Arc 1: Who Plants His Footsteps In The Sea

The Fisherman's Widow


The inn is cozy; stout wooden walls and a thatched roof, old fishing nets strung in the rafters and a blazing fire in a worn old hearth.  The tables are lovingly worked driftwood and benches or stools the same, and the floor is covered in slightly soiled rushes.  An expansive man of indeterminate age and ruddy, craggy face grins at you over the top of the bar as he idly cleans tankards.  Old men with the scars of the sea upon them glance up from quiet conversations and friendly games of Push.  A young woman with eyes like the barman and equally broad shoulders busies herself with cleaning and curious, nervous glances at you newcomers.


The head of a great black dog hangs over the fireplace.


An Eotran monk sits by the fire, his silver tattoos lambent in the shadows of his back.


Walker senses heavy steps and catches the smell of the road, hears the creak of the door and clink of glass bottles.


The Church


A well-kept and old structure, the inside of the church is sonorous with Cameron's footsteps and the soft hymns of a trio of young women who sweep and polish.  This place has not the fine stained glass of other churches, and the little altar to Ivarra on the left is better tended than most.  On the right is the staircase - up to the infirmary, down to a heavy door to which Cameron has the key.


Has it ever occurred to him to wonder if these people wonder about that room?  If they suspect the grisly tools and inhumanly strong restraints it houses?


No sign of the priest.
 
The church - even though he has never been here before, a feeling of peace welcomes Cameron when he enters through the old, wooden doors. As if he'd come home, despite being further away from Thunderleigh Manor than most people ever travel during their life time. Things are similar to how they always look: While there are local differences like the brazier in this one, most churches tend to follow the same pattern. This one is kept in good condition, with three faithful souls contributing their share to that first impression. Always a good sign when the helpers are busy with mundane work - it usually means that the infarmery is not overrun by the sick and wounded. Most likely, the priest is to be found up there - or busy with other important work, as there is always something to be done to keep the darkness at bay. Not that it is on Cameron to find him - if he is around, someone will tell him about the visiting inquisitor soon enough.


Therefore, he does neither turn to the stairs, nor turn to the left, but moves forward towards the obelisk representing the core of the building. He knows that some inquisitors think differently - for them, the dark chambers underneath are the one of importance, where some of the most gruesome fights are fought out of sight of all but the most trustworthy servants. For Cameron, though, every use of the tools downstairs is always a confession to have failed beforehand, not being able to tear out the evil before its roots go too deep. And so instead of going there instantly, making sure that everything is in place and noone else gained entrance, he kneels down on the floor, quietly speaking words only meant to be heard by the Earth Father himself - a prayer of guidance for himself, and one of protection for all those aiding him in his task, guided already or still on their way to understand His gift.


He closes with a few lines spoken out loudly, his voice addressing all those living in the surrounding area. "May each of your deeds be blessed by the Earth Father. May He guide you on your journey, from now on onwards till the end. May those lost in the darkness find the right path to return to the light; may this place always be a center of peace against the dragon's chaotic legacy - filled with harmony and dedication, guided by His tome. And may all of this spread out in all directions, forming a world after His vision." He then slowly stands up, aiming to pay Ivarra his respect as well before turning to the tasks ahead.
 
Anielka strides in through the door, sweeping her cloak back over both shoulders - and the drama of her grand entrance ended in that moment. In the tales the fearless Freelancer marched over to the bar, slammed down a hand and demanded to see the Book - or knew instinctively where it was and immediately turned to its oldest most faded page.They would then proceed to march out of there, find the terror of the night and hack it into pieces. Usually they'd then find the most beautiful girl in town and dandle her on their knee, quaffing ale and then stealing her heart on the way out of town with a shining sword on their belt.


Of course, traditionally the Freelancer was male.


The day diverges further from the songs after Anielka reaches the bar, leans on her rotten old spear and asks - asks, not demands - for a mug of ale.


Well at least that part was traditional.
 
Bleak trails behind the others into the inn, and is glad for it.  For the first time since he left Lama aboard an overconfident schooner, he hesitates.


There is much to take in here - the way these people sit, however many of them there are - the spirits which should gather in corners if this was not so sparse a land - the smell of food and drink, odd as some of it still is - perhaps even the opportunity to see or scent the cooked flesh of the Rainbow.


Bleak sees none of it.


What Bleak does see, is something strange.  Something which an animal - or at least inhuman - part of him both cringes from and lingers towards.  His nostrils flare automatically, though there is nothing to smell.  Only to see.  Silver.  Something strange, and something which awakens the ravenous self-destruction which the boy once born to a name other than Bleak has beaten into his core.


