's, beyond his own Father's smithy, and up the side of the four tiered structure of Noscalle the Bookkeeper. Its marble facade presented a striking counterpoint to the whitewashed stucco of the average buildings of the town Haggerty had always called his home. A glint of something shiny caught his eye briefly from a window on the third story but his attention soon returned to his last hour's duties atop the tower.
"If you can't get those mirrors adjusted more quickly, I can get any number of lackey's to do the job!" Noscalle reprimanded his apprentice. "Beltazar knows I've had better and brighter under my tutelage and more than a few noble lords of the Kingdom of Toeffrus have offered the services of their children to work for me for no cost at all!"
Positioning the mirrors to catch the morning light in Noscalle's study was a chore Arthael performed each and every day since he'd arrived from Madosture. Seated at the center of the room that comprised the whole of the third tier of his abode, Noscalle was the epitome of dichotomy. Corpulent and balding, spotty and crude, one would not suspect the power he possessed in the Arts Arcane if he'd be met outside his domain. He wore no jewelry or outward sign of his great wealth for every last Toeffrun crown that at come into his grasp went to finance his vast collection of tomes.
Hundreds of volumes of text devoted to subjects mundane and esoteric graced the shelves that lined the walls of this inner-sanctum. But for the thin windows on the east and west sides of the room, and the stairway that led up to the rumored chamber of Noscalle's most prized library, the function of this room was not in doubt. It was a treasure vault of knowledge that served as the preface to the windowless safe above. As privileged as Arthael was to even be employed by Noscalle, and further still to be deemed trusted enough to clean and make ready the mirrors that lit this floor during the daylight hours Noscalle spent here in his study, he knew that greater secrets were stored not far away. Secrets that would not be shared and knowledge that this apprenticeship would never see gleaned.
Having finished readying the mirrors on the East Side of the chamber, Arthael proceeded to the far end to readjust the others that had remained unmoved since yesterday afternoon's positioning on the west. Taking a moment for himself, his wandering eyes looked to the other end of town where stood the second largest building in Jalston, the Temple of Darien.
"They're like little drops of sunshine, Dani!" spoke his friend Terner in the service of Darien the Guardian as they sopped up the poorly aimed attempts of their brethren from the cistern's floor. "I told you when you joined there would always be work to do!"
What Terner hadn't elaborated was the level of the work but that didn't seem important to him. His ever-smiling face brightly greeted Danmor each and every morning and took his leave at the end of every night when the seemingly endless tasks were finished. It was a tireless life to be devoted Darien, or more appropriately to the temple and the likelihood of advancing in the ranks before age beset them was scant. The hierarchy was such that moving up was reserved to those out converting the masses. Stories of the Priests who made their way on the roads and deeper into the wilds bordering the Kingdom of Toeffrus to bring back wealth and artifacts for their superiors were renown. The bravery of such individuals became the stuff of legends and formed the foundations upon which the major religions based their prestige and power.
"I'm so glad we lucked into these openings when they became available. Yes, it's the cushy life for us, my friend. None of that wandering the lands trying to dredge up old pieces of history or convinces some backwoods heathen that their life would be changed by the Guardian (all praise to Darien). Three hots and a cot are all I need to keep me pleased the rest of my days, Dani!" Terner wrung out his rag in the bucket again and shared yet another a blissful grin with Danmor then turned back to his chore.
The sheep bleated contentedly as they were ushered into the holding pen that would be their temporary home in their final hours. Removing the bell collars from the animals, Gayle de`Prey shifted his weight nervously as Harden the Butcher cast his appraising gaze over the proffered livestock. This process never allowed Gayle to feel at ease, and this time he was less than expectant of the perceived value of his stock. Trying to cover his trepidation, he turned toward his son and said, "Arim? Make yourself useful and go next store to the smithy. We could use the money from selling these bells and collars. See if they'd take them off our hands for a fair price. If not, try the general market."
Gayle knew better than to try and include the collars in a deal with Harden. The Butcher wasn't known for his generosity and he'd likely find some way to get them for free by under-valuing the sheep, so selling them elsewhere was the only way to get a bit more. Arim knew his parents were no longer going to try and keep the farm as diverse as it had been in the past. This would be the last trip to town his aging Father would make and Gayle was well aware that his son wasn't planning to walk in his Father's footfalls. As Gayle handed the bells to his son it was as much to say that he knew a farmer's life was not a path they shared.
