Faith Returns - A White Flame Burns

[cruzazul 2815]

 

 

 

Flicking away the whickered bottle, a last lurch at its mouth, he shouldered his pack and followed the main street to the town’s square. There appeared to be no system to the manure-ridden hamlet, instead it was a wild collection of twists and turns until suddenly he arrived at a cobbled square. Gargoyles hung from several facades, the town houses there clearly owned by the wealthier merchants. He trudged on, down a side-lane and towards the docks where the cobblestones eventually gave way to a muddy, grimy ditch, the stench of stagnant water and feces loomed in the cold, brisk air.

Winter was coming soon, already doing battle with the end of autumn. There was already strength in its frosty fingers. The winter season was subtle in the land formerly help by the Lotharingian, yet it still  tended to outstay its welcome every year. At night temperatures plummeted, leaving the puddles in the road frozen over, and the cobblestones slippery with ice. The ground lay hard as bones come dawn, and the fattened cows and pigs herded through the streets complaining loudly when ushered into their pens at the quays. Some broke their legs on the way over, and were slaughtered on the spot, their meat sold at the morning market.

Men wrapped themselves heavily against the encroaching bites of frost and looked at the grey skies in anticipation of the snows and deep winter. Families huddled together around flickering fires, mindful of the infringing shadows. Folk said it was during the longest nights in midwinter that the evils rode out in force. Spooks, ghouls, lechers, the lot of them took power when the world was at its bleakest. Everyone had grown up with the tales of spooks racing through the cities, devils barreling down to steal souls and children. They were told, time and again, memories of an ancient era passed into myth. Yet, those rumours, ancient memories were not simply that, but forgotten truths come back to haunt.

Little to no work could be done on the poor fields any longer, and the countryside was empty but for the murders of crows and solitary coal-burners or shepherds. The culling season had begun, and no hands could be spared from the cattle business. Slaughter, sell and send on its way – after the beef and pork would float on heavy barges down the river Metz, people could hibernate, yet for now there was work to be done.

When the sun rose, its light was pale as if coming through milky glass. Its weak rays barely managed to provide any warmth, and when the sun passed again beyond the horizon for another long night the cold returned with a vengeance. A low-hanging mist was slithering into town from the docks.

 

In the faint light of dusk, the narrow hovels clustered together tightly, as if gripping one another for support. They rose from the refuse and filth of the streets in uneven, jagged rows like a crone’s teeth. Out of all the houses in front of him, only five had slate roofs and straight walls of dressed stone. The others were made of wattle and shoddy brickwork with thatch-roofs and crooked corners.

The region east of Lorraine was not a wealthy place, torn apart by squabbling nobles with a claim to one title or other. Somehow they managed to steer clear of the bandits hiding in the hills and deep forests. They were too preoccupied with counting their silver and tourney-play. There were more poor places than rich in the world, Cain knew.

Those who could afford the luxury constructed their town houses and manses at the foot of the crown lands, where Adelburg was perched, as close as they could to the brick fortress and temple. Those who could not buy or rent a plot of land there had to try their luck in the lower districts, where the squalid dwellings were crammed together, shoved up against one another and the militia-men patrolled in strength to keep the peace.

He moved away from the city though, and followed the road toward Adelburg until he quit the outskirts and reached an inn. Looking back to the order’s walls he estimated it was three or four hours walk from the gates.
 

Cain pulled his longcoat tighter around his brawny frame, the stitches almost giving as the heavy fabric was drawn taut across his broad back and shoulders. After another glance down the street he moved toward the two establishments, one of the only ones where light poured from the stained windows.

After letting the door fall shut in its creaking hinges, Cain observed the gloomy room. A slow, sullen murmuring filled his ears, sharp laughter and high-pitched giggles cutting through which made his head hurt. Or rather, which made it hurt even more. He sensed the mood was stifled, surly people sitting at trestle tables and aged benches. The room was a low one. Old straw lay in the corners, reeking and moldy. Tallow candles sputtered with greasy flame, streaking their alcoves and the daub walls with black.

