The Priest sighed heavily, the sun was shining brightly, and no clouds littered the sky. A stark contrast to the dark thunderclouds of two nights prior. He ran a calloused hand through the grass besides where he sat, feeling the soft vibrant green blades dance between his fingers.

“It’s a lovely day” he said contently.

Deep inside his mind a presence stirred sneering at his casual statement “Their coming” it whispered, “pay attention, they have been on the road since the morning and are soon upon us.”

The Priest rolled his neck from side to side, easing out a crack from his joints. He rose and detached the multi-headed flail from his belt, taking a deep lung full of air as he did so. Jovial voices could be heard approaching along the path, the owners of the voices blocked from view by the high hill where The Priest had been waiting. He pulled the bounty scroll from his pouch, looked into the faces depicted on its surface and prayed for the souls he was about to release.

-

Kosti had considered himself to be a good mercenary and an excellent swordsman. Still young and virile he had a tentative approach to battle and a swiftness of step that eluded his normally older counterparts. His prowess with a sword was what his companions always joked would be the focal point of a tavern song once their deeds had become famous across the land. He had always regarded his team as close friends and excellent adventurers and together they had stood fearless against many foes, monsters and human alike.

His breath was staggered as he risked a glance over his shoulder as he fought to scamper further up the hillside. His two companions Lostern and Walden lay bloody and dead at the base of the hill, he was making slow progress, his leg broken in the initial attack. But he was desperate to escape, pawing away at the ground, his panicked hands clawing thick clumps of dirt from the ground in his frantic motions.

The figure refocused on Kosti, retrieving his weapon from the skull of Lostern and ascending the hill.

He was only twelve years when he left home. Enduring years of abuse and violence from his father, he had run from the town he grew up in. Crying he had stumbled along cobbled streets, never ceasing, too scared of the impenetrable darkness at the roads edge and the sounds of howling wolves to stop. That night, still a child, raged and bloody from the run, Kosti managed to find the next village over. So late in the day that the only public place still lit and welcoming for him to stagger into being the local inn. It had caused a lot of commotion. Patrons drunken and bitter from years of hard labour being disturbed by this wastrel of a child. But two strangers Lostern and Walden were there. They had looked much younger then, before the ten years of travelling together would grey their hair and wrinkle their features. They were bawdy and joking but saw immediately a kindred spirit in this young lad that, whimpering and cold collapsed into their arms, the closest to the door. Kosti never learned of their past, and never would now. But they were kind to him, immediately accepting and understanding, as though they knew. They knew his pain. They paid for his lodgings that night and rose him in the morning with fresh clothes and belongings. This would be the equipment he would later wear as an adventurer, the same sword that now lay somewhere at the base of the hill by his fallen comrades. With those gifts these two strangers to Kosti promised that he, now a part of their creed, would live each day as it should be, full of laughter kinship and purpose.

They had taken him back one day, Lostern and Walden long after he had slain his first bandit. He found his father’s house, still squalid and a mess, the same as the drunken lout had always left it. The man himself was absent, but Kosti burnt the house to the ground. As good a revenge as he could achieve for the years of abuse he endured. He was almost amused when he first saw the bounty, a warrant for his arrest posted by his father. He had laughed with his two teammates at the pittance of a reward that equated to three drams of a mead jug, knowing no one would bother. No one laughed anymore.

He heard footstep approach behind him, and the sun became blotted out by shadow. He turned to face his foe, collapsing onto his back into the soft green as his shifting weight antagonised the pain in his broken calf. Instinctively he reached for his sword, but the scabbard was empty, the sword lay with his friends as still as their lifeless bodies.

His assailant bent over and inhaled deeply “Ah, the air is brisk, as again we are blessed by lashings of sunshine and warmth"

The person that Kosti knew to go by the alias of ‘The Priest’ had his arms wide as though for an embrace and as the young mercenary shuffled further back his enemy calmly matched his pace.

“Stay back!” Kosti managed, but the harshness of the words was lost from his position and that they were spat through blood.