So perhaps the guests of the inn freeze and stare at the stranger, but the stranger does not notice, for he freezes and stares at something he finds just as strange.  There are lines - not spirits, but--- but so very close.  And his eyes trace the man's skin, those lines a part of it as assuredly as lichen and flintflake ingrain themselves in Bleak's own.


He must know what it is.


Bleak's eyes ratchet up towards Lady Anielka, and a long life trained in denial makes him shuffle his feet quickly towards her, lest he betray his excitement and have his joy taken away.  He stands quietly in her shadow, on her flank, and curiously ponders the contents of the bar.  He has no thirst to quench.  He fights the urge to look back at the silvered man.
 
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Newcomers


His mind, previously scrubbed blank by his tranquil state of meditation, was suddenly pulled back into present reality as he considered the strangers in his presence. They didn't feel like anyone else in the town, almost all of which he was familiar with by now. They produced distinct sounds with their footsteps. One was oozing with confidence, they walked into the Fisherman's Widow as if they had just arrived from the page of a fairy tale. Their agency and self image were fueled by a blurred grandeur. Or perhaps he was wrong, and his mental ramblings were totally off the mark. Walker liked to infer as much as he could about someone, based solely on what he perceived from them and his intuition.


The other had a strange air about them. They felt distinctively out of place in here. A foreigner perhaps, to the country or perhaps to life itself. He felt the attention of another lingering on his own flesh, but this was not uncommon, he found. Saganas worked in the most mysterious ways, Walker had a feeling these travelers were to play an important part in his role as a conduit of the will of the Gods. For now Walker kept his perch beside the fire, it was not his time to act, that would be revealed to him, like all else. He would wait and observe.
 
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Albus seemed more than a little amused by Bleak's question. "Our places are within lands like Kelen, Hrothgard and such. Certainly, we are surrounded by many churches." But that was not quite the question and so the alchemist provided a second answer meeting the intent of the inquiry. "But no, not in our compounds and sanctums. The purpose of such temples conflicts with our ethos."


Certainly Albus did not show the same reverence as the Inquisitor for their surroundings, bored and waiting for Thunderleigh to find the priest and have their conversation.


He was more happy with the Inn... and the unusual man drew his attention. Albus studied him with the unabashed curiosity of the seeker.
 
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Bleak tilted his head deferentially towards Lady Anielka, and counted.  Seconds ticked by.  Granted, she had not spent time among the people of the Rapine Lash, and so might not know that he was offering himself, but that was not his concern. Two, three. His eyes traced the woodgrain of the bartop and barrels. Nine, ten.  She had no need of him. Best leave the Lady to her drink.


He looked at Severatine, as though to urge him to answer the questions his responses had prompted: "How does one wisdom conflict with another knowledge?" He asked, finally.  He would leave the more pressing curiosity - the tattooed man - until after. He did not want to seem too eager, as the Mothers would then simply take the distraction away.


A tinge of sadness crossed Bleak's eyes as he realized they were all gone, and he was very far from home.
 
The Church


There's a brief whisper between the women, a slightly louder rebuke, and Cameron can tell the eldest of the three is waiting for him to finish his prayers before approaching. 
 
Perhaps alone among the newcomers, Anielka showed little interest in the bald robed man by the fire. She was aware of him certainly. But intrigued? Not especially. She'd seen a lot of strange things even before leaving Cranholme and her old life behind.  He was just one more, and not even half as strange as most who had met their deaths on the point of her spear. 


She felt Bleak's eyes upon her, and wondered what he sought. Not the same as most men who stared, of that she was sure. Her life kept her in good trim for her age, and most men interpreted "wanderer" and "slayer" as "impulsive" and "slut". She might not be the sort of woman they would bring home to meet their mothers (or their wives), but a quick tumble behind the inn and then watch the inconvenient lover leave with the dawn? That was another kettle of fish altogether, and her lips twisted sourly at the thought.  


But then, the dark-skinned Laman was not most men, and she'd never detected a hint of salaciousness in the frequent looks he gave her. His eyes left her, and she threw him a curious glance of her own before turning at last to Mine Host.


"So I hear in towns and villages for leagues around that your town has been blessed with an outstanding harvest of the fruits of the sea. Have your fishermen all taken to working night and day, or are the fish elbowing each other aside to jump into their nets?" She smiled at the whimsical icebreaker, her eyes on his face.
 
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The Fisherman's Widow


The innkeep grins, a guileless and sincere expression on such a worn face, and begins pulling a pint.


"Just good fortune, slayer," he says, without the usual hint of resentment.


One of the old men harrumphs loudly. 