A quick look was all it took to realise they were mostly scum or downtrodden. Just like me, Cain cynically told himself. There were others too though, sat at the better furbished back of the room, closer to the hearth and more beyond on an elevated level. Some of the patrons turned to look at him enter, most turned back to their drinks, conversational partners or bought women. Most, Cain noted, but not all. One man with a salt-and-pepper beard kept his calm eyes on the newly arrived guest. A frown sat etched on his forehead, much like on Cain’s. Then, after a few moments the fellow returned his interest on the tankard in front of him.

His thick boots made the wooden floorboards squeak as he marched forward toward the bar. Cain ignored the bearded lout. The old fool probably lusted after Cain’s warm and heavy coat. He can try and take it if he wants, he thought grimly. Better men than him had, and failed.

“Beer,” he told the woman standing behind the bar, his voice gravel-coarse. She was wearing an apron, and busy with counting coppers into a clay jar. Slightly overweight, it seemed her best years were behind her. “Something to eat.”

The waif looked at him irritated, as if serving customers was not her task even though employment at or ownership of a business like this one implied as such. “Keg or bottle?” She screeched.

A single brow went up at the question. To have beer from a glass bottle was a rarity, an oddity. Cain ogled the ones on show carefully, trying to discern whatever was written on the faded labels that stuck to the deep green and thick glass. Long corks protruded from the bottlenecks. The characters he attempted to read were foreign, angular and nonsensical. Plundered stock then, he surmised, anything could be in them. I better not.

“Keg,” he said, throwing a pouch of mina onto the tabletop. The woman got up and filled a tin tankard with a dark brown liquid. There was practically no head on it, none of the usual froth dark heady beers had. Cain took a sniff. It almost smelled like beer, almost. But there was more than a bit of the drain about it too.

Nevertheless, Cain took it up and shuffled over to one of the benches lining the daub walls. Sitting down heavily, he noticed the man with the salt-and-pepper beer had left, but none of the other clientele paid him any attention. He sighed and took a sip of his drink, dropped his pack next to him. He was waiting for his comrades, family members and acquaintances. The Denesle family was large, yet he hadn't seen his relatives in years. Kicking his pack under the table he remained patient. The metal and apparel within jostling, mixing with the jingling of glasses and cutlery of the heated room. The beer had a sour finish after the initial sweetness subsided, but he had had worse. Much worse, as he recalled the rubbish he had drank in Johannesburg before the war. It was wet, it would take the edge of his mood and ease his burning bones and sluggish arms and legs. Not much else mattered for now.

Cain pushed himself back against the wall, reclining and then letting his legs stretch out against the floor, studying his feet. His boots had once been something to be proud of: expensive leather, expertly sewn, steel in the heel and tip of them. Now they were just like him, faded, battered and worn-out. He grunted in self-loathing and shifted his pale eyes to his legs. Though it was hard for him to remember, he had been considered tall. Handsome even. Now he just looked big and weathered like an old willow. The muscles that had swung steel and iron were still there, but were encased in an unwelcome layer of fat he had put on in the last two years. His features had become lined and hard from the elements and the sea. His dark hair, a vivid brown in his youth, was now ragged and stained with white from the sea-salt. It was slowly coming off, but the tresses kept on a grey colour. At least when he looked in a silver platter or bowl of water he saw the colour of his eyes -blue like the flank of a churning seawall- had remained the same, even though his eyes themselves were set in a stranger’s pale face and underlined with red.

The dark beer went down easily, too quickly. Before he knew it, the drinking flagon was nearly empty. Cain left the dregs where they were, bubbling like molten grease at the bottom of his tankard. You never really wanted to know what was in those dregs. He gestured the woman for another. She brought one over, grumbling as she approached.

“And? That mina was enough to cover one pint and the meal. You want another? Pay up.” she said, holding out a grimy palm. Cain paused. His payment should have been good for it. His stash was almost empty, just like his cup. He had paid in mina after all, minted in Sutica by the old bourgeoisie, taken from a trader. That merchant and his cog now rested at the bottom of the Blackwater sea. Nobody in this inn probably knew any of those places, Cain presumed bleakly.