The Priest looked down on his quarry and frowned “My child, you misunderstand. My purpose here is a righteous one. For I have a purpose of the most divine.” He leant down and caressed the mercenary’s cheek “this world is ill. The old Gods, they left" he reiterated his point by indicating the surroundings and looking around in mock search for their presence.

Kosti spat at him, the bloody spit landing between their legs.

The Priest sighed “The problem is, when they left, they gave us their status. Do you understand the problem this caused? For when the old gods abandoned us. We, we became gods." Whilst the priest had his head cast to the sky preaching to Kosti, the sell sword restarted his feeble attempts to flee. Shuffling back on his elbows in a bid to crest the hill, if only he could make it to the forests edge nearby, he thought maybe he could hide, wait this out.

The priest continued to babble some righteous prayer to the sky and Kosti turned, pulling himself to his feet ready to bolt for the woods despite the pain.

That is when the chain wrapped around his neck. The Priest had flung the makeshift weapon that coiled about Kosti's neck like a whip. It was a thick iron chain, spikes protruding from every other wrung and penetrating the soft skin. It tightened as he struggled.

“You cannot escape this sinner. For we must all pay the price of our ways" The Priest began, the tone in his voice was almost apologetic he sauntered closer to his prey. “You see when we all became Gods. We began worshiping ourselves. We adorn ourselves with pretty things and trinkets like idols and offerings. We covet our own adoration from others as though it makes us strong, like the prayers of our forebears gave the old gods power. But while we are Gods all. We are flawed. For we sin. We sin far too much, and we deem it acceptable. For in their self-praise those who sin obscure the barriers between right and wrong. They betray the true morals of life to claim their worship. Should the world truly be built anew as the Old Gods intended, with us, mere mortals as Gods, then the sinners must be removed, before their warped bastardization of the true morals taints the future of the world.” The Priest placed a foot on Kosti's back as the mercenary sputtered for air, checked and cut by the chain at his neck. He wanted to turn and face The Priest, but he was powerless, beaten and weakened, snared and defeated.

“I am truly sorry it came to this.” The Priest said, his tone sombre “But sinners should not be Gods" The priest said and with that he forced his weight against Kosti's back and pulled the chain with both hands. The bladed wrungs tore through flesh and in a whirring motion, slick with blood the chain fell at his feet, swiftly followed by Kosti's head.

A tear graced The Priests cheek, carving a line in the dirt of days gone as it did and he watched the pool of blood eddy swiftly from the stump where his bounty’s body now ended. The initial arterial spray had coated him in gore, but it was dismissed as one forgets the rain that fell from the last cloud. He said a prayer and inhaled deep, filling his lungs with the crisp air of the gentle breeze.

“He's back" a voice whispered, the presence from deep within his mind returning.

The Priest carefully looked around. From his vantage point on the hills top he could see the surrounding green field. The road ran nearby at the foot of the hill, here he had awaited his target, sitting on the hillside making daisy crowns, the white circles still visible by the bodies of his victims. Parallel to the road was a Forrest, it surrounded the local area and he scanned the woods edge, doing a full turn before he saw what he was after. At the tree line stood a figure. His armour a verdant green and stark against the darkened bark of the woods.

“He won’t come for me. Not yet, not outside of the Forrest" The Priest said to the air.

“He has found you again" The whisper near hissed, it’s voice distant and serpentine, filled with malice.

A pain gripped The Priest in his side, where an old wound, small and round from a crossbow bolt, flared up. His eyes abandoned the figure and refocused on the road, the path had been carved through the woodland and left ample space either side of the looming treetops.

“His time will come” The Priest said and began descending the hill. Leaving the bodies behind him, taking only enough coin from their purses to pay for the next batch of bounties, he journeyed along the road. Being sure to stay as far from the woods edge as possible.

-

The guild hall fell silent as the doors burst open and The Priest walked in. Tankers hung in the air, perilously close to lips, darts sat waiting in hands that sat idle, dice lulled to a stop for eyes that ignored their pitted surfaces for the new entry and cards waited mid shuffle to be counted by now tentative players. A few shadows wormed themselves into corners, under tables and behind the largest of those present in a desperate bid to conceal their known and wanted faces.

