--The Frontier City Of Solace--

Vah looked at the gathering of young nobles through her right eye, the other obscured by the white band that covered it. Unlike with men, a blessed woman’s eye-cloth was worn over her left eye. And unlike nobles, those who were under the church’s grace wore one they couldn’t see through.

It had been there for as long as Vah could remember. Born in the church, raised in the monastery, tutored in the grand cathedral of the Frontier city, the cloth had stayed with her even if those around her had left. For all sixty and seven times the seasons had rolled past, each leaving a mark on the band to be remembered by; the markings colored in her ranking. Even if her age was nothing to scoff at, it was only red on white. Not low, yet not high either.

“Is the nectar to your liking, Lady Vah?” Haliera asked sweetly.

She looked down in her cup, the syrup of sugary red swirling formlessly in the water. Perhaps not really without form, though. It reminded Vah very much of the Howling. But then again, did the Howling even have a structure to it? She supposed not.

“Lady Vah?” Haliera asked again, no impatience in her words. Quite unusual for nobles - quickly agitated when one did not give them undivided attention.

Vah took another sip. Although anything overly sweet was popular with the noble womenfolk, Vah did not much care for it. She much preferred the bitter brew from the church’s own making. Quite unfeminine for her to think so. But, as a woman under the church, her gender was of no real importance.

“It’s very toothsome, dear.” She answered, her crackled voice a constant reminder of her age.

Haliera gave her a weird look, no doubt trying to grasp what she had meant by it. But then, like any good noble woman, she shrugged it off, pretending as if she hadn’t said anything. Time and practice had taught Vah how to keep herself from laughing at the nobles’ antics. With age came skill, after all.

Haliera’s eyes were drawn up and right, to where a display of light filtered through a glass-stained window, cutting one tone into many. “I’ve heard Radiance has returned from the Battle of Right,” She said, eyes glazed and staring hard at the glass, warping the light with her own blessing. “Has he been by, by any chance?”

Vah allowed herself a mischievous chuckle. Haliera’s eyes shot back to her, cheeks flushed.

“What is it?” She asked, brushing some stray hairs away. “Lady Vah?”

“It should come to no real surprise,” the old Priestess said, “I suppose every noble girl has had a fancy on Lord Radiance at least at one point in her life.”

Haliera’s cheeks deepened in their hue, as did her ears and nose. “Lady Vah!” she objected, but the priestess waved it away.

“You needn’t hide it from me, girl, or from anyone here.” It were just some friends after all. Other than her brother, tall and handsome, there was another girl, full in shape and pretty, and yet another, very young and fragile looking. Vah had been surprised upon meeting the little one, Rin she was called. She was constantly fumbling at her dress, as if mightily irritated by the fabric’s touch.

The girl didn’t wear an eye-band, meaning she was without blessing – a rarity for nobles, really. Even if the blessing of most was next to useless. The vicar had yet to learn why someone of Haliera’s stature had a girl like Rin follow her around. What could be her worth?

“But no.” She finally said. “Lord Radiance has yet to grace us with his visit.”

Vah refrained from looking behind her – at the stained-glass artwork.

“But he will, probably. Soon, rather than later. I suppose he is still exhausted from the war and travel. I’ve heard the enemy was most fierce. Once he has rested, no doubt he’ll come by.” Vah winked. “I’ll send for you when he does.”

“Would be nice if he came. Much prefer to see the chosen child, son to our Goddess Sol, than the Runeclad that wandered in yesterday.” Vih said – Vah’s acolyte, who she had forgotten to be present.

The party froze, petrified. Taken by a fear stemming from their childhood, deep rooted into their mind. Whenever Vah heard the name of those creatures, she felt a chill, still – starting at the root of her gut and clawing its way up her spine. A shiver that set her knees to buckle and hands to shake. The years had not taken that fear from her. She doubted they ever would.

“A Runeclad?” Severan asked, his likable face contorted into a grimace, eyes darting around as if the monster was still lurking somewhere in the cathedral. “What did it want?”

Vah swallowed the lump in her throat, showing the rigid stature one of her position was expected to carry. “What does any Runeclad want?” She shrugged. “I’ve yet to find a one who’s figured that one out, Severan. It simply scourged the halls and passages until it finally left, not saying a word.

She saw Haliera shudder. “Which one was it?” She asked, trying to keep the fright from her voice and failing. The creatures did not have names, really. But their masters’ ancestors generally named them something.