They'd never spoken of when Arim would strike out on his own but with the meager savings his parents had collected, staying under his folk's roof was no longer a practical option for Arim or his family. Though his brother had managed to slip him the gems he'd stolen before being dragged off by the constabulary, and that money had gone toward the equipment Arim had purchased piecemeal over the last two seasons, Gayle had never spoken of the unexplained fortune. Arim knew that he should not bring up the money, lest it further damage the frayed bonds that still held Father to son. He also knew that somewhere in his Father's mind he'd managed to deny the deeds done by his eldest, now-departed son. To offer some split of the ill gotten gains would have broken his heart even more than having lost one boy and knowing that he'd likely lose the other to a similar fate. Though unspoken, when Gayle handed the bells to Arim it was as if to say that it was all that he could give him to help him on his way. It was his Father's taciturn way of shoving Arim from the nest. Without a word, Gayle turned away from his offspring and back to his business.
The Sergeant had come by with two guards to take over on the northwest tower and dismissed Slort and Haggerty from their shift for the day. After descending to the street, and watching his mentor (such as he was) head toward the tavern where he'd drink his breakfast, Haggerty made his way to the smithy knowing his Mother would have saved him some of the morning meal. Surely his Father will have finished eating and opened shop and the telltale ringing of hammer on anvil confirmed this supposition. His pace soon mimicked the steady beat of metal on metal as his tired feet in iron-shod boots cadenced the familiar way home. Haggerty could easily muse that the unvarying drumming of his heels on the cobbled main road of Jalston reflected the dull, over-night shifts in the city guard and his dull, daily routine. Perhaps a change was needed in his life, if only for a while and but for an opportunity.
A sudden screech of protest broke the silence in the bookkeeper's library as the stubborn hinges of the mirror stand ground obstinately. Glancing back toward the central desk, Arthael recognized the expression awaiting his eyes on the face of Noscalle. Actually it was very close to the same mixture of annoyance and contempt that donned the face of the bookkeeper in most situations but Arthael, after a year in his service was able to now distinguish approximately a dozen varying degrees of this one mask. In this instance it leaned toward anger and chagrin, while maintaining an outward blame for all things imperfect within his domicile. Clearly, in Noscalle's estimation, if something was amiss it was the fault of his lackluster apprentice.
As if speaking to a child or a foreigner whose grasp of the language was tenuous Noscalle outlined the next action that should be taken to remedy the situation. "Carefully remove the mirror from the stand and place it gingerly against the wall. Then lift the mirror stand from where it lives in my home and carry it out of my library. Take the stairs, one at a time, down and out of this building, with the mirror stand under your arm, and get the blasted thing repaired!"
In truth the old bookkeeper had gotten pretty much what he should have expected when he'd purchased the devices. He'd coppered and silvered the local tinker so mercilessly when haggling the price of the craftsmanship that he shouldn't have been surprised if the damned things had long since deposited the mirrors in pieces on the floor. Such was the same with Arthael's apprenticeship. Each minor effect or spell was doled out to Arthael so sparingly in the time he'd been in Noscalle's employ that it was any wonder he stayed as long as he had. The apprentice knew that there was much, much more that could be learned from the old skinflint but waiting until Noscalle saw fit to share his knowledge hardly seemed worth the perpetual and inevitable humiliation.
Taking the weighing of Arthael's future as some sign of hesitation in completing the task at hand, Noscalle called for two of his house servants from just below. The sturdy men who were always close at hand hustled up one flight of the tower ever mindful that tardiness when summoned was grounds for quick and unceremonious release from their underpaid positions. Directing them toward the apprentice and the mirror stand, their master sputtered, "Help this boob with that useless hunk of metal and carry it to the smithy's stall forthwith!" Changing his tone to one of exactness, he proceeded to caution Arthael, "Be sure to explain the nature of the problem with it to the Blacksmith. I'll be damned if I'll have you take it back to that worthless excuse for a tinker who couldn't fashion it properly in the first place. Let the smith know that he can receive payment for the privilege of fixing it when he comes later to check on the rest of the mirror stands. Tell him that I'll pay him fairly and not be swindled as most of his class would attempt."