The new arrival dismissed all of this and slowly walked towards his sole purpose. The bounty board stood before him like a glistening jewel lit on either side by wall mounted sconces. Life slowly and tentatively returned to the venue as it became clear no religious preaching was to occur today from the dirty, blood stained entry.

The Priest inhaled deeply, a habit of his, taking in the scent of old wood, flickering flames and spilt mead. He found solace in the scents of the world, the old constant. Where materials could be shaped and altered to build and people fickle as they were changed their desires at a whim. All that stood resolute in his eyes was scent. Fire would always smell like fire. Dirt, always of dirt and sinners. Sinners always smelt of sin.

He ran a hand across the scrolls that were pinned to the wall with green wax seals. His mind worked differently to others and he took in each face, every description and crude drawing with impeccable detail. The features of those depicted became permanently imprinted on his mind with unwavering accuracy. His hand stopped at a face he recalled. It had been only a short while ago, in a small town. The guild master when asked had told him the name was Troit... but this was wrong. He looked at the drawing, it was definitely him, the blond man in the fancy coat. The bounty read “Ross and Wiesse” he could not be sure which it was he had met but he knew this was his face.

“Oh my brother, how sad to see you have fallen to the way of sin" The Priest said, it was quiet but the din that had slowly returned to the establishment wavered again as concerned patrons that knew of the mans reputation faltered.

The atmosphere was frail and thin as The Priest gathered up the scrolls and paid his fare with the Guild master. Few wanted to attract the attention of a man that, for those that hadn’t met him stories told to be insanely powerful and unrelenting, with a brittle temper strengthened by a religious conviction and for those that had met him that knew these stories to be wanting of the full severity of the truth.

Eyes followed his path to the door. Eager and hopeful. They widened as he turned face the crowd. The wiry Priest stared at none in particular before inhaling deep and drawing his three headed flail off his belt in a calm deliberate motion.

“There are sinners amongst you. I bid you to bring them forward” he announced.

There was a heavy silence, punctuated by a whimpering from beneath one of the heavy round oak tables.

“Rid the world of Sin" the serpentine voice whispered within his head.

A long pause followed wherein the many eyes of the patron weighed their odds against the grinning Priest.

-

“What in the fuck!” Wiesse woke up startled. He looked about the campsite where they set up after a long day of walking the road to their delivery drop off. He had to heave the heavy arm of Lichter from his chest since the Crocodile man had apparently decided to crawl over and cuddle him at some point in the middle of the night. The rest were asleep, but one bed roll was empty.

He looked around and eventually found the concerned face of Troit worryingly close to his head. The barbarian held an armful of root vegetables and plants still stained with mulch and dirt which he had been foraging ready for breakfast. At this point Wiesse realised that the sun was throwing tendrils of light into the darkened sky betraying the arrival of morning.

“Are you ok friend?” Troit asked. Concern thick in his tone.

“yea... yea I’m fine, I guess I just had a bad dream" Wiesse said, as he shook images of blood and gore from his mind

“We can divine lots from dreams” Troit said, the statement more a question encouraging Wiesse to continue.

“Well from what I gather...” the red stains if his vision returned in flashes “I think we're fucked"

“Oh" Troit said... Wiesse rolled his eyes at the sentiment, as to say ‘is that all” but he rubbed sleep from his eyes and glanced at Troits haul.

“What’s for grub?” Wiesse asked

“Beets and garlic with chives" Troit enthusiastically answered

“Seriously?”

“What‘s wrong?” Troit inquired and Wiesse missed the puppy dog eyes that imploringly eyed him.

“Well it sounds tasty man but for breakfast? I would rather not walk around the whole day with my mouth smelling like ass” Wiesse said, remembering too late in his sleepy delirious state Troit’s ever thin emotional state.

“I have failed' the barbarian near shouted as large ugly tears escaped his eyes and a snot bubble expanded and deflated with staggered breathes

“Oh shit, calm down come on before you wake everyone up" Wiesse said as bodies writhed disturbed within bedrolls, he held the barbarian and patted his back reassuringly, trying to retract his previous statement as the sun slowly ascended and morning graced them all.

All the awhile visions of dread and death lingered in Wiesse’s mind.