“Vrox,” Vih said in Vah’s stead, “The silver one. You know, the one that doesn’t have the upper half of its head. The top perfectly flat and level except for three silver spikes that sprout from it.” With each piece of information describing the inhuman monster, the gathering shrank as if a great weight pressed on them. Well, everyone but Vih. For some reason she wasn’t bothered by these things.

“I don’t like those things” Fina muttered. “Nothing should be that dangerous.”

Perhaps nothing should; nothing but Sol herself, blessed be Her name.

“You think Radiance could defeat one of those creatures?” Haliera asked quietly. Severan frowned.

“They can’t be hurt, Hal, let alone killed.” He sneered, annoyed. “Nothing can defeat a Runeclad but another one. And we’ve yet to see them challenge each other.”

They were silent, the topic having strangled the light aired tone from before.

“Speaking of challenges.” Vah started, skillfully diverting the conversation. “I’ve no doubt that people will start to duel Radiance again now he’s returned; calling him out into the Square before Tijd’s tower”

Vih snickered, her attitude starting to grate on Vah’s patience. She will correct her pupil’s behavior later, once the guests have gone.

“What’s funny?” Haliera asked, to which Vih laughter louder.

“Can’t really call it a challenge, though? Can you? Radiance is Son of the Flame; no mortal can beat him. Especially with his blade of legend, passed down by every generation of Vail since Vail the vanquisher himself.”

Haliera smiled at that. “He is very strong.”

“That he is certainly.” Vah admitted. “But he has been to war now and seen the brutality of man. I don’t know how that will reflect on his dueling. When he fights for real he can be… scary.”

“Radiance?” Haliera asked, incredulous. “Scary?”

Vah smiled as the elders do. It was easy to understand why a young noble woman could not see harm or threat in such a handsome and… Kind looking man. But Vah was old – older than time, almost, and she had seen kind-looking men do some damn horrible things before.

“You ever seen him fight, dear?”

“I have observed him dueling.” She answered smartly.

“Not the same.” Vah said, thinking back at that time, years ago in the Far Slums. “Everyone should be a little scared of Radiance.” Haliera frowned and it seemed like she was going to retort.

In the distance, the great bell-tower of Werk bellowed the time of day.

“Oh,” Haliera said. “It seems the time of my departure has come.”

Vah nodded, slowly raising herself. Vih helped her with that, now. Here, in the First Empire, the old were revered for their knowledge and skill and cunning. Aging came with many benefits as compared to the heretics of the east, the savages of the south, or the barbarians of the North. But even still, not a day went by where Vah did not wish for her youthful vigor to return. Perhaps, if she stayed devote to the Almighty, she’d get another chance.

“Then, Lady Vah, I hope to see you again soon.” Haliera said. Severan and Fina nodded their own courtesies before departing as well.

It was just when Vah waved them off through the great door that she noticed a young servant child waving at the group from around the corner.

“Goodbye Rin.” The child called quietly. The young noble girl returned the gesture, then left.

Vah had never, in her sixty and seven passing’s of the seasons seen the girl named Rin here, and yet…

“How does she know the child?” Vah shook her head. With age came knowledge, yes, but she felt like more became lost in the passing of years; slipping from her finger like smoke.

She turned, regarding the room in which she was stood. It was extravagant as anything the church owned, with high rafters, beaming faux-lights, exquisitely crafted furniture. But there was one piece of particular finery. The sun’s rays passed through a glass stained window with flaring colors just soft enough to be stared at, but bright enough to catch one’s breath.

In the art, Radiance was depicted as a child, rising from the smoldering flames of his false parent’s home. He was Son of The Flame, child to Sol – the Almighty. The clarity and brilliance of his birth was almost blinding.

But each light had its shadow. Vah turned to look at the window’s polar opposite. This one dark and obscure. Reds were used in abundance as well, but not the red of flame. It was blood. Enough to fill an ocean. And in the middle of this grand pool stood a Runeclad, glooming and glowing, its surface copper and covered in wards and runes and untouched by the blood.

Something in her gut churned like a dying snake, memories came flooding from when she was just a child. Dozens of men came flooding through the streets. Peasants displeased with the nobles’ doings. She’d been there, with another priestess. There had been a Runeclad, too.

It didn’t do much. Didn’t have to do much. Not even raise its hand, like a blessed would. Or call upon a long string of words for his magic, like a spell-burner would. It looked. Head turning as if on a swivel. slowly, until it had locked on the many men and women, armed with crude tools and torches of flame. It looked.

Then there was only blood. Enough to fill an ocean.

