"One cannot sow a lasting peace by enthroning pacifism in vanity before the Christ. Cultivate in his stead, a faith crowned in heroism, that the world may find the strength to cleanse its conscience and make straight the way to the Kingdom of Heaven."
-Anonymous
In the beginning, there was Light. The Light of Existence came first, radiant and unbroken. Beneath it the earth was formed, and upon the earth the seas poured forth. From the waters of life the soil loosened, and every seed awoke, sprouting green abundance. The plants gave forage, and the forage gave sustenance, and so the beasts of land, sea, and sky came into being.
Of the last of His creations, the Lord AVO shaped His greatest work. From the clay of the soil, AVO fashioned Adam, the first man—strong of limb, ambitious of heart, and brave in spirit. Yet man was not meant to walk alone, nor could he. From Adam’s rib-bone, AVO formed and shaped Eve, the first woman—elf-born, shrewd and sensible, hers was to be a soul tempered with divine strength.
In Eden, the hidden paradise, they grew from lowly beast to divinely inspired being. There they stood upright, their eyes opened to the difference between right and wrong through the fruit of the sacrosanct tree: the Fruit of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.
Yet for their transgressions, they were cast out of paradise. Wandering shoulder to shoulder, Adam and Eve found a land of promise, and there they built the First Kingdom. Under the compassion of the Lord God it prospered, and their children multiplied, becoming a nation blessed with abundance.
From the dark places of the world crept the Nephilim, seeking dominion over the Sons of Adam and the Daughters of Eve. United, the First Kingdom rose against them, and through blood and fire expanded their dominion across the earth.
Then came the Great Flood and Sundering of Heaven. The waters swallowed the world, and the First Kingdom perished beneath the waves. Only those who clung to mountain peaks, the debris of their civilization or to the Ark of AVO’s faithful endured, preserving within it every kind of beast in pairs of union. When the waters at last receded, the remnants descended upon the lands of Balandaria to begin anew.
Man and elf sought to rebuild what was lost, yet grief blended with loss often breeds despair, and despair breeds hatred. In time, brother turned upon brother, sister upon sister, man upon elf, and the children of the First Kingdom could no longer dwell together amongst their differences. They divided, scattering across the earth, each forging their own ways—new theologies, new histories, new tongues, new kingdoms.
From the Emberstone Mountains arose the Dwarven and the Gnomic peoples, tribes of tireless diligence. From the forests of Avalon came the Fey, the Seelie and Unseelie Courts, ancient and mysterious. From the heavens descended the Dragons, who once stood as saviors of mortal-kind against unseen evils, before turning toward dominion themselves. And from the deeps of the Hellish Inferius came the exiled and the lost, where Hell’s fires are said to burn eternal.
Thus began the long struggle of mortal-kind, ever beset by shadow. From the Far Realms came horrors beyond understanding. From the skies descended the Dragon Imperium, seizing the world in an Age of Tyranny. From Inferius arose Skorm the Sorceress, who bound herself in oath to the fallen angel, Satanael and made war upon AVO’s dominion.
The Divine Alliance sent five champions: Ser Avalor the Paladin, Lady Noscrim the Healer, Dwerin Dragonsbane the Dwarven Champion, Renard Neustria the Mystic King, and Mulias Nyrnvac, the Queen of the Twilight Elves. Together in their crusade, they smote the heretical armies of Satanael and cast down Skorm, yet theirs was a pyrrhic triumph. For with her fall, a cataclysm tore from heaven straight through creation, twisting mortals seemingly at random into monstrous shapes even as their souls and grasp of humanity endured.
This began the Great Schism. Those monsterously changed and broken were cast out by their friends, neighbors and kin, hunted and despised. Satanael, the dark prince of rebellion, gathered them to him and bade them to follow, to flee across the eastern seas. There he promised sanctuary, and vengeance yet to come.
In the far eastern continent of Myrathis they found haven. There Satanael and the exiles forged the Alazarian Dominion, uniting monsters and mortals allied to them alike in their resentment against AVO and the Divine Alliance. From his union with the sorceress Skorm was born his heir, Saskia Alazar, destined to lead the Dominion in his stead.
Now the wheel of history turns once more. Ancient evils stir. Old hatreds burn anew. The Alazarian Dominion rises in Myrathis, and their eyes turn westward toward Balandaria.
But hope yet remains, as mysterious and benevolent forces act to safeguard their charges...
Sophia Pistis -- ??? -- ??? | A walk under endless stars and an emerging evil
Barefoot, Sophia walked across fields of silver grass that sprang from pale earth, broken here and there by still pools wherein the stars were reflected. Above, the heavens stretched wide, veiled in a lattice of prismatic nebulae woven through the deep vault of night.
She knew herself as Sophia Pistis—both Wisdom and Faith. Both an anodyne of sweet succor and a bitter drought. She had come into this world from the Pleroma, drawn by her belief in the mortal condition, in the paradox of their limits and their vast capabilities.
Often her thoughts returned to them. She remembered lives brief as sparks, yet willing to stand against powers so ancient that even an Aeon might falter before them. Such memories humbled her, though they were a source of sorrow also. It was for their sake that she had defied the will of her own kind and descended into the lower world, where no Aeon was meant to tread.
Perhaps it had been folly. Wisdom did not spring forth complete, but was wrought through consequence, and purchased dearly by experience. The fool might yet become wise, if only he endured the cost of his own errors. For what was folly, if not wisdom that had come too late?
Mortals possessed a gift that no Aeon could bestow upon them. Truth gained without struggle was seldom cherished. To reveal too much was to rob them of the road they were meant to walk. Yet already she had stepped beyond the bounds appointed to her, and the judgment of her peers would surely follow.
Still she endured. If the world was to be spared another sundering, someone must bear the weight of disobedience. Let that burden rest upon her alone, Sophia tells herself. Let it rest upon her, for what haunted Sophia was not the censure of the Aeons, but the memory of her own failings and what stood to fail, in her failure to act.
She followed a winding path of pale roots until they gathered into the trunk of a single immense tree. It rose before her like a pillar wrought from living mithril, its silver bark gleaming softly beneath a canopy whose leaves shimmered with every hue of the heavens.
She laid her hand upon its trunk.
At once memory stirred within her: the joy of beginnings, the grief of endings, and the quiet presence of an old companion who still endured within the living wood.
“Nai lúmë raica, meldo yára nín. [It has been some time, my old friend.]” Her words passed softly beneath the branches. Though no wind stirred, the leaves answered with a gentle rustling before all became still once more.
Then an aged voice, warm yet heavy with long remembrance, rose from within the tree.
“Aiya, Sophia, ná calima ar núra nórenyallo. Lá úvë i turë ya toyen, cé. [Oh, Sophia, your presence is both gladdening and melancholic. Not unlike the purpose you serve.] “You have come for them, haven’t you? I knew not the day nor the hour... but I knew it would come.”
Sophia’s hand slipped from the bark. Behind her, clouds thick with murk had begun to swallow stars, bleeding the sky of its color. Time pressed close. “It is true. The hour turns swiftly. If we are to act, it must be now.”
A long pause. Then the spirit’s tone sharpened. “Are you certain, Sophia? Desperation wears the mask of foresighted council too easily. I have seen you err before, and the world suffers when you do.”
Sophia lowered her eyes. "I cannot deny it. Every choice I have made has demanded a sacrifice, and each has become another stone upon my heart. Yet if I remain idle, darkness will claim this world again—or something fouler still."
She sank to her knees and bowed until her brow touched the silver earth.
"So I ask this of you. Entrust them to my keeping. Let me bear their burden, their safety, and their fate. Only do not seek them, no matter what tidings reach your ears. And if forgiveness yet remains for me... grant it now, for what I ask of you is cruel indeed."
The tree stood in silence. Even the night seemed to hold its breath.
Then, with a long groan like the breaking of ancient ice, the heartwood parted. Silver bark drew slowly aside as roots wove themselves into a cradle lined with fragrant herbs.
Within lay two sleeping children. One bore hair as black as the starless sky; the other, white as new-fallen snow. Both were wrapped in deep blue satin, and about them lingered the faint radiance of silver starlight.
Tears welled in Sophia's eyes as she placed a hand over her heart.
“Be upon my head the consequences of my choice. To all that prospers, I give your children. Of this, I swear.”
The spirit answered, her voice trembling like leaves beneath the first breath of autumn. “Then know this, Sophia: the world itself now depends upon them. I give you what is most precious because you must not fail.”
The stillness broke. The children stirred within their cradle, giving soft cries as they shifted in sleep.
Sophia gathered them gently into her arms.
Far away, thunder rolled across the heavens. She turned and saw that the storm had drawn near, vast and terrible, its black clouds veined with crimson fire as they consumed the last remaining stars.
There was no time left. Drawing the infants close, Sophia wrapped them securely against her breast.
"We must depart," she whispered. "And swiftly."
She departed beneath the darkening sky, and where she passed, the silver grasses bent before her feet until at last their pale light was swallowed by the coming night.
??? -- ??? -- ??? | A newborn's eyes open for the first time, in a strange world
The first touch of air was cool upon the babe wrapped in satin, a breath that brushed his skin like the whisper of frost. Yet beneath that chill another warmth held him fast—a presence strange to him, yet gentle, and free of fear. Until that moment he had known only quiet repose within the silver tree, where waking and dreaming had scarcely been divided. Now the world was in motion, and with it came the steady cadence of footsteps beneath him.
