After Urostyne’s drowning there was unrest among us that remained of the caravan, since with the merchant and his men’s execution many feared the thundered plains would be too perilous to cross. Ynguinian and I were cautious of these perils, but intent on finishing our journey to Arimens, for I desired to spite Kalitian by learning magicks and he desired to keep his oaths.

Ynguinian forced me to opt for patience, as perhaps we may find a way to Arimens safely if we wait. The island fort lacked the supplies to hold all of us for long, so on the second day after Urostyne’s drowning we were told that we must leave by the end of the week. It was on the third day after Urostyne’s drowning that Raluros did offer his aid, seeing as we were all in need of protection. His voice, like all paladins of Ralurusian, sounded of fire, smoke, and gravel.

“I have seen the woe many of you wear upon your faces and have heard whispers of the perils the road through the thundered plains to Arimens may bring: The towns of liars and swindlers that sell rotted meat and dirty water, the raiders who burn caravans and those in them alive, and the shriekers that with those rotten and decaying wings steal children from their beds and the arms of their parents. Let it be known that these things are true of the thundered plains. You now know of the perils of this journey from which I intend to protect those who still wish to cross, I leave to all the choice to cross the plains under my protection or to take your leave at the river Kalipaonin.”

Much discussion was had among those who had rode in the carts, for misfortune was already heavily upon them and many could not fathom taking the risks of travel when death had already lingered so close on their journey. Ynguinian and I had our own concerns of peril: not having seen the power of a paladin outside of stories we were cautious that one paladin could truly protect anyone from the dangers of those plains – and many of the peasants questioned the paladin’s capabilities as well. Raluros, wise as most paladins are, saw this and assuaged some of their hesitance by naming five soldiers to help aid him on the journey.

But the paladin and five soldiers were only six, and being twenty less than Urostyne’s force, many who rode the carts did not continue and instead founded a village upstream of the island fort. Ynguinian, myself, and thirty of the battered peasants recovering from poison chose to venture along the road to Arimens through the thundered plains. Ynguinian and I were wary of the knight’s confidence, for even with auspicious dreams the path was still dangerous, and we had yet to witness the power of one chosen of the thirteen saints. However, this was the only means to Arimens safely; I had magicks to learn and Ynguinian had oaths to keep.

We left with the paladin and soldiers among thirty of the battered peasants, mostly younger families with children hoping to avoid that war by heading west. Upon crossing the river Kalipaonin did the landscape begin to show the first signs of the desecration from that war: for days we marched muddied paths alongside the refuse of tents and fires of those soldiers who were soon to meet death in that bitter conflict. It was during the first anxious day of this long march that Ynguinian began training in swordplay with the soldiers, but not Raluros, for the paladin refused to lift his blade against honest men. I spent my days practicing the spell of unnoticing, still, for magicks are only as strong as their user is practiced, and I was still of the thought to spite Kalitian. The night before we reached the first town along the thundered path did I, foolishly and offensively, ask the paladin to teach me a spell.

“Girl” his voice sounded low and of gravel as the voices of all paladins of Ralurusian do, “I know of thy aim to learn magicks upon arrival at the city Arimens, for I have seen thy ambition in each casting of thy old and simple spell, myself immune. I have seen thou read books of many letters and words in hopes you might find words of Knowledge. Thou are hasty, and misunderstand many things about Knowledge. If thou truly held Knowledge, then thou would know that I cannot teach thee magicks. I know not of the stories of powers thou have encountered from skalds and storytellers in nameless villages, but know this: a paladin’s power is not magic but prayer, and my prayers stories and words of Memory. Do not compare me to these lesser men, wizards and skalds and bards. With prayers of story comes a great and painful price which none of these men would pay. I do not speak words written in dusty grimoires, but the fiery crackles and the tones of the hearth; that sacred and common place where Memory became the patron of the eleventh Saint. I speak again: my power is not magic. My power is a deeper and costly language as to kindle hope in the hopeless, for Memory and prayers to the eleventh are the last refuge of desperate men who have yet to turn to Luck and that scoundrel Borrinean who is lucky to be a saint at all.”

To the paladin’s words I did not respond, for I was not deeply a fool as to ask an angered knight questions. However, there were many questions and words I did want to ask. Many of the children who sit before me may think of one question that I did not speak: “Sir paladin” I wished I could ask “what is the price of stories?” But, perhaps finally heeding Kalitian’s lesson, I swallowed my curiosity and kept it withheld. In speech’s stead I waited and watched the knight as he led us through those plains and into the first of many towns of liars and swindlers. It is in the first town that the paladin bid us to sell the carts and tents and told us that wood is valuable on the plains. It is in the first town of liars and swindlers he told us the story why all houses on the plains of the sixth saint’s grave are initially built of wood, for even in death does Urostian enforce his preference of all shelters of stone to those of wood.