--Northen Cradle, Hollow's Maw--

Keter’s boots squelched through the mud, ankle deep and left after a great downpour of rain from past night. The road led to pretty much everywhere, as long as you knew which path to follow. For a population this pitiful, they sure made a mess of the ground with their drudging.

Jeb, the Elder Shaman’s acolyte, lead the way; staying close to Keter’s side, attempting to offer a handhold in case the Master Maker would slip in the muck. But Keter reckoned the one to slip and fall on his ass would sooner be Jeb than him.

“So.” Jeb started carefully. “It’s war, then.” He sounded nervous as he said it. No real surprise, since the boy had probably seen no real conflict in his entire life, spent passively at the Shaman’s side. Also, contrary to the primitive ways of these people, they appeared rather peaceful. Leaving the other Clans and villages be to keep to themselves.

“Not per say” Keter answered. “It all depends on what we will find when scouting.”

In the bleak light of the early morning, covered with a slick coating of rain stood the wooden archway that was the entrance to the Hunter’s side of Hollow’s Maw. The people here looked ragged and rugged, worn pelts and frayed rope made up most of their clothing. Skin hardened by mean weather and meaner work showed where the coats did not reach.

Keter’s eyes were pulled to a woman, stood beneath the gate and bowing at the pair of children.

“That must be the guide Grog spoke of.” Jeb commented observantly, gripping his wooden staff so he wouldn’t trip in the sludge. It looked very similar to the Shaman’s staff; only not made from the bones of beasts but from the limbs of trees, felled by the village’s cutters.

“You are Kesh?” Keter asked casually.

The woman bowed again, deeper. “Yes, most esteemed Master Maker. Grog Jecher has send me to guide you to the gathering ground for his men.” Keter nodded.

“Lead the way then.”

Within the camp, too, there was mud everywhere. It painted the tents brown, dotted the garbs black, and splattered the hides sodden. People were working on various things, from tanning to cooking, cleaning to gutting, crafting to repairing. But, as always, whenever the Master drew near, they paused their labor to pray to their Master in reverence, drawing obscure symbols in the air before them while muttering prayers in a language Keter did not yet know.

“Your people are most devoted, Master Maker.” The woman commented softly. Her hair too was caked with dirt and braided in dreads. Even so, she radiated a calm and confident aura befitting to one who was probably one of the more attractive women in the hunter’s abode.

“I see so indeed, Kesh.” Keter said. “No doubt they would even go to war, under my command.”

She only nodded.

“Say, Kesh of the Hunter’s abode, how is war waged between tribes?” It was one subject that laid outside Virrah’s area of expertise. Keter was obviously most curious about it. Modern warfare, he knew like no other. But how would these savages go about killing one another? Sure, they appeared mellow and passive towards other tribes, but it wouldn’t fool Keter. Always, whether in their homes of stone, their huts of mud, or their cities of trees, one thing remained the same; With man comes massacre.

“There are no exact rules for fighting, Master, if that is what you ask. We can raid each other, kill, kidnap, burn their homes.” She shrugged. “Whatever the Elders command us.” She paused. “Whatever you command us, Master Maker.”

Keter thought on that for a spell. “But you don’t fight often, I hear?”

“It is so, Master. Only the older ones of Hollow’s maw remember the battles clearly. Even I, twenty-five winters of age have only vague memories of raids and plundering when I was still a child. We are but few. Wasting many men too often would leave us with nothing but mud.”

“But then where do you get the training and,” More importantly, “The courage to fight?”

Civilians, no matter how fierce they think themselves to be, more often than not choke up when confronted with mortal combat. Even soldiers, trained and hardened by the crush of the military can find themselves petrified before the enemy. How would these people find the will within themselves to commit such savageries?

Kesh smiled faintly, her hand lingering on a small satchel, barely bigger than a pebble, hung by her hemp belt. Now Keter looked around, he noticed that most men wore one of those, and even some women.

“We manage, Master Maker.” She said. “We always find the courage to do what needs doing.”

Before Keter could ask more, he spotted something huge from the corner of his eye. It stood on four legs, its shoulders as high as Keter was tall. The body covered in some kind of moss or fungi. A huge, elongated nose sprouted from its head with large flaring nostrils, and beneath it were two fearsome sets of molars to grind whatever found itself between them. But there were no lips, so it had a perpetual grin showing and wide, deep yellow eyes.

Keter stared at the beast for a long silent moment as it was sniffing and plowing the mud with its oversized nose.

“That is, I suppose, the slopnek?” He asked Kesh.

