Sacred Conference
Sixteen empty eye sockets peer at you, hidden behind eight cloaks. Although the Iudices wear blood-red robes with gold trim, they sit on plain wood chairs.
“Speak, Magus,” the Chief Iudex commands.
You stand. This is the first time in some hours you’ve taken a non-kneeling position. Your knees crack in protest. “Three weeks and four nights ago, I had a vision.”
The Chief leans forward. He presses a skeletal hand against his chin.
“In my vision, a village I recognized was coated in snow. All of the people were frozen in place. They all had these looks of terror on their face, as if they’d seen something horrible and then died where they stood. I wandered the village, and found myself on the road out of town. I stopped by at a wooden shack on the edge of the village. It was strange.”
“Strange how?” the Chief’s voice is a rusty knife scraping down your spine.
“In the yard, there were herbs growing. They weren’t medicinal, but they weren’t edible either. Horse Tongues, Kingfinger plants, that sort of thing. And there were wooden posts driven into the ground with seashells hanging off of them. There was a deer skull hanging over the door, but its antlers were absolutely massive.”
“So a witch took up residence outside town?”
“It’s possible,” you answer.
You feel a mounting anxiety. These people could order you to be burnt at any moment, after all. You grind a foot into the stone floor of the cellar. Tapestries of heroes and gods line the walls, and you can feel their judgement. “Witch,” they seem to whisper. “You’ll burn, witch. Sooner or later. The Rot will take you, and then it’s the torch.”
“Leave us, Magus. Don’t stray.” the Chief commands. You turn, and leave the cellar.
2. -- The Iron Bastion
A winter wind passes through you the moment you step outdoors. With vampiric efficiency, it rips the warmth from you. Your teeth chatter involuntarily. Your thin robe, ornate as it may be, does little to keep the cold out, even as you wrap it over yourself.
You’ve emerged from the cellar, which is situated on one of four spires. You can now see the Iron Bastion in all its glory; as you survey the battlements and the keep, made out of titanic stone bricks, you can appreciate the old wives’ tale that it was carved out by the Eight themselves.
Aias awaits you. Her one eye brims with warmth. Her black hair is twisted in an elaborate series of braids. Aias wears plate armour and bears a broadsword the way a workman wears an apron and bears a hammer. Over your time knowing her, you’ve seen her face slashed, bitten and sprayed at with acid. Once, you sealed her throat with magic, after a demon’s claws opened it up. She was furious. She grips a sheepskin in her left hand, and tosses it to you as you approach.
“Thanks,” you say, eagerly wrapping yourself up. “It’s so warm in there, compared to out here.”
“You didn’t see?’
“See what?”
“They burned the last person who went in there. That’s why it’s so cold.”
You scoff. Your breath drifts lazily in the icy, noonday stillness. “I told them about my vision.”
You lean against the battlement, and Aias joins you. “How did it go?”
“Not sure,” you admit.
“I think it was nothing, honestly,” Aias says, after a moment passes in silence, “probably just a weird dream.”
“It felt so real. And I felt the cold when I woke up.”
“You always feel the cold, we’re in the mountains.”
“Fair,” you say. Your lips crack as you smile.
You look at your friend’s sword, and pray that she never uses it to cut your head off.
You hear the door to the cellar swing open.
You stand before the Iudices once more.
“Magus, the Council of Iudeces has seen fit to grant you a Writ of Passage, with no date of expiration. You are charged to locate the village from your vision, and cleanse whatever foulness may be lurking. Afterwards, you will be subject to a one-month quarantine and cleansing. Do you understand your mission?” the Chief wheezes.
“I do,” you say solemnly.
“In case you succumb to the Rot, Witchbreaker Aias Telemen will accompany you. In addition, a purse of fifty golden Crowns will be made available, for the purchase of supplies.”
“I understand.”
“Good. You will depart tomorrow, and spend the rest of the day undergoing Litanies of Purity. If you fail to return in five months, your name will be struck from the records.”
You nod, and turn to leave.
“Magus?” the Chief asks, as you approach the door.
“Yes?”
“Good luck.”
3. -- Exiting the Iron Bastion
You and Aias both carry a bag full of supplies; whetstones, food, matches, tinder, a flask of rum each, among many other things. A horse or donkey would be helpful, but such creatures rightfully fear your unnatural nature.
In addition, Aias also carries the Bell and Bag. The bag goes over your head, to prevent the Rot from spreading in towns. The bell goes over your neck, to warn the innocent. Loaded down like horses, you depart the Iron Bastion. Later in the day, you give it one last glance before it sinks below the horizon .
“Almost feels like the last time,” you muse
You trudge onward, doing your best to ignore the ache in your muscles and the frostbite that creeps along your skin. Soon, the sun looms threateningly low in the sky.
“We could camp, but finding firewood might be hard,” Aias explains as you take a moment to rest, “or we could find a town.”
“Where’s the nearest town?” you ask, planting yourself in the snow. You wince as your breeches become instantly soaked.
“Westhorpe.”
“Didn’t the Order save them, a few years back?”
“Yeah. Demon snatched the alderman and his son, knocked a couple of braziers over in the process. We had to fight the fire while it hunted us.”
“That gratitude might be useful,” you offer.
“That maybe, but they might be suspicious of us.”
“You mean me.”
Aias frowns. “Yeah.”
You weigh the options for a moment.
@mizal you either get busy living or get busy dying
