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Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (3/22/2016 21:13:24)
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Cendra grimaced. Where are the others? Recluse, Seiserna, and Nilch’i had been separated from the group during their flight from the Third Burning. Her own group had nearly run into a patrol of Saints. The others might not have been so lucky. Any of them might have been captured, or worse yet, be laying in the streets with their blood staining the cobbles. To be certain there was blood in the water. The Blighted had killed Palora’s defenders. For the greater good, the exile reminded herself harshly. Either way, death had been dealt, and if they were captured they could expect little leniency in return.
She looked towards the Temple, gnawing on her lip unconsciously. A dozen. Poor odds. If all of the Blighted were here they might stand a chance. Surprise was an effective way to level the field. Of course, that would rely on the group working together, which was hard enough to do for people who had trained with one another. The outlaw looked at the old man, her frown becoming a momentary smirk. Not to mention actually like each other..
Her mind churned the problem over, eyes cutting to the pirate as he made his offer. His quip about a kiss for luck drew a smile from the slender swordswoman, and for the first time since the Magister’s shadow had fallen across her like an omen of ill-intent she felt like laughing. “The Temple is open to all at all hours. We may be able to just walk by them, but not in a full group, and not with our weapons. Somehow I think we will need those in the Spearforge though.” Cendra pushed a gentle elbow into the elf’s side, and for a wonder she actually found it within herself to chuckle. “Get us inside, then we’ll talk.”
A sharp knock disturbed Sylvana's slumber. The Owl did not stir as she awaited the second knock. Upon her promotion, the captain had made it a point to answer all who came to her door. Now, in one part due to her experience and another to her odd sleep schedule, the Saint had learned to bide her time until the second round. Too often had the once-noble come running only to learn that the knocking had been in her dream. Such was life among the Saints.
Another rap on the door denied Sylvana any further opportunity for rest. She swung her feet off the bed, her boots making a small clack upon the floor. Her rests were short, rendering the need to undress more of a nuisance than anything else. Her scabbard was picked up from its place and buckled around her waist as the captain made her way to the door. She stifled a yawn before opening it. A fellow Saint stood at attention on the other side, a sharp contrast to Sylvana's posture as she leaned her forearm against the frame's woodwork.
A moment of silence passed as the Saint waited for a greeting. When he realized none was coming, he cleared his throat and spoke. "Captain Raelin, the Supplicant requests you attend upon her at your convenience." Sylvana smirked, not at the summons, but at the uneasiness of the guard. It was juvenile to impose such awkwardness upon a fellow soldier, but it was rather amusing.
"No need to inform the Supplicant of my arrival - I will head there now."
The Saint opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it, and bowed before departing. Sylvana shook her head as she watched him leave. Not quite the discipline expected of a captain, but what was the harm of having fun every now and again?
Any grogginess had departed before she made it to Merkia's quarters. She let herself in. "Lady Supplicant," the Owl said with a bow of her head.
***
Merkia stood at the window, staring out over the darkened streets as she waited. She had heard the warning knell crying out over the city. A single peal, that was all, and yet it unsettled her. The Supplicant felt old, heavy despite her age-wizened frame, as though some unseen force was dragging her down. Merkia sighed wearily. She was tired, the sort of tiredness that had nothing to do with the time of the night or the quality of her sleep and everything to do with a decade’s worth of work and worry… and guilt.
On her desk, quietly steaming, waited a pot of tea and two delicate porcelain cups. Her thoughts wandered as she waited for the Owl to arrive, her fears mixing with her memories until she was drawn from her reverie by a voice from behind her. Merkia turned, summoning up a smile for Sylvana as the woman entered and closed the door behind her. The Supplicant motioned the Saint to a chair before her desk. Approaching, Merkia lifted the teapot and poured the cups full. “I am sorry for waking you, if wake you I did.”
The Supplicant sat, lifting her own cup and taking a sip slowly. Her eyes drifted away from the Owl, up and in the direction of the open window. “And I am sorry.” She sighed. “Perhaps… Perhaps I am being foolish, but you see, I am an old woman, and we sometimes have our fears against all logic.” Merkia hesitated for a moment and then continued. “I asked you here because I made a mistake a long time ago. I… I trusted too much,” her eyes returned to Sylvana, “and I think you know what that is like.”