Noscalle redirected his attention now to his studies, dismissing the three underlings by ignoring them further. One of the two manservants gave the same hopeless but acquiescent look that Arthael was accustoming to seeing on the face of the house staff and helped his partner to lift the device. They then fell in line behind the apprentice, descended through the building, and joined the people who populated the streets of Jalston this early in the day.
Having completed their cleaning chores, and properly cleansed themselves, Terner and Danmor left the temple to perform a number of tasks outlined to them by their superior. In preparation for a feast to be held at dusk, they had been charged with securing two lambs for sacrifice and post ceremony consumption by the guests. They also carried with them a number of tools to be repaired at the forge of the smithy. Both tasks were to be accomplished before returning to the temple where they would then be needed to scrub out the entrails and soot from the pit over which the ceremony would take place that evening.
"What a horrible way to die, eh?" Terner postulated out of thin air and with the casual nature of continuing a conversation even though they hadn't been speaking. This was not something new to Terner, and he often would have these outbursts of ideas and tangents. "That old Priest Mikonnen must have been out of his mind to think making a name for himself at his age was a wise plan."
Several days before news had come to the temple of the demise of a senior member of the temple who had made a trip south beyond the county border to a ruin in search of whatever might lie there. The ruin, or so the story had gone, was the former temple of a rival religious organization built off in the wilds for some unknown and reportedly dark purpose half a century ago. Nekrem, the Mistress of the Dead, was not a respectable deity for anyone in the kingdom to worship though folks of a superstitious nature would obligatorily place a silver piece in the mouths of the deceased to pay her due homage. It was even rumored that the devout of Darien would secret a coin on those who died, and most religious leaders would turn a blind eye to the practice if the surviving family chose to do so.
Though no one was known to have made the trip to the ruin and survived, ventures to the unholy place were the subject of tales by common folks and tavern talk abounded with stories of the same on stormy nights. It was said that one week to the south, past several small villages, beyond the town of Riversplit, across the ford of the eastern branch of the River Snake, and a number of days into the dense forest it lay.
Some, it was told, had lost their lives in the wilderness, having never found the ruin. Others, having hired large bands of mercenaries had supposedly found the ruin only to go mad before uncovering its secrets and wandering back to civilization babbling their woe to any that would listen. The priest, Mikonnen, had fared far less well than his predecessors had. After declaring his intentions to defy the odds, and financing a party to escort him to fame and glory, Mikonnen had been thrown from his horse not half a day from the walls of Jalston and died of a severely fractured skull before he could be returned to Darrien's arms.
There was something unsettling about the grin on the face of Terner as he handed the satchel of damaged tools to Danmor and said, "Tell you what, Dani. Why don't you handle talking to the smith and I'll go properly examine the lambs that we're supposed to have sent to the temple later today? I'll meet you back there after I've made sure they're worthy of the sacrifice and good enough to eat." Without waiting for a reply, Terner walked off toward the butcher's whistling a bawdy drinking song, the likes of which it would be doubtful he would know.
"We'll take the flock into town, sell them to the butcher and I'll want to be back out on the road for home by mid-morning," pledged Gayle de`Prey to his young son, Arim. Hardly a flock, the ten sheep were underfed and mottled about the fleece but they would have to bring their price if the family was to survive the next cold season. "I'll not be staying the long in Jalston," he warned. "They hanged your brother for the mischief he caused last year and I'll not be happy losing my other son because he can't keep his fingers from another man's purse. Mind your step while in these walls, Arim."
With a shout to press them on, Gayle hurried his woolen charges toward the open gate of the county seat and cast his eye toward his boy to assess if his words had made an impression. Doubtful of their effect, he shook his head and continued between the buildings lying outside the walled town still hopeful that the last of his offspring might survive a reckless youth to become a man of respect, if not wealth.
Upon the wall old Slort hacked up a lump of the dust he'd been ingesting from the night shift he shared with Haggerty. Now that the gates were open and the sun had risen they only had a short while yet until their relief would come. After clearing his throat he turned to his young companion and erstwhile trainee and commented on the morning influx of outlanders.