Each town onwards , for many weeks, did all of us who remained of the caravan use the money from the carts and tents sold to buy fruit, meat, and breads. Each town onwards did the swindlers and liars give us these things ripe, unrotted, and fresh. Each town onwards, did I observe and listen to the paladin speak to the swindlers and liars of those towns to learn the secret stories he spoke to ensure our protection, but no stories did I hear. The paladin, each time, simply spoke of the needed supplies low and hushed so you had to lean in to hear his voice which sounded of fire, smoke, and gravel. The towns, each time, did treat us fairly and not scam or lie to us.

Being hasty, I assumed the paladin had spoken secret stories to Ralurusian, but older now with Knowledge I know that is not true. Rather, I now know, no town was foolish enough to draw the ire of Ralarusian’s servants lest all travelers from all lands know of their swindles and lies, for it is paladins of the eleventh saint that travel the most and the farthest.

It was as summer decayed, during Heatswane, that I first heard Raluros tell a story. The cost, however, I would not learn until further on our journey. It was late in the night, the silver moon just having set, and I had stayed up with Ynguinian who, in his good-heartedness, had chosen to keep watch during the nights to preserve the stamina of those soldiers who helped to escort us through those plains. In the darkness Ynguinian saw the movement of those raiders, crouched and low.

“Quickly” he whispered to me “you must cast your spell of unnoticing and let the paladin know of the raiders who approach. I cannot yell or shout to alert, for if I do they will decimate us.”

I cast my spell of unnoticing and woke Raluros, who upon hearing that raiders approached us in stealth, grabbed his blade and confronted the scoundrels without his armor or shield. He shouted towards the darkness with such an intensity as to draw the raiders out of hiding with their blades drawn and torches lit. Fifty lit torches, I counted, throwing the colors of their licking flames against the trampled and muddied grasses of the plains. One of the raiders spoke with threats of decimation, extirpation, and fire if we did not hand over all that belonged to us. Raluros then, in what I assumed was an act of courage but I now understand to be the knowing vehemence of his capabilities, addressed the men; unflinching was his demeanor.

“Cretins. Worms. Small and useless men. Cowards. Ye will leave these men and women who seek refuge to their lonesome or I will show you the truth of these statements. If ye push me to conflict, the powers bestowed of that storied order which I serve ye shall know with certainty. Certain ye shall be of cowardice. Certain ye shall be, certain that you are cretins and worms before all things mighty and virtuous.”

One of the raiders closest mocked the paladin, for he was a fool of the highest order.

“You are one, and we are many more than one. The only power on the plains is that of violence, and many violent men are we. Cur! If your plan is to insult us, then we will slaughter you as we have many dogs before.”

It was as the raiders began to charge that the paladin unsheathed his sword. The fools stood in awe with mouths agape at the dripping rainbow fire engulfing the mithril of that ancient and magical blade. Taking this window of pause, Raluros began to tell the story of the creation of men and the planting of the first yew. He spoke how men rose from seeds planted by Virtue himself, and how all men were born at their prime and did not age nor die of old age. He spoke of the wars ancient kingdoms waged and the anointing of the first twelve saints that lived to be hundreds of years in age. He spoke of that time when Decay looked upon the world and its many beauties, envious of worship given to the other twelve patrons and in this envy she did plant the first yew and from it the first child: the thirteenth saint.

Raluros spoke of how Decay, through Yuorinis, warped the world to satiate her envy: beasts forgot speech, trees withered, fruit rotted, and man began to age. He said that it was when man first began to die, did we first experience dread and fear that could not be stopped: Decay. He spoke of how men of all nations tried many things to rid the world of death. They gave offerings to the many patrons, created the art of apothecary to slow illness and ageing, and even tried to burn the first yew. Yet, none of these worked and their failures only served to increase their mounting anguish.

It was this anxiety we know as Firstdread that the paladin suffused the minds of those raiders with: from the paladin’s mouth did spew black smoke that engulfed seasoned cutthroats and vagabonds that harried the caravan. This smoke, suffused with the words of the paladin’s story revealed to the men the truth of the paladin’s utterances, for when confronted with Firstdread did these men cower. The cretins dropped their weapons and torches; wordlessly and wild-eyed like frightened beasts scattering upon the thundered plains. The next morning Ynguinian would be given one of the swords as a gift of thanks from the other soldiers.