"Sod the fortunes, Jan, as if my son ain't working hard."


"Hard work, too," Jan replies, smoothly, the easy patter of a lifelong mediator. "You'll be wanting the Book?" 


His voice drops to a whisper as he sets the thick, crudely-bound tome on the bar, "D'you know the monk, good slayer? Does he await your party?"


Meanwhile, most of the clientele direct suspicious glances at Bleak, as with a big dog of uncertain training.
 
Even though the inquisitor does not show a reaction right away, he clearly notices the unrest of the women. It is always like that when they await his attention, worried to make a mistake by disturbing his doings. One of the burdens of his status - while it lets him change things for the better, it also makes others fear what he is capable of. A double-edged sword, really - half of the time, his reputation serves as an armor against those not brave enough to raise their swords against him. The other half, they are too afraid to speak up, making things worse where a single word at the right time could have prevented that much pain and sorrow.


For now, however, Cameron does not mind them waiting. While he is a man ready to act when needed, there are times when it is appropriate to take your time; and rushing through the prayers to Ivarra, familiar since his childhood, is something he'd avoid whenever possible. Therefore, it takes a good while until he finally turns around, offering a brief bow before starting to speak. "A well-kept church, honoring those in whose name it was built. Cameron of the house of Thunderleigh, vassal of House Leuwaarden and, first and foremost, servant of Degra Veen - may He bless you and your families. I am here to offer my humble assistance to the honorable man providing guidance in the name of the Earth Father - would you be so kind as to tell me if I will meet him in the infarmery, or where else I can find him without interrupting his noble deeds?"
 
"Monk?" Bleak mouthed the word to himself, only half-attending the alchemist's answer - why would he when the more dire question was being attended to elsewhere without his prompting?


He glances, half-curious, half-distracted, at the events occurring at the bar - the book, the words, the exchange. It is all very far past him. No matter. He looks back at Severatine, a new question already half on his lips.
 
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Albus was briefly distracted by the mention of the monk, then focused to answer Bleak. "The primary quality of such places and institutions is not wisdom and knowledge of any sort. The temples exist for the purposes of prayer, religious services. Activities and conventions predicated on faith and dogma. A presumption that the cosmos is a certain specific way - and perish the idea that it might not be. And such for those who would propound those alternatives as heretics, heathens, what have you. It is not based on rational examination, proof or open study. We do not assume all the answers one would ever need are in some 'holy text'."
 
Now that causes Bleak to pause.  Nothing that Severatine just said makes a great deal of sense to him, at least not at first.


In Lama, the two embrace and raise all up together. Either the alchemist and his kin do not fully appreciate the wisdom which has been taught to them, or they have not properly explained their discoveries to those who do not know them.  Or at least, that is all that makes sense by his measure - it is, after all, only by way of the wisdom Lama was taught through the ages how it could learn and grow.  To deny the wisdom of the Spirits would be to invite death.   ....unless this foreign Wisdom which Thunderleigh espouses - which so far strikes him as mostly true, save for the ignorances which he allows and forgives - is far more ignorant than he yet knows.  Even so, it is still the duty of new knowledge to prove itself, or else there would be no truth.  Perhaps the alchemist and his ilk have not yet earned that proof?


"Then either it is not Wisdom, or it is not Knowledge."  he says, finally. 
 
Walker of the Sacred Plains was now intrigued by the strangers. He felt a connection to them, it was a cosmic connection that lasted through space and time. It was a connection he always had, but never felt. Something inside of him that was not, now was. He sought to be free from the burden of its mysteriousness and the curiosity it stirred within him. He at once knew and did not know that Saganas was prodding him in a direction. Which direction he could never know fully, for direction was never the important thing, only motion had value. It was his turn to be the disturbed mass, to be the creator of moment. This pair would mean something to him in the near future, it was up to him to initiate the connection between them.


The monk rose as silently as the moon wakes to signal nightfall. His quickness of motion combined with his general quietness created a queer circumstance in which he was beside the pair before most would notice he had ever moved. His attention was on Bleak now, the previous speaker, the one whose connection to spirit he felt the strongest. Not caring for or understanding social grace, (as he suspected neither did the speaker) he interrupted immediately after Bleak had only just closed his lips. 


"You speak as one with perspective as narrow as a pin, but as deep as the void." Walker stared at Bleak with intensity. Though eccentric, his presence was not immediately threatening. In fact, aside from rudeness and a lack of understanding of personal boundary, Walker seemed altogether as threatening as a sack of flour or a tin cup. He seemed so entirely detached from the environment that he carried with him the aura of a wanderer who never once knew a home.
 
