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.
The soft sound of falling rain beyond the orphanage walls would've served as nothing more than a resounding lullaby if only he cared to give it the appreciation it deserved. But how could he when he knew the walls only muffled the truth; the rain drops raged in anger and yet the flashing lights and growling thunder refused it their company. If he was the rain, refused the company of those he had grown acquainted to, he would be enraged, too. He listened silently, lying in the comfort of his bunk bed as the boy who slept above him tossed and turned, as he always did on rainy nights. The orphanage was a good enough home to him. He had come in a year ago, snuck in by a child he'd met on a cold night and somehow gotten a bed despite the presence of more deserving children. Still, living like this took a toll on his mind. Every morning he would wonder if it was th
It is said that when a sister of the convent walks, she carries with her the love and guidance of Truth. But when a man of the frock walks, he carries with him Truth's wrath.Valerik stood in line, waiting. By his side, Rive stood, snorting its frustration at its pace. Were it not for its reins in his hand, the horse would have ploughed its way into the city ahead, regardless of the massive merchant cart before it.Valerik hated the cities, coming and going, to be precise. It was how it always was in the provinces of the realm; the lines, the city guards, the requirement that he walk with his two feet on stone floors. The merchant cart ahead of him moved forth a few paces and he shuffled along, Rive following right beside him.Sometimes he wondered who hated it more: him or the horse. Rive had a habit of snapping at the guards whenever they searched them, prolonging their stay at the gates. Today, however, the horse had
Morning came in its strides. With it, the light of the sun spilled into the room. First, slow and gentle. Then demanding.Valerik had been given the room that stood in the path of the rising sun. Whether the sun sought to trample the obstacle in its path or embrace a lover after a night of exhausting passion, he did not know. As he pried his eyes open to the waking world, all he was certain of was the beauty of the sunlight as the room bathed in the glow of its kiss.Awaking with a mild ache in his head and a dryness in his mouth, he forced himself to a sitting position. His body sagged from the remains of the night's sleep. He fought to shrug it off but it stayed. So, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand, he cast his thoughts elsewhere, wondering how long a man would need to ride a horse before his legs were demanded to bow from their time on the saddle. Riding Rive for two days, stopping only to sleep when night fell, wasn't doing his
Every city has its slums, but Valerik was not in Dun for its slums as he took his eyes of the path he knew would lead him to the conisoir if he continued on it long enough. His main purpose of business laid elsewhere, a place he considered the civilized slum.A few paces under the creeping af
There are various things that keep a child awake in the dark of night. The excitement that comes with the memory of the day, the unrelenting urge to resume the day's unfinished games. Sometimes, it's the fear of the dirges lurking in the corner from tales mothers tell to scare naughty children into decency or simply contemplations of what complex tricks are to be had when the morning comes.For Sethlzaar, he found it was most often the darkness. In the waking world he found a peace in its presence, a presence that came with a silence. But sometimes in them hilts poked from within, and with th
Unsouled.Sethlzaar had heard of them.Every living thing had a gift from Ayla. When the dead are not buried properly Ayla's gifts are not returned to her properly, so they fester within the body. In time they rot, bringing the bodies to life, but not so alive. More accurately, undead, presenting themselves in various
Sethlzaar always thought his life would end within the city walls; old and desolate, not seeing anything beyond it. Or if he was lucky, he'd die young, maybe spoken of in the reaches of the conisoir, like Zaar the blessed, a man said to have single handedly built the foundation on which the cesspool stood. A criminal mastermind who'd used the gifts Truth had given him to scare the Realm before settling down in Dun. It is said that his feats were so great that when the conisoir delved deeper into desolation, the city let it for fear of angering Zaar.When Sethlzaar joined the orphanage, his thoughts had banked on something akin to fear. A fear that the same life would be his, but where he could have lived it out in the conisoir, it would be in the city, as a nobody. Eventually, he would have been kicked out of the orphanage when he came of age. He would've perhaps tried to live in the conisoir, again. Reacquaint himself with life within it. That's if the conisoir
As the night aged, the animals called it a night. The birds returned to their trees of nesting, and the drunks began their nightly rituals of passing out in their own vomits, or perhaps that of their colleagues. The priest rose, and they left.Vollo climbed up the tavern stairs with the woman his little brother had been so buried in and the tavern girl he had saved from watching two men fight over her attached to both arms upon their departure. It left Sethlzaar confused.
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