5th Trail, Cylus, Arc 718
Northwestern Civilian Outer Housing
19th break
The reader did not want to waste the light, for he knew candles were at a premium during Cylus. Thirty trials of darkness and no force known to men or gods that could remove it. Of course any man selling illumination would be privately cackling with joy. He'd seen a single wick smeared with wax go for ten gold pieces, in the last, desperate days of Cylus. That or whole stretches of the City Of Rings swamped in endless shadow, houses and business alike willing to go it in the pitch rather than shell out precious funds for exorbitantly-priced candles or lamp oil.Northwestern Civilian Outer Housing
19th break
The reader knew all this, just like he knew that the upright rats roaming the streets would see the glow in windows and know a few coins could be made from a rifling. His family had all stayed in one room at the end of the season, lit by a single candle, to protect their light from darkness bearing greedy hands. Relying on numbers and witnesses to dissuade robbers.
Parchment rustled softly as the reader turned a page. He didn't need to worry about being robbed. Not in this neighborhood.
"We are not their pawns, nor their followers," growled the Captain, his sweeping arm taking in the devastation behind him. "Is this what loving gods do to their faithful? Is this the future we give to our children? One of slavery and mindless obedience, lest we invite annihilation?"
He'd forgotten how many time's he'd read the book. Enough that the page corners were dog-eared and smooth from the rub of his fingertips. Enough that the spine had almost completely fallen away, gold-lettered book title soon to be replaced by the bare guts of several hundred pages stitched together. The reader barely noticed the book's condition. It was the story that mattered; the words captured within. The priest looked beyond that trembling arm and forced himself to gaze upon the "judgement" of the Immortals. Corpses of all ages, still and smoking and often scattered in the ash and smoke. Buildings blasted apart like toys kicked by petty children. Bountiful fields and clever works of dedicated men, sustenance and innovation both, reduced to charcoal and rubble.
He bowed his head and prayers would not come. He had seen what the gods could do now. He did not want their answers, nor their attentions. Men and nations and monsters had wreaked havoc such as this before, but every time they were of mortal flesh, and could be destroyed.
And they never flayed a kingdom alive, then called it "righteousness".
Bells tolled in the darkness, and the reader's gaze flicked up from the words, peering out the filthy window into... well, nothing, of course. First one bell, the largest and most accurate, in the center of Etzos. He'd learned as a boy what that prime timekeeper was called, but had long since forgotten. All he knew was that every break, one lonely emanation came from skies, hidden by cloud and fog... and then a multitude of others took up the call. Almost like a single, dominat wolf howling, and a whole pack of pretenders echoing his cry.He bowed his head and prayers would not come. He had seen what the gods could do now. He did not want their answers, nor their attentions. Men and nations and monsters had wreaked havoc such as this before, but every time they were of mortal flesh, and could be destroyed.
And they never flayed a kingdom alive, then called it "righteousness".
The reader's lips twitched. That was rather good. He'd have to remember it. But, alas...
The book was closed and the page carefully marked with a twig. Back it went onto the shelf by his bed, with it's two siblings, the three of them alone there save for his purse (which was now in his pocket), and the hat he plucked and worked firmly onto his head. The mass of thick, black hair cascading down past his shoulders meant that sometimes it took a little effort, but he could hear the patter and splutter of water on the cobbles. Now it was a patter, but in a break or two, it could easily be a deluge.
With a whirl his cloak flailed around him, then was fastened around his neck. Much like his hair and his hat, his beard and cloak had a fractious relationship. A little pulling and tugging, though, and it was secure. The reader patted his pocket. Found his purse, and... yes, the key to the house. He marched to the door and reached for the handle-
The fact he could still see it tipped him off. He blinked and his mind vomited up a reminder. He sighed, walked to the candle and with a puff-
Darkness, yet not darkness. Silver and incomplete. A twilight of moonshine and warring shadows. In the open perhaps it would suffice, but in a place of towered brick and mortar, every structure cast it's own shades of pitch. The reader looked around and saw little. Just vague, dark blobs where he knew solid shapes rested. A few bits he stood there, in his threadbare cloak and ratty hat and long hair and matted beard, accentuating his eyes to the darkness.
Forty-four years, and he still needed to take a few moments. Until he could blink and the blobs became sharper. His gaze flicked to the long, straight item hanging from the shelf. Beneath the books, next to his bed, within arms-reach at all times. A smear of moonlight touched the hilt, just for a moment, and the reader wondered if he should err on the side of caution.
He tensed his hands for a moment. Callused knuckles clenched but did not crack. He was getting older, older than he thought he'd ever reach, but no. He did not require such obvious protection. That was more a professional concession, not a personal talisman.
Thus decided, the reader left his home, and the empty house listened to the lock grind and click. Footsteps departed from it, leaving all the dead wood and cold metal inert and alone. They were steady claps on leather on cobble and brick. Measured and determined.
Kasoria hated being late.
Thanks to Rumor for the template