Nestled within the folds of his blanket, he stirred and opened his eyes.
They were blue as the heart of a summer sky.
Above him spread a firmament unlike any dream he had known. Stars were strewn across the heavens like scattered jewels, while vast rivers of living color drifted between them in silent splendor. Below, silver grasses swayed over pale earth, and still waters mirrored the night until sky and land seemed woven into one.
He followed the arm that bore him until his gaze came to rest upon the face of the woman who carried him.
Radiant she was. Her hair flowed like blue silk beneath the starlight, and her golden eyes, though bright with ancient wisdom, softened as they met his own. She smiled with quiet affection, as one greeting a child long expected.
"Welcome to the world, little one," she said softly. "Ah. Those eyes... they are your father's."
The words held no meaning for him, yet her voice settled over him like a lullaby.
She shifted him gently, revealing the second child nestled against her other arm. The infant stirred, blinking open eyes of clear emerald.
A quiet laugh escaped her. "And yours," she whispered, "are your mother's."
She walked on through the silver reeds until she raised one slender hand between them. Light gathered above her palm. It whirled upon itself like water caught within an unseen current, taking the shape of a crystal flower whose petals shimmered with every color of the heavens.
The children reached toward it. At the touch of their tiny fingers the blossom burst apart, not into fragments, but into two little rabbits of silver light. They bounded across her hand, twitching their ears before leaping from finger to finger.
The children laughed and Sophia laughed with them.
"Look well, little ones. The world is fair and good." She looked at them both, the depth of her gaze belying the simplicity of her words. “You will wield great magic too. It flows in your blood. It is your birthright.”
But the children, enraptured, heard none of it—too dazzled by the marvels that bloomed and danced in their guardian’s hand The rabbits dissolved into drifting motes that vanished upon the breeze, and she continued her journey beneath the jeweled sky.
Then the heavens broke. A blinding flash consumed the night. Thunder followed—not as the voice of a storm, but as though the firmament itself had been rent asunder.
Sophia drew the children close as the world trembled. Dark clouds rolled across the stars until they covered the heavens from horizon to horizon. At their center the blackness parted where a malevolent foul Eye looked down upon the world.
Vast beyond measure, crimson in its burning gaze, it hung suspended above the earth like a wound torn open in creation itself.
The children wept.
Then came a voice. Its speech was unknown to mortal ears, each word ringing like iron struck upon stone, proud and terrible, filling the air with a weight that pressed upon every living thing.
The children clung to their guardian, seeking safety in her arms. The words rolled across the heavens like judgment. The infants buried themselves against Sophia's breast.
The blue-eyed child looked upward once more, yet her face was not fearful. Only weary. As one who had endured this quarrel many times before.
She answered in the same ancient tongue, her voice neither raised in anger nor diminished by fear.
The words of the Eye settled upon the land like poison carried upon still water. Even the air seemed burdened beneath their passing.
Sophia lowered her gaze. For a heartbeat sorrow crossed her face. Nothing more.
She came at last to the shore of a great and silent lake whose waters stretched farther than sight could follow. There she knelt, with gentle hands she plucked a reed from the water's edge.
The single reed divide in her hand, its fibers unwound and lengthened of their own accord, twining together with quiet purpose until a small cradle stood where moments before there had been only a handful of rushes.
She laid the children within. Soft reeds lined the little vessel, and over them she spread a woven covering against the chill of the night.
For a long while she simply looked upon them. Her head bowed. The curtain of her hair concealed her face, and only the sound of one unsteady breath disturbed the stillness.
When at last she looked upon them again, tears shone openly within her eyes.
"You need not understand," she whispered. She fell silent. Then she smiled, though sorrow lingered within it.
"No... it is enough that you live." Her fingers lingered against their cheeks. "You are the hope I entrust to this world. My love goes with you. My faith goes with you. Live... whatever may come."
A single tear fell upon the blue-eyed child. He watched it glisten upon his cheek. If one so radiant could weep, then true are the benevolence of even the highest of angels. She bent low and kissed each child upon the brow,then she rose.
Radiant energies gathered once more, flowing about her outstretched hand until it hardened into a staff of silver-white metal. Twin serpents coiled about its length, their open jaws cradling a crimson jewel that burned like a captive star.
Chaos descended from the shadowed skies with phantom-like shapes fell from the clouds that bore the eye above. The woman reacted at once, slamming the pommel of the staff into the basket and shoving it into the waters. The cradle drifted from the shore, carrying the children away as the woman spun around—her staff carving streaks of lightning across the air.
Each bolt leapt from the tip of her staff, striking at the spectral forms as they closed in. The phantoms shrieked with piercing wails, their cries twisting into the children’s minds—inhuman, painful, unnatural. The infants cried out, overwhelmed and terrified.
But the woman did not falter. She cast forth light, radiant and blinding, forcing the shapes to recoil. The Eye above howled—a guttural, enraged roar—as it locked its gaze on the basket. A lance of searing light fired from its pupil, hurling toward the drifting cradle.
Yet she was faster. She threw herself into the path of the beam, screaming as it struck her side. A wound opened beneath her ribs, and from it dripped not blood, but shining, shimmering liquid—light itself bleeding from her seemingly human form.
“You will not have them!” she shouted, her voice defiant, unwavering. Her golden eyes blazed as she clutched her wound and turned back toward the basket.
The woman raised her staff, hands tight around the grip of its construct. Then—slammed its pommel into the ground.
A shockwave rippled outward with immense power! Water quickly surged into the basket. The weave buckled. The cradle dipped, taking on water until its passengers were submerged. The infants screamed—but their cries were swallowed by the water, reduced to rising bubbles that danced toward the surface and vanished.
They sank—helpless, flailing, unable to escape. Down into the dark. Their wide eyes saw no more of the battle above. No light, no sound. Only cold, and silence. Left alone with their fear.
The blue-eyed child wanted only to return to what had come before—to peace, to comfort, to the soft quiet of the silver tree. Not this. Not this nightmare.
But now, there was only uncertainty. And then—darkness. This was merely a bad dream...
Surely. A bad dream.
??? -- Village of Reinhurst, Lothar -- Early Morning, 1st Aetheris Frostdawn, 1992 TGS
Cold pressed upon him from every side. The blankets that had once held warmth were sodden now, their comfort long fled. Beneath him the little cradle no longer drifted upon dark waters, but rested upon frozen earth. Slowly the child opened his sapphire eyes.
Above him hung a night sky clouded with the color of hammered iron, while snow fell softly from its silent heights, each flake wandering upon the wind before coming gently to rest.
The silver tree and its bizarre landscapes were gone. In its place stood a little village nestled beneath the shadow of ancient woods, where every roof and branch lay buried beneath the white mantle of winter.
The cottages huddled close together against the cold. Their walls were framed with rough oak darkened by years of rain, the spaces between filled with weathered daub already cracked by many seasons. Great roofs of pale thatch sloped low over the doorways, heavy with snow, while thin threads of smoke escaped through the eaves and drifted into the still morning air. Stacks of split firewood leaned against stone foundations, and narrow paths wound through frozen mud from one humble dwelling to the next.
It was unlike anything the child had seen. A quiet cry stirred beside him. He turned and saw the other infant had awakened. Emerald eyes blinked beneath pale lashes, and for a fleeting moment a strange comfort settled upon the blue-eyed child. Whatever had passed beneath the dark waters had not carried them apart.
The blue-eyed child looked down, and alas, the cradle was no longer the shining vessel fashioned by the mysterious woman's hand. Its silver sheen had faded into little more than woven reeds, brown with age and damp from the cold. The satin wrappings clung heavily about them, wet through with melting snow.
The child drew himself close against his brother. Then a scream broke the stillness. It came from somewhere beyond the cottages. Another followed, nearer.
A woman burst from one of the houses, stumbling through the snow with terror lending swiftness to her steps. Her bare feet left crimson traces upon the white earth behind her.
Steel flashed for a mere moment that trailed behind her before she fell without a cry. The snow scattered upon her fall, and scarlet spread slowly beneath her still form.
Silence held for scarcely a heartbeat. Then the woods came alive, as shapes poured forth between the trees.
At first they seemed like men, yet there was something awry in every movement. Their limbs bent with unnatural haste, their laughter rose like the baying of beasts, and their faces were twisted by a malice no human countenance should bear.
One of the being smashed a window with the sounds of shattered glass cracking against the air before tossing a torch into the shelter causing the house to glow from inside before its flame began to spread. By the time it reached the roofs, what dry thatch there was caught fire all at once.
Flames climbed eagerly into the winter sky, and before long another roof was burning, then another, until the whole village glowed with the dreadful light of its own undoing.
Their laughter rose above the crackling fire. The cries of the children within the basket were lost within it.
Yet suddenly the cradle was lifted. Desperate hands seized its rim and bore it swiftly away. The world lurched from the view within the basket. Snow and darkness wheeled together before the infants' eyes as the unseen bearer fled between the cottages.
The green-eyed child cried aloud. "Hush," whispered a woman's voice.
She held the basket tightly against her breast as she ran. Her breath came hard in the frozen air, and the scent of pine clung to her garments. She moved with the sure footing of one who knew every path through the sleeping village.
