Sethlzaar turned his attention in the direction of the girl with the tray. To his expectation, Soartin was walking up to the serving girl and the man in his usual steps, regal and composed. It was something that made Sethlzaar suspect the boy's family was quite similar to royalty in Alifat, his posture more of a failed noble than a warrior, like the rest of them."The lady doesn't want you," Soartin told the man when he arrived there.The man's grip tightened before his attention turned to Soartin. "Sod off before I..." the rest of the sentence die in his mouth the moment his eyes met Soartin.Releasing the girl's waist, the man frowned then took a concentrated interest in the drink in front of him. It was a natural response, something Sethlzaar had discovered on their first outing.At first he had thought the people feared them but had soon come to correct himself: they didn't fear them, they feared
Their fourth year in the seminary saw them prepared for the test of speech under the tutelage of Father Ulaka. They rose at the fourth hour and attended mass. The fifth hour would see them swimming and climbing as they had done in preparation of the test of self with Father Antuas. In the room they would sit in decency, a posture that made them look the part of civilized boys, forced upon them by Father Ulaka.All their years they always wondered how Father Antuas always sat awaiting their arrival in the room. It was obvious that the priest climbed but they had never beheld it. Father Ulaka proved a priest that, if not anything, was perpetual in his tardiness for their lesson, never arriving on time, or later than thirty minutes. What annoyed them most was in the way he carried himself, walking the room as he taught them in superiority as though he had not climbed up the edge of the room before their very eyes. Late.Having only worn his cassock on
Sethlzaar was summoned last and he had the feeling that it was a conscious choice of their judges."Sethlzaar Vi Sorlan," the Monsignor summoned him to his feet.Sethlzaar rose and began in vrail, hoping to spin a tale of Father Forn at least half as compelling as Soartin's. "My tale is of Father Forn the—"
In the month of Martis, third of the year, they took to the horse under the tutelage of Father Bjorg. He proved adept at understanding the animals and possessed an in-depth experience with the skill. But while he was a skilled instructor, he seemed to favor the safety of the horses over the lives of the brothers.The horses presented before them were stallions no older than two years. Bjorg over saw the pairing, observing as they picked their mounts from the stalls. Omage opting for a chestnut which somehow looked graceful, earned himself a slap from the priest, something they learned in time
It was early into his sixth year in the seminary in the month of Janus, first of its year, when Sethlzaar first saw a face from the conisoir.The snow covered the dirt and the brothers walked the compound clad in their fur cloaks of wolf skin. Father Yggdra had them in the training room where the ground rose and fell at varying angles. Today he had them spar with brothers from Zanujaj.
The streets, although not as choked as it would be on festivals, swarmed with people trampling whatever was left of the snow scattered across the stone floor. It was Sethlzaar's worse part of the days of outing. A test of the crowd.
They found themselves under the command of Father Yggdra the next day. The hall he led them to was different from the one they had practiced in their years in the seminary. This hall was grand and open with more air than they thought a building capable of accepting. The ground was level with the pick of dust at the slightest step.As they walked their feet raised dust. But Father Yggdra seemed to glide above it, each step soundless, the one to succeed each even quieter than the one before. An action he seemed to perform without thought.
Sethlzaar's brothers rarely discussed the training in his presence. A sense of empathy, he noted. In time even the priests favored him with looks of pity. Priestess Emeril not so subtly reduced the force with which she pushed him during their personal practice of the bow. The greatest blow came when Father Ordan proved sparing with the cane, flogging him for only the dumbest of mistakes."So tell us, brother. What's her name?" Omage spoke between bites as they ate in the dining hall one evening.
Darkness has never truly been a thing of worry here. Basically, it’s most often dark here. Most of us don’t like it, but time is enough to make anyone adapt to it. Still, it’s not like we have much of an option. Wether it’s dark or bright or generally colorless, it wouldn’t matter, this is the life we live. We would claim we didn’t choose it, that it chose us. But I’ll be honest, we chose it as much as it chose us. Every action we ever took has led us here; at least all the actions I ever took led me here.
Maekil snapped his finger in recognition. “Yes,” he almost exclaimed. “The Shadow Child of the Conisoir. Even the Lords employ it to scare their children from bad deeds.” He placed a finger to his bottom lip in puzzlement. “Although, yours is different. Why is that?”“Because it is the true tale.”“And you believe this
Red wine twirled within a transparent cup made of glass and fashioned for the simple and unnecessary sake of aesthetics. By Truth, Maekil never could understand the desire to be pleasing to the eye. Perhaps it was because all his life he had been nothing but pleasing to the eye, perhaps it was not. He dropped the cup without taking a sip.He would only taste of the wine when the night was over and the morning greeted him with the light of the sun. Normally this wasn’t the case: not in his manor.
Valerik came awake screaming and gasping. His cassock was soaked in sweat and a terror grasped at his heart as he cried into arms that held him with so much untainted love. But somethings were greater than others and he knew that no love or hate or indifference could triumph over the terror that held him.“What’s wrong, father?” a voice asked.He knew who
Valerik opened his eyes from his slumber, instinct propelled to reach across him to ensure he bow still lay where he’d left it last night when he’d bedded down for the night. The bow was the livelihood of his people. A man with no knowledge of where his bow lay at all times was a failure of a man. Assured it was where he’d left it, he rose from the ground to a sitting position and watched the man who sat on the log on the other side of a fire that was nothing but ash. No doubt it had fizzled out sometime during the night, considering no one had paid it any attention.
Sethlzaar blinked the darkness away, but he might as well have waved away the air. Unable to see, he sat up with ease. The floor was covered in grass and served as a soft bed to his rump, so much so that he hesitated to rise to his feet. But he did.Around him was overshadowed in a familiar darkness, and when he took a step forward he frowned at the sight before him.A rub
They couldn’t afford to let the fight drag on. But if there were no wisps, how could he change its course? If Berlak evaded him at every turn, how could they turn the tide? The answer came to him as quickly as the question. There’s more you can do in the dark.Stepping forward, he moved his hand in as he spun from the cover of Cenam’s back to oppose Berlak. The god turned away from his attack easily, striking a closed fist against the flat of Cenam’s veil.
Sethlzaar saw the moment the fight was decided. The climax to the torrential build up. Cenam swung the veil in his left hand. A downward stroke designed to take his enemy’s head. Berlak reacted as fast as the stroke itself, his longsword striking the veil from Cenam’s grip, taking away the priest’s advantage. But Sethlzaar had seen such decisions before. Cenam had intended it. The strike, although intended to take the man’s head, had never truly been expected to. Not a feint. A sacrifice.Cenam’s second ve
The war raged on within the city walls, though the carnage was not as depressing within as it was without. Sethlzaar carried himself in a full sprint, his previously perceived fatigue ebbing away at the touch of darkness as he followed where Cenam led. Bratvi kept pace beside him and paid no obvious attention to his broken wrist. One thing was certain; even if the Most Reverend could fight, it would be impossible to use both veils.There was no doubt that those who had given the once mythical city of Arlyn its reigning title had never stepped foot within its walls. Still, there wa