Standing, the older woman paced back towards the window. “More than a decade ago, a woman I loved dear as if she had been my daughter betrayed me, betrayed us.” Merkia ran a hand tiredly over her face. “Because I loved her, I helped Strasna flee the city. I thought that the infamy of her crime was enough, that the sting of her defeat would keep her away.” The Supplicant paused, turning back to look at the Owl. “I am afraid, captain, because before she fled Strasna swore to me that she would return… to take back what was rightfully hers.”
Gron Tahir was not, by habit, an introspective man. He knew that he had not risen to the position of Paladin because he was intelligent. In that way he was, perhaps, smarter than many, insofar as he was capable of realizing that he was not smarter than any other Saint who had held the vaunted position of Paladin before him.
As the leader of the Paloran military, his claim to fame was victory in the Roshon war. The truth to that claim was that the Roshon had broken upon the discovery of the Quisling’s betrayal. With the loss of their traitor they had been deprived of their inside source of knowledge regarding the Saint’s plans. From there the Paloran’s superior training and armament had seen to the rest.
If not the defeat of the Roshon, Tahir could, at last and least, claim to have bested the Quisling in single combat. That was no small claim to make given her noted skill as a duelist, but even that was no balm to the Paladin. He had defeated her, but he had not beaten her. The Quisling had run, Tahir had scarred her face, and he had been hailed a hero. Not bad for the son of a cobbler. The Paladin suppressed that thought with years of practice. If he was not an introspective man he was a religious one, and dutiful. Pride was a sin. Was his predecessor not all the evidence of that he could need?
It was the coin. He set the thought aside. Pride, avarice, envy, each enemies more insidious than any Roshon spy. Gron Tahir was a pious man, and thus each week he made a point to stop at one of the temples in the Heart of the City.
Tonight it was the great Temple of Baan. The Paladin had the hallowed space to himself but for a lone watchful acolyte-attendant standing discreetly at the back of the nave, near the door. Tahir had been surprised to find the temple so quiet. There were usually half a dozen worshippers at all hours, but he found the unexpected situation to be an unlooked for boon. He had come here to pray, but also to think, and the silence filling the high and airy space of the groined vaults overhead was soothing.
The Paladin broke that silence by standing; his leather boots scraped across the lovingly polished marble floors and produced a squeak that made him wince reflexively. But Tahir slipped out of the pew and made his way slowly down the center aisle of the temple, approaching the altar. Behind the altar were four alcoves set with statues carved of enormous precious stones, some of the greatest works ever produced by Palora’s artisans.
Phastos stood on the far left, stripped to the waist, holding hammer and chisel. The dust and grit of his latest creation was painstakingly replicated in speckled spots along his sapphire arms.
Vos stood on the far right, outfitted in his marshal raiment, sword thrust skyward in victory. Upon his head was a great helm of war, from beneath which his eyes glared in ruby challenge.
Greva stood on the center left, adorned in scholarly robes, left hand bearing her scales. Her right hand was lifted, beckoning worshippers forward to knowledge with her citrine fingers.
Illyra stood on the center right, garbed in her mendicancy. In her face was a look of tender compassion and understanding, and her emerald hands were spread open to all.
It was between these that Tahir’s eyes were drawn, up to the high and vaulted ceiling and then down a great cascade of gold. A sun of precious metal spilled its eternal rays over the arches above the altar, a great point cascading down and down in a narrowing spike until its tip rested lightly upon a marble display case at the rear of the altar space. It was said that the mass of gold, like the silver that had been cast for the temple’s bell, had been reclaimed from the Wyrm’s hoard and then fashioned into this art in high praise of Baan. And in that case, touched lightly by the reclaimed spoils of the Eternal Blight, was the Spear that had brought about the beast’s end.
Tahir stood at the foot of the altar, his eyes upon the case. Beneath a pane of glass, upon a bed of red velvet, rested the weapon of the Agemon. Palora’s current Paladin had never held the blessed Spear, though he had seen it often enough: A long straight stave of ash surmounted by a weighty triangular blade of dual-edged steel whose edges still bore faint traces of the Wyrm’s black blood. He sighed softly, ascending the stairs and approaching the case. Gently, he set his hands upon the glass, remembering the Quisling’s downfall. “Grant me the strength Baan, that I might always do what is good in your sight…”
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