Behind them the fires burned ever brighter along with the howling braying that followed. At length she came to an old crossroads where a weathered signpost stood leaning beneath the weight of snow.
There she halted. Her eyes searched the darkness ahead and from behind. Finding no pursuer near at hand, she knelt beside a guide post by the road leading out from the village. At its foot was revealed a hollowed deep niche within the old timber, hidden beneath drifting snow and tangled shrubbery.
With trembling care she lowered the little cradle into its shelter. The hollow received the children, concealing them from the road. For one brief moment all was still.
A face appeared at the mouth of the hollow.
Fair it was, framed beneath a woolen hood, with ears that tapered to fine points and hair pale as winter straw. Hazel eyes searched the road before falling upon the children hidden within the little cradle.
"You must make no sound," she whispered. "It is not safe. Not here." She gathered the green-eyed child gently into her arms until his sobbing eased to little more than trembling breaths.
"Hush now. Close your eyes, little ones. Cover your ears if you can. Be still." Her voice faltered. "Someone will come for you."
The blue-eyed child watched her without blinking. He knew nothing of her words, yet there was comfort in the softness with which she spoke them.
The elf glanced over her shoulder. Something unseen had drawn her attention.
Swiftly she pressed the cradle deeper into the hollow beneath the weathered post. It was a narrow refuge, scarcely large enough to conceal them, yet the wind could no longer reach them there.
She lingered only long enough to look upon them once more. "Be still," she said quietly. Then she departed, from over the hill and descended from it, and she was gone.
The children watched through the narrow opening as her slender form disappeared into the drifting snow. She paused once upon the hillside to look behind her, then vanished among the dark pines beyond.
An unsettling peace blanketed over the crossroads once more. Surely she would return. She had promised.
The blue-eyed child closed his eyes, trusting in the gentle voice that had hidden them away. Perhaps, if they obeyed, whatever evil stalked the night would pass them by.
Yet closing his eyes could not shut out the spreading chaos from the village. The fires still roared . Wood split and groaned beneath the flames.
Voices cried out—first in terror, then in agony, until one by one they fell away into silence. Above them rose the wild laughter of those who hunted through the village, mingled with the clash of steel and the crackling of burning roofs.
The children drew close together. They waited. Time passed before them without measure.
The glow of the burning village crept slowly across the snow until even the weathered signpost stood bathed in the dull red light of distant fire. The cries of the villagers grew fewer until they ceased altogether.
Other voices came instead. Hard, harsh, commanding voices. Presently there came the sound of horses.
Hooves struck the frozen road and halted close by, while bridles rattled and harness buckles rang softly against steel. Boots crunched upon the snow. Someone had stopped beside the signpost.
"It is not enough that the village burns!" The voice was sharp with anger, carrying easily through the still night. "You know your orders. Until they are found, none of you shall eat."
Steel rang as a sword left its scabbard. "Search every road. Every field. Every wood. Leave no hollow untouched. And if I find anyone falling behind, I'll personally break every bone in that man's body."
The horse stamped impatiently as the sound of the boots seem to lift back up onto the horse. "We ride west. Officers, keep your companies together. If any yet live, they are not to escape."
A harsh jeer of understanding answered him. Moments later the riders departed, their horses thundering across the frozen ground before the sound scattered in many directions as the companies divided.
Once more the night became still, the children scarcely dared to breathe. The hours crept onward. The fires burned lower, and from time to time another roof gave way with a shower of sparks that drifted upward into the darkness.
Hunger gnawed within them. Cold settled once more into their little limbs.They pressed themselves together beneath the damp wrappings, finding what small comfort they could in one another's warmth.
No one came in all this time. At last even the fires had dwindled to scattered embers. Only then did the lack of ambience become heavier than the noise that had gone before.
The children could bear it no longer. Their quiet whimpers rose into helpless cries, small voices trembling beneath the ruined sky, carried upon the winter wind into a world that gave no answer.
Cassius - Forests of Reinhurst, Lothar -- Early Morning, 1st Aetheris Frostdawn, 1992 TGS
The first pale hint of dawn gathered beyond the eastern pines as a caravan made its slow way along the frozen road. Wagons creaked beneath their burdens, wheels groaning against rutted earth hardened by frost. Snow muffled the tread of men and horses alike, until little could be heard save the soft clink of harness, the breathing of weary beasts, and the murmur of travelers greeting another bitter morning.
Their road led north through the borderlands of Castillia and into the forests of Lothar, where they hoped to reach the village of Reinhurst before pressing onward to the city of Conevico.
Within the fore of the column walked a monk in a weathered brown cloak, leading a sturdy mountain pony by its reins. Though his hood sheltered much of his face from the cold, the lantern swinging beside him revealed features still youthful: hair the color of autumn wheat, a neatly kept beard, and eyes bright with quiet intelligence. The long miles had left their mark upon him, yet there remained an easy kindness in his countenance that neither hardship nor winter had worn away.
His name was Cassius, Prior of the Monastery of Saint Noscrim in distant Lycaron, the royal city of Neustria. Though more accustomed to parchment than the saddle, he had chosen to walk beside the pilgrims entrusted to his care, sharing alike in their burdens and the long road before them.
Riding at his side came Lady Vesna of Neustria.
A mantle of wolf fur lay about her shoulders, its hood casting her face into shadow, though beneath it could still be seen robes of deep blue, worked with delicate threads of gold. Her bearing spoke plainly of noble birth, yet she sat her horse with the confidence of one long acquainted with rough country. Her eyes seldom rested, wandering instead from tree to tree and over every drift where danger might conceal itself.
For a time neither spoke. Only the wind kept them company. At length Vesna smiled faintly. "The winter of Lothar seems intent upon testing your resolve, Father."
Cassius glanced toward her, his breath rising in white clouds before him. "I cannot say it has surpassed the winters of northern Neustria, my lady. Those, I think, are every bit as merciless."
"Is that so?" There was quiet amusement in her voice. "I seem to recall another country altogether where your courage proved less steadfast."
Cassius looked knowingly toward her. "Ah. The desert. I had hoped you had forgotten."
Vesna was most unable to contain her look of smug superiority. "I remember a certain Prior who declared the heat more than tolerable before nearly collapsing beneath it."
Cassius laughed, though the sound was half hidden beneath his scarf. "I confess the memory is an uncomfortable one. Perhaps I was too much of a glutton for good water.." He inclined his head in surrender. "I shall not contest the matter."
Their laughter faded into the stillness as the caravan pressed onward.
Behind them stretched a company of nearly two hundred souls. Merchants journeyed beside pilgrims, craftsmen beside wandering scholars, while families trudged patiently through the snow with children wrapped close against the cold. Along either flank rode mailed knights clad in white mantles marked with crimson crosses, their watchful eyes never straying far from the dark woods that hemmed the road.
The pilgrimage had been blessed by the Ordo Cleri, and the Templars had taken upon themselves the charge of seeing it safely across the northern frontier.
Cassius drew his cloak more tightly about himself. "I shall say this in winter's favor," he remarked after a while. "Cold may trouble the bones, yet it yields before a good fire. Wood may be gathered, and flame coaxed forth with patient hands. A comfort denied in Sehlaria."
Vesna slowly nodded "Indeed."
Cassius gave a rueful smile. "There the sun itself seems bent upon proving that mortal flesh was fashioned in error. No shade lasts, no breeze lingers, and every step invites another measure of misery. I fear the Our Maker intended me for colder lands."
Vesna bemused at Cassius's assessment. "Ah, verily true. Perhaps now our water was frozen in ice, the rest of us would be spared the comedy of you drinking it like a fish."
"Better a frozen fish than a frying one in that sun, I reckon." Cassius quips.
For a little while they rode in companionable silence, listening only to the slow turning of wheels and the distant calls of ravens hidden somewhere beyond the snow-laden forest.
"When we reach Reinhurst," Cassius said at last, "we shall replenish our stores and allow both men and beasts a brief rest. If Providence favors us, Conevico lies only a few days beyond."
Vesna drew her cloak closer against the morning wind. "Then let us pray Providence keeps the roads kinder than this weather."
Her expression shifted suddenly. The humor left her eyes. She slowed her horse to a halt, scanning the forest edge with narrowed gaze. Vesna's smile faded.
She drew her horse to a halt, her gaze fixed upon the dark line of the forest. Something in her bearing changed so swiftly that Cassius felt it before he understood it. He stopped beside her, following her eyes toward the silent trees.
The caravan slowed of its own accord. Then came the sound of galloping hooves. Two riders burst from the winding road ahead, their horses flecked with foam, snow flying beneath their iron shoes.
"Halt the column!" one cried, his voice carrying over the stillness. "Rouse Commander Reickart! Halt the column!" The words swept through the caravan.
Drivers hauled upon their reins. Wagons groaned to a standstill. Pilgrims looked anxiously from face to face, while the Templars were already reaching for their swords and shields.
Cassius rested one hand upon the leather satchel at his side, where beneath herbs and bandages lay the knife he carried for darker necessities. Vesna had not moved as her eyes remained upon the trees.
The scouts wheeled their mounts, urging the caravan beneath the shelter of the pines where the road narrowed between heavy boughs laden with snow.
Questions spread swiftly among the pilgrims, but before fear could take root Vesna raised her voice. "Remain with the wagons. No one leaves the road."