Bleak abandons his discussion with Severatine, his attentions completely overruled by the monk's approach. There is not a heartbeat between his answer to Albus and the monk's observations - and in the first half-syllable Walker speaks, Bleak has turned to face the monk with square shoulders and feral curiosity.


"One can see more with eyes shut than a thousand souls do in lifetimes, if one knows how to look." He answers, voice as unaffected as one reading from a scroll. It is not banter - he does not register the monk's words as approval or insult - the Silvered one sees what he sees and so it is his reality, which is little concern of Bleak's - yet - though it is ill-fitting against the thoughts of one who has observed much of this new place on many levels, ceaselessly, since arrival.


The thoughts of the Spiritseer of the Rapine Lash are not so petty - they are simple. He wants.  His dark eyes hold the monk's as he explores their depths for answers.


"I am Bleak." He gives a slightly deferential nod of his head, a far cry from the obsequious greetings which Lady Analeika, Severatine, and Thunderleigh received when he first met them. One does not bow to the prey he hunts untill it has been caught. "What are you?"
 
The monk perceived Bleak's words as if they had been memorized for recitation at this precise moment in time. He was unsure if this one had any agency to it, or if it was merely a puppet being maneuvered from the shadows. This notion was entirely irrelevant, Walker mused to himself, because it was now obvious that the one called Bleak was meant to be in the inn at the same time as the one called Walker, he was certain their fates were intertwined on some mysterious and cosmic level. The tattooed foreigner was unaware of precisely how he knew this, but to him it was known.


The quiet monk blinked at the one called Bleak for a moment before replying with ambivalence apparent in himself.


"This one is known as Walker of the Sacred Plains. This one is a vessel of Saganas, The Twisting Vision." He replied, but it was obvious that he had more to say about the previous statement, the important one. 


"Perhaps there is wisdom to what Bleak says. This one has tried to see into the grand architecture of the planes with its eyes- in the past- Saganas was not pleased. Saganas took its memory, its self." The monk's voice trailed off as his memory tried to scrape at the blank white fog of the past, though he knew it was a futile effort. 
 
Bleak gives the monk a smile which should, at the least, be confusing. For his companions, confusing because Bleak is not one to whom smiles come naturally. To Walker, confusing because the sad story of how his sight has been taken by his divine patron is met with a response similar to that one might expect upon being told they are having roasted lamb at the feast.


"Is this why you are marked? Are these the places where your Saganas-god has bitten and left scars?" Bleak has no appetite for such a meal, as even the spittle of one as great as Saganas-god might be is too rich a meal for one who wishes apoptosis.


Bleak reaches and draws the empty bar stool beside himself and Severatine closer. "I am unfamiliar with the gods of these new places I have arrived in. They do not cast their shadows on Lama, at least not under the same names. Sit, if you please, and speak with us of them."
 
Walker's distant and unfocused gaze drifted from Bleak's unique appearance to the barstool. He had been at the town for some time now, and no one had ever asked him to sit with them. He was a stranger to all in these lands. His kind was known to the villagers, but only vaguely. He gathered that the Eotran Monk carried with it mixed connotation to the commoners of this land. Some people thought of them in idealized terms, others feared them, most refrained from contacting the strange foreigners unless a vampire or other supernatural beast needed killing. No commoner had yet requested that service of the Monk. 


Walker blinked and he was at once on the bar stool next to Bleak. He did not remember walking over to it, or making the decision to do so. Saganas' curse affected him like that, not only did he have amnesia, but he frequently did not understand how he arrived in the positions that he found himself. He did remember the conversation with Bleak, though, the other stranger in the room. 


"What you see on this one's body are prayers. Prayers to the God Saganas made physical in sacred ink interwoven to the flesh. They venerate Saganas and beseech his blessing. The God Saganas, and his kin, do not usually make such physical contact with mortals as you suggest. At least that is this one's experience."


Walker remembered Bleak's attitude as he mentioned 'gods of these new places', as if they were not the Gods of all places. This caused the Monk's brow to furrow as he wondered about Bleak's comment. His amnesia left him ignorant that there were other- drastically different systems of religion that existed outside of Eotran scripture. The Monk new that the commoners in the area remarked about his worship as worship of 'the old gods', but this only made sense to him. Of course they were old, they'd been around since long before humanity ever existed. 


After extensive consideration, Walker mentioned what was on his mind, he almost leaned into a whisper, as if he were speaking the darkest and deepest of controversies, "Do you mean to say that in Bleak's home the Gods of the Book of Creation are not worshiped, not known?"
 