Cain was about to protest, but the alcohol had sunk deep into his body, and had made him lethargic. Who cared if he was being swindled? The money would be gone soon enough anyway. Let this ***** have it, he thought indifferent to his own misery. After pressing a second mina into her hand, she skulked off. He took a thoughtful sip, for the amount he was paying he should make it last and try to enjoy it.

A second sip followed soon after. And a third. The familiar warmth and solace spread through his leaden body. Watching the common room, taking in the scent of cooking food, he managed to slink into something of a relaxed state of mind. He would need to take the edge of himself before heading to the backroom, where the other Order officers were to meet.

 

After a few more minutes of sulking Cain heard a noise at the door. He quickly turned his gaze, finally he found a familiar face. The Brother Robert, a man similar in age, fabled for his heroics in the name of Canonism. It was this man that brought him here. A few men followed in behind Robert, and before Cain could stand he was quickly ushered into the back room, the meeting was to begin.

 

Though the meeting was swift, what was said would have a lasting effect on humanity and Canonism itself. The Order of St. Lucien, a fabled group of holy warriors tasked with upholding order and faith were to do just that, in a time when faith was at its bleakest. The return of those true to Canonism and humanity, to again cleanse the land of the degeneracy and filth that had plagued it for far too long.

 

 

DEUS VULT

 

[herculean_wud 3662]

mighty read, represents the crownlands, lorraine, other locations on the server well.))

[Zhulik 3559]

As the meeting commenced, Brother Robert remained silent as those who had come to hear of his word slowly idled down their chatter. As silence filled the smokey room, Robert retained his silence. He gazed upon his future disciples, grinning humbly as he allowed anticipation to build within the congregation. 

"My friends," He finally began with a whisper, "The Faith, with the will of GOD, has called upon us once more to combat these dark times which have engulfed our world."

He'd pause a moment, contemplating what he just said. Robert then rose his right index finger,

"To the common individual, the world seems normal, unchanged. However, should you delve below the surface, my friends, you may be enlightened with the truth.

In my travels as a brother of the faith, I have witnessed the atrocities committed by heathens. Pagans, and Daemon worshipers lay siege to Man, the chosen prophets of GOD. They do this not out valid reason, nay, but out of hatred and wrath. They trust in the great deceiver, akin to Saul, and betray those who place trust within them. They are truly nefarious malcontent sinners, and thus his Holiness has seen it fit to call upon pious men to don the banner of GOD once more.

Centuries ago, my Predecessors established the first Order of Saint Lucien. It held true to the simple purpose of defending his holiness, the High Pontiff, and to spread the faith. However, as time went on, the Order too succumbed to the politics of mortals. It was trusted into a war with fellow God-Fearing men out of paranoia, and a fear of change. However, my friends, this remains contradictory to the true honoring of Saint Lucien.

Saint Lucien is the patron Saint of Crusaders, or the Holy Mission- a mission which the Order strayed from. Saint Lucien also remains the patron saint of change, change which the Order feared greatly. Thus, sticking true to our patron Saint, I believe it to be fit to reform the inner workings of the Order as well as to return it to a noble and pious cause.

Should you, my friends, aid me in the casting out of the wordly politics of men, dwed, uruks and elfen, perhaps we may stand a chance to unveil the invisible shroud which Iblees hath casted upon the Earth, and, with the grace of the Exalted Owyn, may we purge those who would do harm to the innocent with our righteous fury.

Deus Magnus, Deus Vult."

[Piov 2643]

Everard IV would have attended the meeting, addressing the gathering with great confidence and optimism for the plight of the Church. "With grace and permission from the Seven Skies, I, Everard, bear witness and in these presence do grant approbation to the inauguration of the order so that the charism of Exalted Owyn and the apostolate of the patronage of Saint Lucien may be brought into fulfillment with a simple message to all the faithful flock: To restore all things in GOD." 

BENEDICAT TIBI DOMINE

[Chorale__ 2147]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.