She pointed toward a young penitent standing nearby. "The Prior's pony. Hold him until we return." The youth nodded hurriedly.
Cassius surrendered the reins without protest and followed Vesna back to the center of the column. "What has happened?" he asked quietly.
She did not look toward him. "We shall know soon enough."
Near the foremost wagon of the center wagon train a knight emerged, fastening the last buckle of his sword belt as he walked out. Though plainly roused from sleep, there was nothing sluggish in his manner.
Commander Reickart accepted his helm beneath one arm while his eyes passed over the gathering company with practiced ease.
"What news?" He inquired.
One scout dismounted, reins passed to a pilgrim, and saluted with a clenched fist over the heart. “Commander—Reinhurst is afire. Raiders—organized—riding in three columns. North, northwest, and east.”
Reickart’s jaw tensed. His eyes flared wide, and for a moment he looked ready to hurl his helmet to the snow. Instead, he froze mid-motion. His fingers gripped the leather lining inside the helm, then curled against the cold metal. He exhaled hard—controlled, grim—and with both hands raised the helmet and placed it atop his head.
“How many?” he asked. “Banners? Sigils?”
“Thirty, maybe forty,” the second scout said. “Lightly mounted, mostly on foot. Only one rode east. No banner—kits were too clean for common rabble.”
“Then we secure the village,” Reickart said, voice flattened to iron. “See what can be saved—or what can be taken back.”
He turned to Cassius. “Arm yourself. Bring what defenses you can. Lady Vesna, keep this caravan in the woods until I send word.”
Reickart addressed the whole line. “Torches out! I want this place dark as the void. Huddle close to preserve warmth—stay ready to move!”
Cassius moved toward the wagon-armory, hands already stripping off his outer robe. He pulled chainmail over his tunic, tested the weight of a flanged mace at his hip, grimacing as the cold bit through leather. He was a man of prayers and remedies, not of blade and shield, but the road required what it required.
Outside, he heard Vesna’s voice rise in protest. “Ser Reickart, I must protest—I can help—” “You can,” Reickart cut in sharply, glaring up at her from the ground despite her elevated seat. “You can help by keeping the caravan together. If Reinhurst hides something we can’t handle, someone must keep this expedition ready to move—or survive.”
Vesna’s mouth opened to argue, but the commander continued. “Your help is appreciated. But I must insist on my caution over your bravado.” Turning now to the armory wagon “Double time, Father,” Reickart called back. “Haste, not just stealth. If frost takes us first, nothing left to protect.”
Cassius found a flanged mace, simple but serviceable. As a cleric, he relied on healing magic, not the art of the blade—so his weapon was chosen for utility, not style. He threw the chainmail shirt over his tunic, wincing as the weight settled on his shoulders, then pulled his monk’s robe back on over it.
Clambering out into the now-darkened woods, Cassius was met by the same scout, who clasped him firmly on the shoulder. “This way.” They made their way to the front of the caravan, weaving through tense pilgrims and extinguished lanterns.
As they passed Vesna, Cassius caught her scowling in the saddle, white-knuckled on her reins. But when their eyes met, her expression softened just enough. “We’ll be back, milady!” Cassius called over his shoulder.
She said nothing, but turned her horse with a sharp jerk and began barking orders to the caravan, her voice cutting clean through the cold. For now, her role was to protect the helpless and keep hope intact.
The Templar soldiers arrayed at the front, breath steaming, armor clinking as they tested gloved grips. Cassius joined the levies and volunteers, dropping to the rear of the fighting line where clerics best served. Reickart stepped upon a fallen trunk so that all might see him.
“RIGHT!” The single word brought the company to stillness. Reickart looked from one face to the next before turning toward the dark plume of smoke rising beyond the trees. "Reinhurst is under attack. Whether by brigands or the levy of some robber lord matters little. If they have turned to plunder, then luck may have us overcome them while they search for loot."
“We move to secure the village and rescue what we can. Scouts—take flanks. Knights—skein formation into the center. Priorities: secure ground, rescue survivors, regroup.”
His voice grew sterner. “If a house is burning with people inside, do not rush in blindly—inform me. We'll have enough labor without saving would-be-heroes.” A chorus of stamped boots and shouted assent answered him; the men struck a fist to chest in salute.
“Scouts— forward advance!” Reickart drew his longsword in a single, practiced motion, the blade catching the morning haze. “Vanguard—form and advance behind!”
The last torches were quenched, and the little force slipped beneath the pines with scarcely more sound than the whisper of wind through snow-laden boughs. Ahead went the scouts, vanishing among the trees like spirits of the wood. Behind them marched the Templars in close order, shields ready and spears inclined.
Forward into the pine-shadowed cold, where smoldering smoke hung over Reinhurst and the clangor of battle waited like an answering bell.
The scouts vanished into the dark forest, bowmen and light-footed blades darting like shadows. Behind them, the armored Templars advanced in a tight arrowhead—skein formation—marching with deliberate speed.
Reickart led from the head of the vanguard, his sword held low before him. Cassius moved behind the formation—his role not to fight, but to provide support. The mail upon his shoulders seemed heavier than before, not for its weight, but for the burden that awaited them beyond the hill.
The march quickened as they ascended the low hill leading to the village. Even from afar, the heat from the fires rolled out like a tide, searing against their skin despite the winter frost.
And then—they crested the hill. The village green came into view... or what was left of it.
Massacre. Snow ran red with blood. Bodies lay strewn across the field—villagers of every age, hacked and frozen in grotesque poses. The fires still burned, their orange glow casting flickering shadows across the scene. Snowflakes fell softly over the corpses, a quiet shroud settling over carnage.
No sound came from the village now. Only the hiss of fire, the creak of collapsing timbers, and the crunch of armored boots approaching a graveyard that had once been home.
"By the blood of the Martyrs." One of the soldiers recoiled with shock. "Crucifix." Cassius curses as while his hands were open, he quickly reaches to his cross shaped amulet.
A sudden hesitation from the soldiers stirs as Reickart pounded his breastplate which sharpened their attention. "Skein left! Check the north end of the village. Skein right! With me! Cassius, check for survivors amongst the dead." Reickart commanded. "Move!"
Cassius felt a wrenching dread deep in his gut. But it wasn’t the dead he feared. It was their faces.
He had served many years as an adventurer, holy knight, a cleric—alongside holy knights, in the ranks of his nation’s secular armies, in far-off fields and burned cities. Battlefields were wretched enough, but at least there was a cold logic to them. Soldiers bore arms. They had already made their choices. There, one could adopt a necessary callousness that kept them alive.
But this—this was different. This was indiscriminate slaughter.
Here, no one amongst the innocent had chosen anything. Here the —the helpless, the defenseless, the elderly, the children. No blood shed amidst soldiers, only blood of the uninvolved.
He moved among the corpses, robes dragging through crimson-stained snow. Faces emerged through the haze—frozen in agony, cut down in flight, curled in futile attempts to shield others. He clutched his amulet tightly, fingers digging into the worn metal.
His voice quavered but held: "Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine. Et lux perpetua luceat eis. Fidelium animae, per misericordiam AVO, requiescant in pace. Amen." (Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon them. And may the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of AVO, rest in peace. Amen.)
Tears gathered unbidden in Cassius' eyes, yet he did not wipe them away.
Slowly he walked the ruined streets, passing from one blackened doorway to the next, pausing wherever hope might still have lingered. Yet each house yielded only silence. Beneath broken beams the Templars searched with mailed hands, lifting charred timbers and shattered rafters, calling into the darkness where no voice answered..
The village seemed content to keep its dead. Without warning a great crack split the tension in the air.
One of the burned cottages gave way, its roof collapsing inward beneath its own weight. A cloud of sparks and ash billowed into the pale sky as beams struck the frozen earth with a thunderous roar.
Cassius started despite himself. His hand found the crucifix beneath his cloak, and for a moment he stood with head bowed until the beating of his heart grew steadier once more.
The search resumed. Snow drifted quietly through the smoke. Cassius brushed the soot from his face with the sleeve of his robe.
Then, amidst the hurl and whirl of the fiery carnage, he heard it.
A cry in the distance. So faint that at first he mistook it for the wind. Another followed. Not one child, but two. The sound came again, carried from beyond the far edge of the village, somewhere near the crossroads where the road divided toward the forest.
For an instant he remained where he stood, and only upon determining in which direction the cries originated from, is when he ran. His boots struck frozen ground as he hurried between abandoned homes, vaulting fallen fences and shattered carts alike. Around him the dead looked on with sightless eyes, but he scarcely noticed them.
“Father Cassius!” a soldier called from the northern end of the village, spotting him breaking formation. “Cassius! Get back in formation!” Commander Reickart’s voice followed, sharp and clipped. He grit his teeth, then motioned his squad forward. “Cassius!”
Still the Prior ran.
He reached the crossroads just beyond the edge of the village—a juncture that branched into a snow-coated hill, the shadowed forest, and the farmlands to the east. A weathered signpost stood watch, its wooden arms pointing the way to it's titled destinations.
The crying had grown louder, yet he could not tell from where it came. It seemed to rise from the earth itself.
"Commander!" Cassius called, turning in search of the sound. "Here! I hear them!" Reickart arrived moments later with a knot of Templars close behind him. His eyes swept the fields, the tree line, the drifting snow. Nothing but wind and the distant hiss of fire.
