Deus Necros

One of the clerics of the church, a young woman who seemed to be tending to a suitcase far larger than her own size, along with what looked like a metallic weapon that felt like it was taken from a ship. A metallic piece of pure brutality, silver in color and wiped with smoked sweet-scented oil and incense sat not too far from the gate’s entrance. The case lay open like a coffin for a saint who had never been one. Upon a closer look, anyone would realize that this was nothing but an anchor. A chain anchor.

The anchor’s flukes were honed to a mean beauty. The shaft bore nicks that had been polished rather than erased. The oil curled up in pleasant little ghosts that did a poor job at disguising the nature of the thing beneath.

The inside of the fortress was packed full of church members, clerics and paladins and they were all too prissy right now as they had to go to a war instead of attending the ceremony of the new appointment of the Pope in the religious capital near Solania. Robed men argued in careful whispers about seating arrangements they would now miss, and whose signatures would go on which proclamation without their witness. Paladins checked straps and then checked them again, as if tight leather could replace a blessing they had hoped to receive in person.

They had right to be annoyed, after all, all those who were to see the papal coronation would be getting blessings, be it spiritual or monetary as a reward for their continuous support, those who have been sent to the frontline on the other hand were far more unfortunate. Purses would be heavier back in the cool cities. Names would be read aloud while the names out here would be written on casualty rolls and read under the breath. The disparity tasted like old metal.

The heat and sand here were all one needed to make an enemy of the world itself and hate it with all their being, not to mention the absurd decision to fight on enemy soil, if sand can be called that anyway. Every exposed inch of skin gathered grit. Every prayer needed to be swallowed with dust. Even the shade was a liar, promising relief and giving only less pain.

And to fight forces that lived their whole lives here? And got used to the sand and heat would be nothing but a mass suicide. But, law and faith decrees that they were to fight. For those who live in the sand seem to be worshipping the demons that the church is set to destroy and eradicate from the world. So they must suffer for their faith, only in doing so will they gain salvation, or so they believe.

The young woman, Misty, was finally done with the cleaning of her weapon which many had seen in the suitcase but no one had seen in action, the weapon itself was just brutish, and unfitting, and felt like it was just something she picked up and liked and no one would dare question her for it. She buffed along the inner curve of a fluke until the cloth ran smooth. The metal remembered salt and sea in its shape even here. Her hands moved competent and unhurried. The case had small sacred tokens stitched into its lining, not to sanctify the weapon, but to keep others comfortable in its vicinity. The chains looked oiled and shiny from the amount of dedicated cleaning she put into it. And with that done she could only imagine how many skulls will this chain break, demonic skulls of course unless some were foolish enough to follow the footsteps of these demons. After all, human blood for some reason was far harder to clean than demonic one.

Despite her nonchalant behavior, no one seemed bothered with Misty’s behavior among the massive crowd of Holy Order members. Even if one were to spot her, they would simply move their face away, acting as if she wasn’t there to see.

After all, she was always with Titania, and no one wants to antagonize that monster anyway. The thought lived comfortably in everyone’s head, wrapped in admiration and fear. So they always left Misty by herself to do whatever she felt like. Space formed around her like a courtesy. She used it without noticing.

Just as she was done cleaning her weapon and closed the suitcase, something heavy, and screaming came flying from the gate and tumbled several times rolling on the ground before it stopped right in front of her feet. Boots, greaves, a blur of flailing limbs and a plume of dust. The body hit, bounced once, and slid. The scream lost dignity and turned into a grunt halfway through the roll. A gauntlet clawed for purchase and found none.

Sand and dust burst out of where he finally stopped and washed over her, dirtying some of her newly cleaned clothes. The fine grit settled along the edge of her skirt and clung. A grain ticked against her lower lip. She blinked, glanced down at the new freckles of dirt on the silver case, and sighed a small, theatrical sigh that contained no real theater at all.

She was thankful to the fact that she closed the suitcase otherwise her weapon would have had dust all over it, and she’ll have to clean it up again. But who in their right mind would start a fight in the fortress was her first thought.

“ENEMY ATTACK!” someone shouted and the whole fortress seemed to breathe out as the sound of drawn swords and prayers began filling the space. Steel hissed from scabbards. Leather creaked. A dozen voices began the same invocation and overlapped, throwing the rhythm wrong. Feet pounded toward the gate. The air went hot with excitement and fear layered together.

Members of the Holy other began grouping together looking for the intruder, and waiting for information from the high towers. Where is the enemy? Everyone had the same thought but no one saw any foreign assailant.

A groan from the downed paladin soon revealed that he was alive, but he seemed to have had a bruise that would take a couple days to lighten up, with healing of course. His visor rattled as he tried to sit. He spat dust and pride. The bruise would shade in purple and green under the cheekbone if someone did not mend it.

Looking ahead, a very handsome man draped in full black and silver, a regalia for nobles of the highest positions was standing in front of the gate. There was a massive staff wrapped behind his back, a jeweled staff that smelled of ancient wood and old magic. And in one of his hands was a letter while the other hand was flexing the fingers close and open. He did not bother to settle into a pose. He let everyone look and decide for themselves what they saw. The desert light loved the silver and hated the black, and he wore both as if he did not care which the sun preferred.

“Oh Sir Davon!” Misty’s words came out and almost everyone who heard her stopped in their tracks. The name attached itself to the figure and made it heavier. A few blades lowered a fraction. A few cloaks stopped mid-swing. The priests closest to her turned their heads as one.

“This isn’t an enemy attack?” someone said. It had the small, embarrassed tone of a man who realizes he has shouted in the wrong room.

“If you consider the savior of Tulmud an enemy, then I’ll pray at your headstone later,” Misty said as she stood up. Her voice was cheerful and absolute. She picked up her suitcase with one hand and moved toward Ludwig, gleeful at the sight of the man who she once adventured with and later knew to be the person who singlehandedly stopped one of the greatest catastrophes to ever plague the empire. The case looked absurd in one hand until you watched the ease of the lift. Then it looked right.

And now, he’s right here in front of her again, perhaps this will be another adventure like back then? Ever since Titania left her here she was feeling rather bored and stifled. The fortress had given her chores, not stories. The desert had given her heat, not problems worth solving. Perhaps this young man might change that. Her smile found a shape it had not worn in days. She stepped over the paladin still blinking up at the sky. She stopped at a polite distance from the man in black and silver and looked up at him as if the sun had not burned her eyes sore since morning.

“Welcome to the sandbox,” she said lightly, eyes flicking to the letter in his hand and then back to his face. The word welcome did not sound like hospitality. It sounded like the first stone set in a path.