“Yes, Master Maker,” she answered, walking up to the beast. The creature appeared uncaring for her presence, docilly digging in the soil for old roots and soaked scraps of food.

“They are great trackers and have decent endurance. On top of that, they don’t really eat much food. And what they eat can be both plant and meat, making it easy to feed them.”

“Yes,” Keter said, “Virrah has taught me about them.”

The woman smiled like a mask hiding too much. “She might have, Master Maker. But you will find that there is much she hasn’t told you yet. There is plenty to learn in the Hunter’s abode. This you will see in the following days.”

The other hunters started rounding up, spilling into the clearing from between the circling tents; Grog at the head of them. He looked fierce as ever, his bare forearms knotted with wiry muscle and scarred all over. Missing the tip of his left pinky, Keter now noticed.

The hardened man frowned with his notched eyebrow, an uncanny blond, and scratched some dirt out of his cluttered beard. An axe hooked on his belt; one of the few metal tools they owned. The ore was scarce, so only those who had labor desperately in need of iron had them. Being an Elder had its benefits. The man drew closer, and Keter fingered his own blade, tucked neatly in the folds of his clothes and away from prying eyes. A blade ought to only be seen when its use is required.

“Master Maker,” His voice was like the iron of his axe. “We are ready to embark, whenever you wish it so.”

Keter allowed his gaze to glide across the many men, the beasts, the equipment, the faces. Hard folk, born in a harsh land. Not like the whimpering recruits, brought to him from their wealthy cities with a false hope for purpose. Unlike the savage people with their homes unmade to dust with a false sense of righteousness. No. With this lot, he had quite the idea in mind.

_

“I’m surprised you are not yet panicked, Virrah.” Lowroot spat her name as if it were a curse. But it was no longer an insult to her. Not chained to her by the Elders but bestowed upon her by the Master Maker. She would wear it with her head held high.

“I’d have expected you to grow weak in the legs after half a mile hike.” He continued on.

Lowroot was perhaps the most bothersome person in Hollow’s Maw, and that was with some fierce competition. He was a young Hunter and the fact that he was not chosen for the Master’s expedition had severely grated him. A wound so deep in his brittle ego that perhaps even Silva, who was told to be able to cure any ailment, would not be able to heal him from his misery.

Still, he was partially right. The steep climb uphill as she slipped and slid in the mud had her sweating and reeking sour in little time. Already she felt blisters pushing at her feet and burning whenever her boot hampered the wrong way on some rock or puddle.

They were not the only ones. This was perhaps the largest party Virrah had ever lead into the Green since, well, ever. But she had a purpose in mind. A task bestowed upon her. Much like her name – it meant she was trusted by the Master. A trust she would not disappoint.

“Just say it already,” Lowroot heaved as he lumbered up the hill after Virrah, “You’re lost. You couldn’t find it anymore.” Then he grinned. “Just tell the Master Maker you’ve failed.”

His smile grew wider, but then his eyes flashed round as he tripped and ate a mouthful of the dark sludge that was the ground. He looked up, face growing crazy with anger, seething and pure.

“You BITCH!” he snarled. She’d tripped him, true. Childish, true. And yet Virrah felt better.

“Be silent, hunter.” Virrah did not have to raise her voice. She had authority over him, and anyone else following. Much like her task, it had been bestowed upon her. He could not touch her without reaping severe consequences. “We have arrived.”

Lowroot gave her a final look before scampering up. He wiped some mud from his face before flicking it away into the underbrush. Then he looked up, and his mouth dropped.

Lowroot closed his eyes and quickly made the symbols of submission, prayer, and protection in the humid midday air before him. The others followed suit. Everyone but Virrah. She looked ahead, a poor attempt to peer into the abysmal depths that were the Hollow’s bowels. The Moons were not out. And even if they were, they could not aid them beneath the seclusion of the earth.

“There’s no time to waste,” Virrah warned the others, all men used to carry heavy loads. “The Master Maker has told me he saw ore in these caves, and I plan on proving his words true.”

The men dug in their leather bags, thick and rugged. Some muttered their fears, words close to blasphemy because who would dare enter the Hollow? Who was allowed other than the Virrah chosen by the Gods themselves? Well, for all that mattered, the Master Maker was their God now. And she the chosen Virrah. Who had ever claimed she could not bring others along?

Torches were lit in a haste before they plunged into the jagged maw. An insufferable darkness hammered on the flickering light of their dull torches. She felt cold sweat clawing at her back, prickling the base of her skull. It brought back memories to Virrah of fire, thunder and broken stone.