“Soldiers!” he barked. “Fan out—search the fields for tracks, drag marks, anything that might tell us who did this.”
Cassius stepped carefully toward the signpost, his brows furrowed. “They left their children here. But why?”
“Most likely because they had to,” Reickart replied grimly, moving beside him. “Bandits aren’t often organized—but they’re relentless. A child would slow escape. Give away a hiding place.”
The commander glanced at the signpost. “And children don’t fetch coin. They’re mouths to feed, not merchandise. If the raiders saw them... maybe they didn’t care. Maybe they didn’t notice. Or maybe...”
Reickart didn’t finish the thought.
Cassius dropped to one knee, crawling around the base of the post, inspecting its perimeter. When he circled to the far side—facing away from the village—he froze.
“My word...” Cassius leaned in, brushing away snow, and revealed the carved entrance.
Within the hollow of the signpost was a woven basket. And in that basket—two infants, bundled in soft, tattered blankets, their cries piercing in the cold. “That’s... that’s a lot of effort to hide a child,” Cassius murmured.
Reickart crouched beside him. "That hollow has been there many years. I imagine it's an invention of youths."
Cassius reached in gently, pulling the basket free from its hiding place and holding it close. The infants cried louder in the open air, their cheeks red from cold, eyes glistening.
“There, there... let’s get you out of there,” Cassius murmured, soothingly. He opened the blankets, examined their clothes, his frown deepening.
“No names. No markers. Nothing to tell us who they are.” Reickart exhaled through his nose, rising back to his feet. “The village is secure,” he said. “I’ll order the caravan forward. We'll begin tending to the dead.”
He paused, then turned a hard glance down toward the priest. "And next time..." The Prior looked up. "...you will keep to my orders."
Cassius looked up, startled. Reickart continued his lecture looking down upon Cassius.
“What if those cries had been bait? You’d have led us into a slaughter. You’re a priest, not a scout.”
Cassius’s mouth parted to speak, but he looked away. “…Sorry, ser,” he said quietly.
Reickart withdrew a small whistle from beneath his armored gorget and sounded two clear notes across the frozen fields.
Far below, one of the templar scouts emerged from the forests, loosing a single flaming arrow that climbed into the pale morning sky before falling near the waiting caravan. A caravan that had now begun to stir and approach towards the village.
Cassius watched the fire fade into smoke, then looked down at the infants in his arms. Their cries had softened into hiccups and whimpers, their small heat pressed into him.
“Who was your family, little ones?” he murmured. “Did they even make it?” He removed one glove, laying his warm palm against their chilled brows. “Shameful,” he whispered. “The times we live in—where butchery like this can happen.”
Behind him, Reickart paced in tight restless circles, his expression tense. Then, with a sudden motion, he slammed his boot into the side of the signpost.
“A pox on it all!” he growled.
His gaze swept over the fields and the fringes of the forest. The raiders had moved on.
“We’ll need to change our course,” he said grimly. “There’s nothing left here to salvage—and I suspect the next villages will fare no better. Until we reach Conevico, we’re vulnerable. Not just to attack—but to cold. To hunger.”
Cassius looked up, cradling the basket with his hands. “But what of the children? What of their family? The people here—”
Reickart cut him off with a firm voice, tempered by a hand resting on the prior’s shoulder. “They had families. They don’t have homes.” He met Cassius’s troubled gaze as he continued his observations.
“It is the height of winter, even for all my scouts, we would not be able to forage much in these lands, especially if these roaming bandits are so great in number to be so bold to attack a village. Between the pilgrims we need to feed, to keep safe. We lack good weather, information, supplies and advantage against these marauders. The risk is too great.”
He looked back toward the village. “It’s four days to Conevico. And the cold will only grow crueler to those without fire or shelter.” He rejoined his eyes back into Cassius's, his expression reserved with coldness. “Do you understand me?”
Cassius hesitated, his brows tightened. He looked down at the infants, then back toward the smoldering rooftops. The weight of it pressed against his chest like a prayer unfinished. But he nodded.
“…Very well.” He exhaled slowly, dread and relief twisting together in his gut. They had saved someone. Two small lives. Saved. Yet so many more had been lost.
“I’ll make inquiries in the city,” he added. “Someone might know them.”
“That would be best,” Reickart said, his voice softening. “We make camp here for the day. A pyre for the departed. Then we move on.”
The caravan entered Reinhurst before the sun had fully risen. The pilgrims gathered timber. The Templars bore the dead from ruined homes with all the dignity they could still be given. Before another road was taken, there would be funeral pyres.
Cassius walked among them in silence, the two infants cradled close against his breast, while fresh snow descended over the village like a final benediction, covering alike the ashes of the fallen and the footprints of those who yet endured.
Vesna -- Village of Reinhurst, Lothar -- Early Morning, 1st Aetheris Frostdawn, 1992 TGS
The caravan lingered beneath the shelter of the southern pines, where the forest broke upon the open country below Reinhurst. The caravaners spoke only in murmurs, and even the horses seemed unwilling to disturb the uneasy stillness. Every eye turned northward, waiting for some sign from the company that had gone ahead.
Lady Vesna remained in the saddle. She had not moved for some time.
Around her rode a handful of Templar scouts, the last shield between the pilgrims and whatever ill fortune might yet descend upon them. The greater part of those gathered beneath the trees were no warriors at all, but merchants with their wares, pilgrims bound for holy places, widows seeking distant kin, and penitents whose strength lay more in faith than in arms. There were enough seasoned hands to keep wolves from the campfire, perhaps even a few desperate thieves, but should a company of mounted raiders emerge from the woods, their fortunes would rest upon little more than prayer.
The waiting proved harder than the march. At last a whistle drifted faintly across the frozen fields. A heartbeat later a flaming arrow climbed into the pale sky before descending beyond the snow-covered meadow.
Vesna's shoulders eased. "They have the village," she said. Drawing her reins, she raised her voice.
"Forward! Keep to your order, and let no wagon stray from the road." The column lurched once more into motion.
Wheels groaned beneath their burdens, harness bells chimed softly, and boots pressed fresh tracks into the snow. Vesna rode beside the foremost wagons, her gaze wandering from the road to the silent forest and back again, never lingering long in one place. Before them the smoke of Reinhurst climbed into the morning, dark against the whitening heavens.
The warmth reached them before the village itself came into view. It carried no comfort. Only the bitter scent of burned timber.
At the edge of the trees, two mounted scouts emerged to meet them, raising gloved hands to halt the advance. One rode forward.
"My lady." The scout expressed. “What devilry’s happened here?” Vesna demanded. “Any signs—any indication at all?” The man hesitated. His companion lowered his eyes. "We cannot rightly say. The village is lost." He glanced toward the smoke beyond the ridge. "Every house was put to the torch."
For a moment Vesna said nothing. "The dead?" She asked. "The commander has ordered pyres." His voice had grown quieter. "There are too many to leave where they lie."
She closed her eyes briefly. "So." The single word carried more weariness than anger. Vesna exhaled, jaw tight. Her gaze climbed the slope toward the ruined village. From here, she could just make out the flicker of torches and the dark silhouettes of soldiers working among the dead.
“The commander’s also ordered the caravan to set camp in the eastern fields until the salvage is complete and a full account made,” the scout added.
She gave a small, bitter scoff. “Well then. Carry on.”
With a kick of her heels, her horse broke into a smooth trot, circling the detour past the village. The caravan turned aside before reaching the village itself, passing instead through the open fields where snow still lay untouched beneath the winter sun. There the wagons formed a broad circle while men unharnessed horses and drovers set about pitching tents with practiced hands.
Already smoke rose from fresh campfires. A pilgrim came forward as Vesna dismounted, accepting her reins with a respectful bow before leading the mare toward the growing line of pickets, where hay and water had already been laid out for the weary animals.
She crossed the encampment at an unhurried pace.
The kitchen tent was little more than canvas and stout poles when she arrived, yet the cooks had wasted no time. Tables were being assembled from rough planks, cauldrons hung above the fire, and sacks of grain, onions, turnips, and dried meats were stacked beneath an awning to keep them free of snow.
"How fare we?" she asked. One of the scullery women straightened from a heavy crate and brushed flour from her apron.
"We shall eat well enough, my lady." She smiled faintly. "No feast, mind you—but no empty bellies either." She pointed toward the eastern hedgerows.
"We've sent lads to set snares along the fields and into the woods. If fortune smiles, we'll have hare or pheasant before the pot is finished."
"Good." Vesna drew back her hood.
The cold caught at her dark hair as it fell across her shoulders. With practiced fingers she gathered it behind her head and bound it with a simple leather cord before rolling back the sleeves of her riding cloak. There was comfort to be found in work. Without another word she stepped beside the cooks.
The fire beneath the great kettle had already begun its steady song. Grain simmered in rich stock while onions and herbs were laid upon the board awaiting the knife. At Vesna's direction the morning meal would be frumenty, hearty enough to warm both knight and pilgrim alike after the bitter march. Should the hunters return before the broth was finished, whatever game they carried would be dressed and added to the pot.
It was humble fare. Yet on mornings such as these, warmth shared beneath a common roof was no small blessing.
Beyond the fields the smoke of Reinhurst continued to climb into the heavens. Within the camp another kind of smoke rose to meet it, bearing with it the scent of bread, grain, and burning oak.