Raluros addressed the caravan after the passing danger took flight from his story, his voice lower, weaker, and perhaps carrying the faint scent of char and brimstone.

“Worry not. They will harass you no longer.”

Had I not heeded the paladin’s admonishment weeks prior to his repulsion of the cowards and cutthroats I would have asked him at what cost did he hold such power. To be able to call upon the memory of Firstdread must take such a cost, yet the paladin showed no signs of tiring or Decay as a result of his story. He did not limp, he did not cough, nor did he have any of the restrictions I knew of the paladins of other orders. Yet I did not ask, for I was trying to avoid further chastisement and I was determined to find Knowledge on a road in which there was none.

Several weeks of travel passed until I learned the price of stories. For each city the trade road branched off to, did the muddied path become less marred by the marching of the soldiers headed east to fight in the war of greed in power. For each day we drew closer to the edge of the thundered plains did the refuse and pollution of journeying soldiers diminish.

It was on the last day in the thundered plains that I learned the power and the price of stories.

The day was clear, and we had just passed through the last branch on the trade road before Arimens. The road was dry, the grass untrampled, and no pollution did exist beyond that final branching before Arimens, as the disease of that war had yet to spread to the far West of the continent. It was before the sun hit its zenith that we saw the shadows of a flock of the massive shrieks with their decaying wings and gaping mouths fly over a distant plateau and towards us at great speed. Ynguinian ran past me towards one of the children of the caravan, knocking me to the ground as one of the great beasts swept towards the young boy. It was then I saw Ynguinian grasped in that foul maw intended for the boy as he thrust his sword into the shriek, causing the foul ichor that keeps it in a state of undeath to stain the dirt. The aberration writhed as it sank, limp over the dry ground. Soon it was followed by the injured Ynguinian.

I ran to tend to his wounds, giving a prayer to Mentillian (the first I had given in nearly a year) that I could save the man. The swarm of shrieks grew to a volumnity only seen in swarms of insects as one of the guards was lifted from the ground and devoured head-first. It was then that I learned what the desperate truly feel like, what these men and women who had traveled for many months to escape that war had felt enough to leave all things behind them. It was then that Raluros told his second story. He spoke of Urostian, who fought a terrible foe who enslaved the corpses of those taken by illness unnatural: works of necromancy. Raluros shouted to the heavens of the rainstorms that granted magicks to men, and within an instant the winds became tempestuous and dark clouds gathered overhead.

One of the many aberrations lurched for Ynguinian, but when all seemed hopeless (and I feared Ynguinian’s death the most) the paladin raised his sword upwards to the fierce storming shadow and told of the battle between Urostian and his foe. Practically burning his throat, I could see steam and smoke and a hearth within the knight’s mouth as he yelled of how waters fell upon the world giving the very magicks that felled Urostian, and how the thundered plains earned that name. Spewing cinders and fires and smoke, Raluros described that with each mighty swing of Urostian’s sword he brought lightning from the heavens, smiting the undead the foul wizard had wrought.

Waters fell in sheets from the summoned storm, and kindling the blaze in his throat the paladin wailed through the crackling flame which consumed of his speech:

“Remember, thou are but imitations of the beasts of the Patrons! Remember of the man whose ashes are spread over these plains and your master he smote with that blade of stone and light! Urostian I call upon your aid to deliver Memory to these creatures that seek to harm those who have no Shelter!”

A great wall of lightning decimated the undead beasts, leaving the smell of burnt flesh, ash, and rain in the stillness that followed. I looked down to Ynguinian, the dirt and water surrounding him crimson as he struggled to breath. Desperately I shook and begged him to stay on this plane, for he had sworn an oath for me. Raluros, who on his face still wore the immense pain of his story and bled from his mouth did approach Ynguinian, and holding the symbol of the hearth saint to Ynguinian’s chest, the paladin coughed and spit blood as his breath turned to steam on the air to tell a third story, drowned by the descending rains.

Ynguinian’s wounds sealed and steamed as warm flames sprouted on his flesh. My dearest friend was safe and alive.

“Thank you Raluros, for you have saved someone dearest to me. I will never forget what service you have done for me here.” I spoke to the paladin, expecting a response.

The storm dissipated suddenly, revealing the clear skies of the day once more. I looked towards Raluros, and saw the blood streaming from his mouth.

“What was the final story you told, to save Ynguinian?” I asked

Raluros looked at me square, his eyes bright orange from his oath. He could not speak, for his throat was burnt and torn. His face bore anguish and streaming tears I would only come to know years from then. He did not pity or admonish me. No. He smiled to cover the wounds of that third tale and it was then I understood the price of stories.