The short half-crag of a man nods, the lichen on his shoulders and mottling his hair seeming to brighten a half-mote as he settles in his stool - takes root, really, less like a man relaxing with peers and more like a man-shaped mushroom.  He is unperturbed by the frantic softness in the silver-drawn one's response, and in reply rests one hand upon the bar's cracked surface, sharing with it dust from a thousand leagues away.


"This is so." He agrees, slowly sketching a loose circle with his fingertips. "We have scrolls of our own. Our own prayers and tribes and spirits that I wonder you do not see - one greater than most of has marked you." His clever fingers draw another shape on the bar, this an approximation of one of Walker's tattoos. "Just as Thunderleigh speaks like I half understand and Severatine speaks like I half do-not - you half-life like you are familiar. Maybe..."


Bleak trails off. His fingers had continued drawing the shapes of the monk's tattoos, yet somehow, his finger has chosen to stop. It can go no further. He looks at his hand, puzzled.


"Where I come from... Would not be as different?" He asks, curiously. There, he might be more welcomed to obey the impulse throttling the base of his spine - to either sacrifice and show respect to this Saganas-god spirit - or devour it whole and free the monk from its clutches.


"Does Severatine know of Saganas-god? Or Lady Analeika? Or Thunderleigh?" He asks softly, but not so softly his companions cannot hear him.
 
Severantine at first let the two handle their esoteric conversation, the Laman spirit walker and the unusual monk, but now they questioned him. "The name faintly sounds familiar," he admitted, "but I cannot say more." Perhaps something in the vast family libraries? He wasn't sure. "Thunderleigh, I doubt." More open the inquisitor might be, but that did not extend towards knowing of something like this. Unless it was on a list of 'heretic' faiths.
 
The curious monk paid attention Severantine for the first time since he had approached Bleak. It was not someone he recognized as a local, and Bleak regarded him with a queer sort of familiarity. Walker assumed they were traveling together, so this was one he had to understand as well. So many mysterious differences between people, he felt as if he could study each of them for a lifetime, but this was not the plan of Saganas. 


"The people of the village and on the road are wary of the God Saganas, or of any of the Gods. They call them "Old Gods", which this one once thought was a literal reference to their age, but it seems recently like the Gods this one worships are no longer popular among the common people." It was obvious this actuality brought confusion to the monk, in his mind the religion he worshiped contained absolute truth. 


"This one does not understand the nature of difference in religious belief, or how there can be faith in scripture that is dictated by a human institution. Perhaps all Gods are the same Gods, but each spirituality interprets their existence differently? This one supposes it isn't of consequence to discuss it."
 
Bleak was uncertain. As prone as he was to periods of speech, especially now that he was an agent of himself, there was still a... Chattiness... Which he was unable to grasp. Singularly aware that his observations on the matter, namely that the God Sanguinis was no less malleable and subject to destruction than the spirit of the stool Bleak sat upon, or indeed, the stool itself, would not be appreciated by said God's lone devotee.


"Yet this too is Wisdom. I am glad you would share it." Bleak replied after several seconds of consideration. He looked up at the barkeep.


"May I ask for a cup of water?". He decided to leave his lack of coin as a topic for another time.
 
The Church
Silanon Silanon

Two of the women seem nervous, but the one with a noble brow and raven-black hair offers you a curtsey.
"Your Honour, Father Reiner is in his study upstairs - he would no doubt be pleased to meet you."

The Tavern

The tapster, Jan, gives Bleak a look he cannot read, but it is clearly a familiar set for this person's face.
"This is a tavern," he says, slowly but not unkindly, "the well is out the door and left a little way."

He turns smoothly to Albus and Anielka.
"If you're looking for work, I'm not sure we can promise any. Been quiet here."
 
A thankful nod, another blessing - the inquisitor does what one might expect, without wasting more time of these devoted women than necessary. "I will offer him my aid right away, then, before more urgent matters might call for his attention. May the Earth Father bless your daily work, I shall find the study myself."

By now, Cameron has seen enough churches to find his way to the most relevant place of decision-making. The church itself might publish recommendations and principles, but it is here where the Fathers decide how to implement them, depending on the local situation. Some do so behind closed doors, others prefer to have an open ear for those in their aegis. While Cameron is in favor of the latter variant, some things are better kept as a secret. Thus, he won't judge the man, whether his door may be locked or not. Instead, he will knock at the doorframe either way, at the same time announcing his own arrival load enough that even an elderly priest of Degra Veen will hear his words. "Cameron Thunderleigh, servant of the Earth Father on my way through. If there is no imminent issue, I would like to aks for a few spare moments of yours, Father Reiner." There is a feeling of urgency in this particular case - but no reason to announce that officially, since even a humble servant might lose track of the right path from time to time.
 
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