A broad-shouldered man emerged from the line of supply wagons, bearing a pine beam across one shoulder and a sack of iron spikes beneath the other arm. Though burdened, his stride remained even, each foot finding firm purchase upon the frozen ground as though he had long ago learned to measure the earth before trusting it.
He laid the timber beside the cookfire and stood for a moment, studying the rough frame that had been raised above the hearth. His brow furrowed. "The rear post has settled," he said at length, his voice mellow, touched by the rounded cadence of a Castilian. "Only a little—but once the cauldron is full, she'll begin to lean."
One of the younger kitchen hands looked up with an expression halfway between offense and disbelief. Lady Vesna spared the frame a careful glance.
The carpenter was right. The thaw beneath the fire had softened the snow, and one corner of the support had already begun to sink.
Before anyone could answer, the stranger set down his tools. From a leather pouch he drew a narrow wedge of oak and crouched beside the post. A handful of measured blows from a wooden mallet drove the shim beneath the timber. He rocked the frame once with both hands, watched it settle, then gave a satisfied nod.
"There." He rose again, brushing snow and sawdust from his gloves. "It'll hold."
Vesna regarded him for a moment. "You've a craftsman's eye."
The man inclined his head. "I should hope so, my lady." A faint smile touched his weathered face. "Alvar Luego, of Selenga." He rested one hand upon the beam he had carried.
"I served as a shipwright's apprentice before the yards ran out of commissions. When work became scarce, the road seemed the better master."
"A shipwright?" Vesna asked. "A carpenter at first. I aim for myself a lofty title of master builder." His smile broadened slightly. "The sea merely taught me that wood has a will of its own. Best to learn it before asking it to bear your weight."
Vesna found herself smiling despite the morning's sorrow. "And what has brought a shipwright so far from the coast?"
Alvar glanced toward the long line of wagons stretching across the field. "I wish to see what lies beyond the harbors and tidewater of my beloved Selenga." His eyes wandered northward. "A man can spend a lifetime shaping ships for places he has never seen."
He shrugged. "I thought perhaps it was time I saw them for myself." His gaze drifted upward toward the canvas roof. "If you'll pardon the observation, my lady..."
She nodded for him to continue.
"That tent would fare better with another crossbeam. The snow here carries more weight than it does in Castillia. Another hard fall and the canvas may sag before night."
Vesna looked toward the ridgepole as she folded her arms. "Can it be done?"
"It can." Alvar's expression became thoughtful. "But not from what we have in the stockpile." He lifted one end of the pine beam and judged its grain. "I'd sooner use seasoned timber than green wood. It would last longer."
His eyes settled upon the smoke rising beyond the fields. "There may yet be sound beams left in Reinhurst, if I might be permitted to judge their quality."
For a moment the village stood silent beyond the drifting snow. Vesna's features grew solemn once more. "Commander Reickart has his hands full." Her gaze remained fixed upon the distant roofs. "The dead must first be gathered. Until then I will not have anyone wandering those streets."
Alvar nodded slowly. "Aye. I thought as much." He rubbed at the stubble upon his chin before offering an easy smile. "If you find a moment to ask him, I'd be grateful." He gestured toward the growing camp. "In the meantime, there's no shortage of work waiting for me here."
"There seldom is." Vesna answered with the faintest hint of amusement. "I shall speak with him when he returns."
"That is all I ask." Alvar touched two fingers to his brow and gestures them to Vesna in an easy salute before gathering up his tools once more. Without another word he disappeared among the wagons, already turning his attention to the next task that called for capable hands.
Vesna watched him go for a moment. The world possessed no shortage of men eager to speak of what they could build. Far fewer simply set their hands to the work. She found herself hoping the caravan had gained one of the latter.
Within the shelter of the kitchen tent, Lady Vesna paused a moment from her labors. Beyond the open flap, the eastern sky had begun its slow awakening. The last of the night's darkness yielded little by little to a pale wash of blue, while the first faint gold gathered beyond the distant hills.
Another pillar of smoke climbed above Reinhurst. Unlike the cheerful fires of the camp, this one rose dark and solemn into the morning air. The pyres had been lit. Those who had perished were returning at last to dust.
A bitter scent drifted upon the wind, mingling with the fragrance of oak smoke and simmering grain until neither could wholly overcome the other.
Vesna bowed her head. She offered only a silent prayer before turning once more to the great kettle.
The porridge had begun to thicken. Honey dissolved slowly into the steaming broth while diced pheasant and chopped giblets disappeared beneath its surface. Around her the cooks worked steadily, knives striking rhythmically against wooden boards as onions, herbs, and winter roots were prepared for the morning meal.
Then another sound found them. Not the ring of steel, not the crack of timber. The cry of an infant. A second voice answered the first. One of the cooks looked up from his board.
"What in Heaven's name...?"
Vesna laid the ladle across the rim of the cauldron and dried her hands upon a linen cloth before stepping toward the entrance, the tent's curtain door rustling as she pushed it aside.
Outside, a crowd had gathered at the edge of the encampment.
There, returning from the village path, was Cassius—the meek cleric—cradling a basket in his arms.
Soft blankets swaddled the source of the cries: two infants, fussing and wriggling in the pale morning light. Around him, womenfolk leaned in with coos and worried hands, while the men voiced questions—quick, curious, confused.
Vesna stared. This was not the return she had envisioned for the prior. She’d half expected a burnt relic, a wounded man, maybe a survivor with a tale.
Not... children.
Cassius, gently excusing himself from the circle of onlookers, turned in place until he spotted her. His eyes brightened with recognition—and perhaps a silent plea.
He made his way quickly across the snow to the mess tent, basket in his arms. Vesna stood in the entryway, hands firmly on her hips. She said nothing at first—just stared at him, brow arched, expression utterly bewildered. Cassius stopped before her, catching his breath. The infants whimpered softly in his arms.
“…Lady Vesna,” he said sheepishly.
“Well now,” Vesna began, a slow smile curling her lips. “I’m glad things didn’t take a turn for the worse for you.”
Cassius scoffed, clearly a little ruffled. “I’m older than you, your ladyship. I can manage well enough without your supervision.” He adjusted the basket in his arms for a better hold, as Vesna receives a better glance of him, it would seem his eyes had darkened along with his expression.
Seeing this, Vesna gave a mock gasp. “Two hours out of my sight, and you come back with children. What’s a girl to think?”
She laughed outright, eyes closing as amusement overtook her. It took Cassius a moment, but when he realized she was teasing, he sighed and smiled in surrender.
But her laughter faded quickly when she saw the look on his face. “They were the only survivors,” Cassius said softly.
The words fell heavy between them as Vesna’s smile vanished. She stepped closer, kneeling beside the basket. The infants looked up at her with wide, blinking eyes—one blue, one green. Her expression faltered.
“…That’s awful,” she murmured. “How could something like this happen to anyone?” She didn’t expect an answer. She stood again, brushing her cloak back, then looked to Cassius. “They must be starving. We’re making porridge potluck—would you wait by the fire? I’ll bring some out.”
“Certainly,” Cassius replied. “Something rich in milk, if possible. Gods know how long they’ve gone without it.”
Vesna nodded and disappeared into the tent. Cassius turned toward the central firepit, its flame licking high into the cold air. Benches ringed the blaze, and he gently set the basket atop the one closest to him.
“Right then,” he murmured. “Let’s get you two something to eat, shall we? We’ve a bit of a journey ahead of us. Find your parents—or where you’re meant to go.”
In the tent, Vesna stirred the cauldron, skimming off the thickest part of the broth and spooning it into two wooden bowls. The porridge steamed as she stepped out into the snow and approached the fire.
“Here we are,” she said. “Mind if I take one of them off your hands?”
“By all means,” Cassius replied, reaching in to lift the blue-eyed child. He handed the infant over, exchanging him for a bowl of porridge. Vesna took the child gently into her arms, her movements practiced and sure. As though she had held children often before.
They sat side by side, each feeding one of the twins. The children, fussy at first, soon settled—content, even cheerful—as warm porridge touched their tongues.
“This one’s rather well-mannered,” Vesna said, amused. She wiped a bit of porridge from the child’s lip with her thumb, gazing down at him with a softened expression.
Cassius, meanwhile, was struggling. His charge had clamped onto the spoon with his gums, refusing to let go.
“I think he’s under the impression the spoon is the meal,” Cassius muttered with concern. Vesna laughed under her breath. But then, her tone shifted. “Is there… any effort to look for other survivors?” she asked quietly. “Maybe their parents escaped?”
Cassius’s eyes dropped to the fire, the smile fading from his face.
“No, Lady Vesna,” Cassius said quietly. “Times aren’t so favorable—not even without the burden of winter. Reickart has elected to press on.”
Vesna’s face tightened, her eyes widening with dismay. She sat upright, bracing as though to rise in protest—but slowly settled back down. She knew all too well: without the supplies Reinhurst was meant to provide, what little salvage there was wouldn’t last. Feeding the caravan would become a race against time and weather.
Before she could gather her words, Cassius gave a tug on the spoon lodged in the green-eyed child’s mouth. The infant refused to let go, whining when the spoon finally popped free.
“That one’s the fighter of the two it would seem.” Vesna quipped, trying to lift the mood. “He’ll be a hard child to spoil,” Cassius replied, dipping the spoon again into the porridge and offering it back. “And yours?”