"See that bunch of sheep, there? The fellow herding them had a son who was hung from the walls last summer. That whelp he has with him was involved, too, I warranted at the time but no one could be coaxed to say a word against him. Might be he was only in the area but I say 'Hang `em both up and show the rabble you won't stand for that kind of actin' up!' That's just me, maybe, but if you don't keep `em in line, don't show no respect for the law."
Slort finished his nightly duties with a parcel of his wisdom each shift and felt satisfied he'd done his job. He rarely minded training the younger guards because it afforded him the chance to grab some sleep in the latest hours and the trainees didn't often make sport of his incredibly prominent nose and the hair that sprang prodigiously from ears like vines on a cottage.
"Look sharp, there, Haggerty!" Slort barked as he glanced down over the East Side of the tower before relieving himself over the parapet. "I've got some business to conduct with the Primus of Liquids."
Slort's disrespect for the Elder Gods of the Elements, and the tired way he always referred to his crude morning constitutional notwithstanding, Haggerty watched as the herdsman and his son passed under the gate, between the towers and headed toward the slaughterman's pen just inside of Jalston. Crossing the tower to afford himself a view of the interior side of his section of the walls, Haggerty's gaze drifted past the butcher's, beyond his own Father's smithy, and up the side of the four tiered structure of Noscalle the Bookkeeper. Its marble facade presented a striking counterpoint to the whitewashed stucco of the average buildings of the town Haggerty had always called his home. A glint of something shiny caught his eye briefly from a window on the third story but his attention soon returned to his last hour's duties atop the tower.
"If you can't get those mirrors adjusted more quickly, I can get any number of lackey's to do the job!" Noscalle reprimanded his apprentice. "Beltazar knows I've had better and brighter under my tutelage and more than a few noble lords of the Kingdom of Toeffrus have offered the services of their children to work for me for no cost at all!"
Positioning the mirrors to catch the morning light in Noscalle's study was a chore Arthael performed each and every day since he'd arrived from Madosture. Seated at the center of the room that comprised the whole of the third tier of his abode, Noscalle was the epitome of dichotomy. Corpulent and balding, spotty and crude, one would not suspect the power he possessed in the Arts Arcane if he'd be met outside his domain. He wore no jewelry or outward sign of his great wealth for every last Toeffrun crown that at come into his grasp went to finance his vast collection of tomes.
Hundreds of volumes of text devoted to subjects mundane and esoteric graced the shelves that lined the walls of this inner-sanctum. But for the thin windows on the east and west sides of the room, and the stairway that led up to the rumored chamber of Noscalle's most prized library, the function of this room was not in doubt. It was a treasure vault of knowledge that served as the preface to the windowless safe above. As privileged as Arthael was to even be employed by Noscalle, and further still to be deemed trusted enough to clean and make ready the mirrors that lit this floor during the daylight hours Noscalle spent here in his study, he knew that greater secrets were stored not far away. Secrets that would not be shared and knowledge that this apprenticeship would never see gleaned.
Having finished readying the mirrors on the East Side of the chamber, Arthael proceeded to the far end to readjust the others that had remained unmoved since yesterday afternoon's positioning on the west. Taking a moment for himself, his wandering eyes looked to the other end of town where stood the second largest building in Jalston, the Temple of Darien.
"They're like little drops of sunshine, Dani!" spoke his friend Terner in the service of Darien the Guardian as they sopped up the poorly aimed attempts of their brethren from the cistern's floor. "I told you when you joined there would always be work to do!"
What Terner hadn't elaborated was the level of the work but that didn't seem important to him. His ever-smiling face brightly greeted Danmor each and every morning and took his leave at the end of every night when the seemingly endless tasks were finished. It was a tireless life to be devoted Darien, or more appropriately to the temple and the likelihood of advancing in the ranks before age beset them was scant. The hierarchy was such that moving up was reserved to those out converting the masses. Stories of the Priests who made their way on the roads and deeper into the wilds bordering the Kingdom of Toeffrus to bring back wealth and artifacts for their superiors were renown. The bravery of such individuals became the stuff of legends and formed the foundations upon which the major religions based their prestige and power.