Vesna smiled, glancing down. “Quite the opposite. The moment he saw me—quiet, patient, a picture of innocence.”
As they continued to feed the twins by the fire, a scullery maid arrived with two bowls of warm porridge, setting them on the bench beside them.
“Oats might be a bit plain, but maybe they’ve not yet grown fussy,” she said kindly, smiling at the sight of the children contentedly eating.
The green-eyed infant cried out again the moment his mouth was empty, drawing gentle laughter from the group gathered near the fire. The maid chuckled before retreating back to the mess tent.
With the twins fed, the adults finally ate. Cassius sighed as he set his empty bowl aside.
“AVO be good we were here today,” he said, eyes closing. “But perhaps not soon enough.”
Vesna had only finished half her meal. She was focused on the child in her arms, smoothing his hair with idle tenderness. But she looked to Cassius, sensing the grief in his tone.
“They’re with the Lord God now,” she said softly. “Those who didn’t survive. And for those still living—there is always hope, even when nothing else remains.”
She glanced down again. “…Do they have names?”
“None that I could find,” Cassius replied, frowning. “That makes all this harder. How do I file a temple notice for nameless children?”
“The village is easy to reference,” Vesna reasoned. “If their parents survived and come looking, the Temple notices will reach them eventually.”
“And if they didn’t survive?”
A silence followed—long, heavy, and filled with the things neither could say aloud.
“…Then I suppose it’s up to you to name them, Father Cassius,” Vesna said gently. She dipped her spoon back into her porridge, her free arm still wrapped protectively around the child.
“That seems... too personal,” Cassius murmured. “For a stranger like me.”
“It’s important for children to have names. Makes growing up easier,” Vesna said with a soft smile. “Who knows if these two even received the Rite of Baptism? They don’t look like they’ve been in the world long.”
Cassius considered that, then shrugged—half thoughtful, half resigned. “If that’s the case... well, what right do I have?” He glanced down at the green-eyed child, then over at Vesna.
“Why don’t we both name them,” he suggested. “That way, when their parents return—or if they never do—we can share the blame.”
Vesna scoffed, laughing quietly. “Careful, Prior Cassius. I am married, as you very well know. Discussing the names of children just come into the world? People might talk.”
“Oh, come off it,” he replied with a grin. Then, rising from his bench with the infant in his arms, he walked over and sat beside her.
“I’ll name this one... Niall.” “Niall?” Vesna repeated. “That’s not a human name. At least, not one I know.” “It’s Elvish,” Cassius said, smiling as he balanced the spoon in the child’s mouth. “It means Gift of the Gods. A name for someone destined to give much to the world.”
Vesna looked down at the boy. “A gift... left in a smoldering ruin.”
“In a signpost, of all things,” Cassius added. “Ironic, perhaps, that we find lost souls under one.” He looked over at her. “Well? What about your picture-perfect angel?”
Vesna gazed into the bright blue eyes staring up at her, thoughtful. Then softly: “…Sebastian.” Cassius raised an eyebrow. “Sebastian. A name of dignity and strength. Very kingly.”
“These are good names,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I’ll pray they grow to reflect them.” Around them, the camp stirred. The last scouts and soldiers returned, dusted in frost. The night sky softened—from pitch black to deepest blue, where the barest brush of gold teased the coming of the day.
“…It’s finally dawn,” Vesna said softly, her eyes tracing the pale gold blooming along the horizon. Cassius joined her gaze, the firelight dancing behind them. “This concludes a very long night,” he sighed—relieved, as if something heavy had been lifted from his shoulders.
From the slope above, Reickart’s voice echoed as he descended into the camp, issuing orders to the soldiers now stirring with the morning.
“Prior Cassius! Lady Vesna!” he called, making his way toward them. “Who’s on foraging duty before we move out?”
Cassius turned, a touch flustered. “Ah—it would have been me, but—” He glanced down at the basket, the twins nestled within. His point was clear he had other priorities.
Vesna rose smoothly, Sebastian still in her arms. “I’ll take over foraging. No worry.”
Reickart raised a brow, visibly torn. “Your m—Lady Vesna, are you sure? One of your retainers, perhaps—”
“I’m on pilgrimage, Ser Reickart. Not a pleasure tour.” Vesna adjusted the infant in her arms with practiced ease. “And I do know a huckleberry from a henbane. You’ve taken my coin, my favors, and my supplies—surely you can take my help.”
The commander studied her for a long moment, then sighed and nodded. “Very well. But stay close to the village. Take no chances. These weren’t just common brigands—they were likely deserters from Lothar’s army. Trained, armed, and without mercy. They won’t spare you for being a woman”
He turned to Cassius. “Father—we’ll need you in the village for the departing rites once we’ve finished the burning of the dead.” Cassius nodded solemnly.
As Reickart moved off to coordinate the morning’s priorities, Vesna turned to Cassius, smiling. “Well then, Father Cassius,” she said, handing Sebastian over with care, “while you go learn how to be an actual father, I’ll be putting dinner on the table.”
Cassius accepted the infant, one arm already juggling Niall, the other now wrapping securely around Sebastian. He watched as Vesna peeled off her wolf-pelt cloak and swapped it for a woodsman’s tunic layered over her fine blue silks. Heavy brown trousers and a sturdy belt followed. One of her retainers brought her a pair of worn leather gloves.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Cassius asked, as Sebastian nuzzled into his chest and Niall continued to numb his own fingers.
“I’d rather stretch my legs. Besides, if you knew how repetitive noblewomen can be, you’d know a chatty weaving circle is hardly soul-sustaining.” She fitted her gloves with practiced familiarity. “If you really want to take a turn, we’ll trade off. Me today, you tomorrow?”
“…Fine,” Cassius relented. “But I’m not interested in making this a contest. Leave that to your husband, your handmaidens—and whatever rivals you’ve left back at court.”
Vesna smirked. “What’s life without a bit of sport?” She rummaged through one of the wagons, strapping on a belt with a sheathed dagger and a burlap sack for gathering. “Dinner at dusk, then?”
“Provided you’re alive.” “Provided I’m not skinning those deserters by nightfall,” she replied with a wink. “Please don’t joke about that,” Cassius said, unease creeping into his voice. “Don’t go after them, Vesna. Please.”
She gave a half-smile, slipping her bow across her back. “I won’t. I promise. Just dinner.”
And with that, she turned, her boots crunching across the snow as she made for the woods—her form disappearing into the thinning mists of dawn, following the path of the scouts’ snares.
Cassius looked down as Sebastian stirred, wriggling and glancing about with wide eyes. “What’s this?” he murmured. “Miss your mother already? Or maybe Lady Vesna?” He smiled gently. “She’ll be back soon. Don’t you worry.”
He tucked the children snugly back into their basket, wrapping them tightly with the same soft blanket they had been found in.
“Come now, let’s set you to rest for a bit,” he said, lifting the basket with a slow breath. The morning light spread across the fields like gold drawn thin across frost.
And so, with two lives in hand, Father Cassius turned toward the camp’s heart—toward prayer, duty, and whatever came next.
Sebastian -- Village of Reinhurst, Lothar -- Morning, 1st Aetheris Frostdawn, 1992 TGS
Time passed in the camp, the children nestled in a humble tent with Cassius, while the world outside moved on. The tent itself is most humble in space and appearance with a cot, a footlocker and a single chair to be set down for its inhabitant to sit down. The basket rests now with Cassius next to the cot where the three of them dream and sleep away their fatigue.
The blue-eyed child, Sebastian was also blissfully dreaming in the warm embrace of his blanket next to Niall and yet something stirred beneath the quiet.
The tent’s silence folded around the sleeping trio like a held breath. Sebastian's fingers twitched. And in the space between seconds, he was no longer there.
He awoke with a gasp, palms sunk into sand that shimmered with pinpricks of starlight — not reflected light but born of it. The grains twinkled beneath him as if each one carried the memory of a sun. Around him swayed silver reeds as tall as men, their long stalks gleaming like bladegrass but whispering like silk.
The sky was a madness of color — violet, gold, emerald — colors that spun like shattered prisms adrift in the heavens. No sun. No moon. Only unanchored light. He rose shakily to his knees, brushing grains from his palms. The wind carried no sound but his breath. The reeds bent as though aware of his movement.
The horizon stretched into forever. Not empty — but dreading something unsaid.
Sebastian began to crawl. The reeds parted gently, but each step forward dragged at his bones. It wasn’t pain, but something worse — that sense of having already walked too far, of having left something behind that could never be named.
Fatigue poured into his arms, his legs. With a whimper, he collapsed, laying his head against the sand. The stars within the grains blinked once, then held still.
Then came the sound. Footsteps. Soft, deliberate, approaching across the sand with the elegance of falling snow.
He tried to lift his head. Couldn’t. The reeds parted behind him, and a shadow fell across his back.
A woman’s voice — not harsh, not warm, but like a bell remembered from childhood — murmured: “…Ah.”
He felt her kneel beside him, the pressure of her weight shifting the sand beneath his arm. A cool hand pressed gently to his brow.
“You aren’t supposed to be here, little one,” she said, with a sigh that folded into a smile. “My whole effort was to make sure you would flee from this place.”
Her thumb smoothed his temple, brushing sand from the curve of his eye. “But I suppose,” she whispered, “it is just as well. You are tied to this place after all.” The sound of the reeds swaying returned — but this time, it sounded more like breathing.
Her thumb still traced the shape of his brow, moving in quiet circles as if remembering a lullaby. “Let us avail ourselves somewhere else,” she said, as her voice carried something older than command — it was the way moonlight touches water: expectant, gentle, inescapable.
Sebastian blinked as the world around him unfolded.
The reeds drew back like curtains, not bending but withdrawing, as if out of reverence. The sand beneath him flowed like a tide, and he did not sink — he was lifted, standing now though he had not risen, held by some force that remembered who he was better than he did.
Before him now stretched a new domain. A garden.
But not one of mortal planting. The air was thick with the scent of impossible flowers — cold-hued platinum-colored lilies with mirrored petals, pale blossoms shaped like tongues of flame, vines that wove music rather than leaves. Trees of mithril rose from the ground like frozen lightning, their bark shimmering with threads of starlight. Their branches chimed faintly in the breeze, a sound like distant glass breaking in slow motion.
"Now ... rise." She bade, taking Sebastian's hand in hers and lifting the infant to a stand causing Sebastian to coo in surprise and with mirth as he stumbled with one foot atop of the other, eliciting the blue-haired woman's laughter in delight.
Scooping up Sebastian into her arms the woman walked ahead, platinum staff in her other hand. Its twin serpents wound around each other like lovers caught mid-breath, their metal eyes faintly glowing with inner fire, the intent to devour a spherical red jewel. The jewel pulsing as though it remembered hunger.
She turned. Held out her hand.
Sebastian hesitated. His small hand trembled as it reached out, slipping into hers. Her skin was cool — like snow that never melts.
“You carry a seed, little one.” she murmured, crouching again to meet his gaze. “But the soil you are planted in is still dreaming in nightmares.”
With her free hand, she touched her staff to her chest, then to his. A breath passed between them. It wasn’t wind. It was knowing.
Light shimmered from her fingertips — not bright, but deep, the color of moonlit water. It seeped into his skin, and Sebastian gasped. For a moment, he could feel every tree in the garden breathing with him. The flowers bent toward him. The sky quieted.
"It will not be easy," she instills her knowledge to him. "For what your roots reach for, you must give back in kind, and pray it is enough for all."
As the light faded from her fingertips, she looked down upon her charge, a faint smile across her expression. She brushes her lips against his temple. “When darkness comes,” she whispered, “I will be there for you.”
She then joined her brow to his with closed eyes, a wistful moment of connection. "... I shall return you back to your place in the world, but it gladdens my heart to see you and your brother safe."
Sebastian gurgled and reached his hands out to the blue-haired woman whose golden eyes looked down upon the child with happiness.
"It is time. Time to awaken." spoke the woman but her voice was mixed with another, another woman's as the world began to unravel and distort.
Cassius -- Village of Reinhurst, Lothar -- Evening, 1st Aetheris Frostdawn, 1992 TGS
“Come now, wake up.” Vesna’s voice was soft, but insistent.
Cassius stirred with a groan, blinking his eyes open. The noblewoman stood over him, gently shaking his shoulder. In her arms, Sebastian wriggled, eyes already open.
“The camp’s being dismantled,” she informed him. “We’re to gather for the final prayers before the caravan departs.”
Cassius rubbed his face, then sat up on the edge of his cot, leaning forward with a tired exhale. He looked past the open tent flap. The sky had begun to turn a deep, burnished gold—the sun’s last light warming the cold bones of the day. All around, the encampment stirred with activity as tents came down and supplies were packed into wagons.
“I suppose I’m needed for that,” he muttered. His gaze dropped to the children. Niall still slept peacefully, while Sebastian was now looking at him with sleepy curiosity. Cassius stood slowly.
“Let me splash off at the trough, then I’ll join you at the village,” he said.
Vesna nodded, kneeling to retrieve the basket. She lifted it with care, both infants now bundled warmly inside. “We’ll see you there,” she said, and turned toward the path.
The village—what remained of it—waited ahead. Blackened timber, collapsed beams, and charred foundations formed a crude outline of what once had been homes. The air still carried the scent of brimstone and scorched wood, but beneath it was something else—cleaner. The cloying rot of death had given way to the harsh smell of purification. Ash still clung to every stone, but the flames were gone.
The knights had done their work. The bodies had been consumed and reduced to fragments—bone crushed to powder, buried among the rubble. No headstones, but hallowed ground all the same.
By the time Cassius arrived, freshly washed and robed, the villagers, pilgrims, and soldiers had gathered in a solemn semi-circle. Vesna stood near the front, the basket at her feet, her arms folded as the wind caught the ends of her cloak. Cassius stepped beside her, saying nothing.
Commander Reickart stood before them all—positioned at the edge of the burial site, the ruined village as his backdrop. He took a long moment of silence, staring into the place where so many lives had ended.
When he finally spoke, his voice was clear. Strong, but weighed with meaning.
“Though we did not know a single soul among this community,” he began, “and though we may never know their names, their faces, or what they hoped for in life... we, as humans, recognize the shared burden of hardship.”
He paused. A gust of wind passed through the hollowed village, scattering ash into the air.
“As faithful travelers,” he continued, “we understand that when tragedy visits others, we are not meant to look away—but to stand beside them. And when death comes, as it always does, we remember—" His eyes shifted to the basket at Vesna’s feet. “—the good and the young are taken into the arms of AVO. To be carried forward. To be given another chance at light.”
“It is a crime before all eyes,” Reickart declared, his voice echoing over the field of ash and earth. “What happened here will not be forgotten.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
“I know many of you have voiced your anger—your frustration at our inability to bring these murderers to justice.” His tone softened, but his conviction held. “But the work of the Lord God is not achieved through wrath, nor does righteousness grant us license for vengeance. Justice demands diligence.”
Murmurs stirred among the gathered crowd—some of agreement, others in uneasy neutrality. Even the infants seemed momentarily stilled by the shift in tone.
“We will petition the Lord of Conevico to dispatch a force against these raiders,” Reickart continued. “We, as pilgrims—and as knights sworn in faith to defend the faithful—must attend to the duty set before us. Today, that duty is vigil. On the final day of this village’s passing.”
He drew breath, then closed his eyes. “For myself... and for those who share in my belief... we dedicate these final words to the souls now returned to AVO.”
He fell silent.
Around him, every head bowed. Vesna’s gaze dropped to the basket at her feet, where Sebastian and Niall now slept, swaddled in shared warmth. Cassius bowed his head, fingers clutching the amulet at his breast.
Then Reickart’s voice rang out again—measured, solemn, and loud enough to carry across the burial ground.
“Before all angels and men...”
The response came in one voice—soft, reverent:
“We grieve.”
“Before the faithful fallen...”
“We weep.”
“At this hour of loss...”
“We pray.”
“And for those who remain...”
“We depart.”
As the final word echoed into silence, the last light of the sun touched the earth with pale fire, retreating into the horizon. Shadows lengthened across the ruins.
Cassius lifted his head. The amulet trembled in his hand.
Then, slowly his voice became melodic, he began to sing.
His voice—tired, raw, but filled with sacred ache—rose above the hushed congregation.
“Salve, Regis. Pater misericordiae: Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve. Ad te clamamus, exsules, filii Adamus. Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes, in hac lacrimarum valle. Eia ergo, Advocata nostra, illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nos converte.”
(“Hail, O King, Father of mercy. Our life, our sweetness, and our hope—hail. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Adam. To thee do we sigh, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, our advocate, thy merciful eyes upon us.”)
The hymn lingered as the final golden light faded, leaving the village in stillness. And dusk, at last, became night.
The hymn ended, leaving a silence so complete it felt like the world had forgotten how to breathe.
Then—gradually—sound returned.
Boots scuffed through ash. The shuffle of people rising. A murmured command. The clink of bridles and the low groans of timber as wagons were hitched. Torches flared to life, casting dancing orange light across the rubble.
The silence of mourning gave way to the sounds of life moving forward. Grief gave way to the sound of, stoicism, stubbornness and renewal.
Cassius and Vesna moved with the others, basket in tow. The children were tucked securely into the wagon beside them, side by side beneath thick bedding—only the tops of their small heads visible. The adults climbed onto the hooded bench seat as the caravan creaked into motion, departing the remains of Reinhurst for whatever lay ahead.
From their perch on the wagon bench, they watched the landscape shift.
The golden remnants of sunset behind them faded quickly into the dark. Trees rose like sentinels—tall and solemn—stretching skyward to form a cathedral of branches. The path narrowed beneath the forest canopy, their torches painting the trunks in flickering gold.
“The next village should have an inn not far from here,” Vesna murmured, drawing her wolf-pelt cloak tighter around her shoulders. “Provided it’s still standing.”
Cassius didn’t answer right away. He was settling the comforter over the twins, tucking them snugly beneath the warmth while leaving their cheeks exposed to the cool air. Their hands upon the surface of the blanket twitch with the fixation of their dreaming.
“I’ll be praying that’s the case,” he said quietly. “I feel... I feel exhausted.” His voice drifted, his head slowly sinking until his back found the wagon wall. His eyes shut, and soon, he slipped into sleep.
Vesna smiled faintly at the sight. She remained upright—eyes fixed forward—her hand resting gently on the basket beside her.
The wheels turned, and the road ahead opened into darkness. But even in darkness, they moved forward.