"I'm so glad we lucked into these openings when they became available. Yes, it's the cushy life for us, my friend. None of that wandering the lands trying to dredge up old pieces of history or convinces some backwoods heathen that their life would be changed by the Guardian (all praise to Darien). Three hots and a cot are all I need to keep me pleased the rest of my days, Dani!" Terner wrung out his rag in the bucket again and shared yet another a blissful grin with Danmor then turned back to his chore.
The sheep bleated contentedly as they were ushered into the holding pen that would be their temporary home in their final hours. Removing the bell collars from the animals, Gayle de`Prey shifted his weight nervously as Harden the Butcher cast his appraising gaze over the proffered livestock. This process never allowed Gayle to feel at ease, and this time he was less than expectant of the perceived value of his stock. Trying to cover his trepidation, he turned toward his son and said, "Arim? Make yourself useful and go next store to the smithy. We could use the money from selling these bells and collars. See if they'd take them off our hands for a fair price. If not, try the general market."
Gayle knew better than to try and include the collars in a deal with Harden. The Butcher wasn't known for his generosity and he'd likely find some way to get them for free by under-valuing the sheep, so selling them elsewhere was the only way to get a bit more. Arim knew his parents were no longer going to try and keep the farm as diverse as it had been in the past. This would be the last trip to town his aging Father would make and Gayle was well aware that his son wasn't planning to walk in his Father's footfalls. As Gayle handed the bells to his son it was as much to say that he knew a farmer's life was not a path they shared.
They'd never spoken of when Arim would strike out on his own but with the meager savings his parents had collected, staying under his folk's roof was no longer a practical option for Arim or his family. Though his brother had managed to slip him the gems he'd stolen before being dragged off by the constabulary, and that money had gone toward the equipment Arim had purchased piecemeal over the last two seasons, Gayle had never spoken of the unexplained fortune. Arim knew that he should not bring up the money, lest it further damage the frayed bonds that still held Father to son. He also knew that somewhere in his Father's mind he'd managed to deny the deeds done by his eldest, now-departed son. To offer some split of the ill gotten gains would have broken his heart even more than having lost one boy and knowing that he'd likely lose the other to a similar fate. Though unspoken, when Gayle handed the bells to Arim it was as if to say that it was all that he could give him to help him on his way. It was his Father's taciturn way of shoving Arim from the nest. Without a word, Gayle turned away from his offspring and back to his business.
The Sergeant had come by with two guards to take over on the northwest tower and dismissed Slort and Haggerty from their shift for the day. After descending to the street, and watching his mentor (such as he was) head toward the tavern where he'd drink his breakfast, Haggerty made his way to the smithy knowing his Mother would have saved him some of the morning meal. Surely his Father will have finished eating and opened shop and the telltale ringing of hammer on anvil confirmed this supposition. His pace soon mimicked the steady beat of metal on metal as his tired feet in iron-shod boots cadenced the familiar way home. Haggerty could easily muse that the unvarying drumming of his heels on the cobbled main road of Jalston reflected the dull, over-night shifts in the city guard and his dull, daily routine. Perhaps a change was needed in his life, if only for a while and but for an opportunity.
A sudden screech of protest broke the silence in the bookkeeper's library as the stubborn hinges of the mirror stand ground obstinately. Glancing back toward the central desk, Arthael recognized the expression awaiting his eyes on the face of Noscalle. Actually it was very close to the same mixture of annoyance and contempt that donned the face of the bookkeeper in most situations but Arthael, after a year in his service was able to now distinguish approximately a dozen varying degrees of this one mask. In this instance it leaned toward anger and chagrin, while maintaining an outward blame for all things imperfect within his domicile. Clearly, in Noscalle's estimation, if something was amiss it was the fault of his lackluster apprentice.
As if speaking to a child or a foreigner whose grasp of the language was tenuous Noscalle outlined the next action that should be taken to remedy the situation. "Carefully remove the mirror from the stand and place it gingerly against the wall. Then lift the mirror stand from where it lives in my home and carry it out of my library. Take the stairs, one at a time, down and out of this building, with the mirror stand under your arm, and get the blasted thing repaired!"
In truth the old bookkeeper had gotten pretty much what he should have expected when he'd purchased the devices. He'd coppered and silvered the local tinker so mercilessly when haggling the price of the craftsmanship that he shouldn't have been surprised if the damned things had long since deposited the mirrors in pieces on the floor. Such was the same with Arthael's apprenticeship. Each minor effect or spell was doled out to Arthael so sparingly in the time he'd been in Noscalle's employ that it was any wonder he stayed as long as he had. The apprentice knew that there was much, much more that could be learned from the old skinflint but waiting until Noscalle saw fit to share his knowledge hardly seemed worth the perpetual and inevitable humiliation.
Taking the weighing of Arthael's future as some sign of hesitation in completing the task at hand, Noscalle called for two of his house servants from just below. The sturdy men who were always close at hand hustled up one flight of the tower ever mindful that tardiness when summoned was grounds for quick and unceremonious release from their underpaid positions. Directing them toward the apprentice and the mirror stand, their master sputtered, "Help this boob with that useless hunk of metal and carry it to the smithy's stall forthwith!" Changing his tone to one of exactness, he proceeded to caution Arthael, "Be sure to explain the nature of the problem with it to the Blacksmith. I'll be damned if I'll have you take it back to that worthless excuse for a tinker who couldn't fashion it properly in the first place. Let the smith know that he can receive payment for the privilege of fixing it when he comes later to check on the rest of the mirror stands. Tell him that I'll pay him fairly and not be swindled as most of his class would attempt."
Noscalle redirected his attention now to his studies, dismissing the three underlings by ignoring them further. One of the two manservants gave the same hopeless but acquiescent look that Arthael was accustoming to seeing on the face of the house staff and helped his partner to lift the device. They then fell in line behind the apprentice, descended through the building, and joined the people who populated the streets of Jalston this early in the day.
Having completed their cleaning chores, and properly cleansed themselves, Terner and Danmor left the temple to perform a number of tasks outlined to them by their superior. In preparation for a feast to be held at dusk, they had been charged with securing two lambs for sacrifice and post ceremony consumption by the guests. They also carried with them a number of tools to be repaired at the forge of the smithy. Both tasks were to be accomplished before returning to the temple where they would then be needed to scrub out the entrails and soot from the pit over which the ceremony would take place that evening.
"What a horrible way to die, eh?" Terner postulated out of thin air and with the casual nature of continuing a conversation even though they hadn't been speaking. This was not something new to Terner, and he often would have these outbursts of ideas and tangents. "That old Priest Mikonnen must have been out of his mind to think making a name for himself at his age was a wise plan."
Several days before news had come to the temple of the demise of a senior member of the temple who had made a trip south beyond the county border to a ruin in search of whatever might lie there. The ruin, or so the story had gone, was the former temple of a rival religious organization built off in the wilds for some unknown and reportedly dark purpose half a century ago. Nekrem, the Mistress of the Dead, was not a respectable deity for anyone in the kingdom to worship though folks of a superstitious nature would obligatorily place a silver piece in the mouths of the deceased to pay her due homage. It was even rumored that the devout of Darien would secret a coin on those who died, and most religious leaders would turn a blind eye to the practice if the surviving family chose to do so.
Though no one was known to have made the trip to the ruin and survived, ventures to the unholy place were the subject of tales by common folks and tavern talk abounded with stories of the same on stormy nights. It was said that one week to the south, past several small villages, beyond the town of Riversplit, across the ford of the eastern branch of the River Snake, and a number of days into the dense forest it lay.
Some, it was told, had lost their lives in the wilderness, having never found the ruin. Others, having hired large bands of mercenaries had supposedly found the ruin only to go mad before uncovering its secrets and wandering back to civilization babbling their woe to any that would listen. The priest, Mikonnen, had fared far less well than his predecessors had. After declaring his intentions to defy the odds, and financing a party to escort him to fame and glory, Mikonnen had been thrown from his horse not half a day from the walls of Jalston and died of a severely fractured skull before he could be returned to Darrien's arms.
There was something unsettling about the grin on the face of Terner as he handed the satchel of damaged tools to Danmor and said, "Tell you what, Dani. Why don't you handle talking to the smith and I'll go properly examine the lambs that we're supposed to have sent to the temple later today? I'll meet you back there after I've made sure they're worthy of the sacrifice and good enough to eat." Without waiting for a reply, Terner walked off toward the butcher's whistling a bawdy drinking song, the likes of which it would be doubtful he would know.
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