Wind howling, snow racing across his vision, Bronduff watched from afar as guards of the small village changed shifts. All of this done because of a miracle in his eyes, an act performed by himself. The blizzard hiding his presence did nothing to obscure his sight.

Carefree in nature, he unslung his bow. Grabbed two arrows from his satchel, stretched the string and aimed.

In a blur of movement, two arrows went sailing forth, cutting through the wind as if it wasn’t even there. They made no sound, his second miracle, followed by a third.

As the pair of guards were both struck in the face, the arrows going through the eyes. They went still, their forms going rigid and staying upright.

Breathing in deep he performed a fourth act of holiness. Limbs priming with strength, he ran, the ground blurring away as he traveled the length of league in a matter of seconds. With little effort he jumped, sinking his claws into ice and wood.

He could have leaped over the wall entirely. Instead, he peered over the edge, scouting the area. In the blanket of night, he saw the small village barren, save for the rare guard.

It gave off an air of complacency, people kept safe for too long, and believing their humble defenses would keep them safe. An error they would regret tonight and in their time in the Glen.

Flexing his arms, he pulled himself up to the guard post and leisurely jumped to the ground. The fall great enough it would have killed a mortal. No one was around so he didn’t bother with a miracle to hide his impact. He saved it for another. Breathing in deep, taking in the scents of the area, most dulled by the cold and snow. He made a map in his mind of where the inhabit were sleeping.

At least fifty souls in total called the village their home. None would remain by the nights end.

Pulling out a vial, he dipped each of his claws into the brew. A poison learned from Foy, a small dose, such as a scratch. And the substance would have a mortal fall into a deep sleep in seconds. It made his work a great deal easier.

Slowly navigating through snow-covered paths. He went on the hunt. His prey oblivious to his presence, both from a miracle and the blizzard that had taken the land. Few were around for him to handle, the storm had most of the villagers hold up in their dwellings. Safely tucked away from the biting cold.

As such, he had to spend little power. One by one he fell upon unsuspecting guardsmen. Their cries of alarm snuffed out by his miracle as he scratched through fur and skin. They slumped not long after, and he left them where they lay.

His was done hunting in a handful of minutes. The villagers none the wiser.

The tedious part began.

Breaking into homes, those made of mud, wood and stone. Wasn’t a silent process, even with the aid of a miracle. If someone was awake inside and saw the door to their residence being battered upon, the lack of noise would make no difference to their reaction.

But he had help, given he was never alone. Nearing a hut to his left, He closed his material eyes, and open the etheric one. The realm shifted, filling with colors and entities no mortal could see. Majority were helpless, having no power to their name, thus unable to interact with the material plane.

But not his comrades. Appearing as cloaked individuals in black, the garb hidden all their features. They stalked the area, waiting for his command. Motioning to the nearest, he outstretched a hand, and offered it Devotion.

The Shadow snatched it quickly, pressing the light close its chest as the power merged with it. Pointing to the soul, he gave it the impression of what he wanted. ‘Check if anyone is awake, and unlatch the door.’

It nodded once, and hurried with its task.

It phased through the building; and in a handful of seconds, it reappeared. Rather than the use of words, sights entered Bronduff mind. The door was unbarred, but individuals were awake. He saw a child enter his mind, the boy was caught in a nightmare, his limbs jerking about. Small whimpers left him, causing his parents, who watched over him, to worry.

The boy wouldn’t wake.

‘Even here.’ This was the fourth village he had come upon with the ailment. Suppressing a sigh, he walked up and quickly opened the door, a miracle on his lips as he shut the entrance behind him.

Heads turned his way still. The cabin was small, and through no sound was made, the dip in temperature and the movement of air got the adults attention. They shouted out cries, the sound only going so far.

He charged and fully extended his claws. Teens and younger children began to wake as he crashed into the only adult male and began slashing. The female screamed louder. But as is the way of Kolune, strong brave folk. She came out him with her own claws trying to aid her already beaten husband.

A quick backhand from him sent her spinning, and broke her jaw.

The sounds of sleep addled youngers, rising desperately from their bedrolls, sounded around him. Power filling his arms, he became a blur of movement as his claws sliced through flesh.

Soon the only sound was his breathing and the nightmare taken infant. The boy still asleep.

He left them where they lay, and recoated his claws with the sleeping agent. Closing his eyes, he talked with the Shadows once more and gave them their orders. He emphasized swiftness, as many more dwellings needed to be raided, and he wanted it all done before dawn.

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He dragged the last of the villagers into the settlement great hall. The place plastered with battle trophies and depictions of Wargain. Most showing the god standing on top a mound of corpses. His sovereignty absolute.

He grunted in contempt at the sights. The lie. Wargain wasn’t all powerful, he had come close to losing on occasion. And would one day loss everything.

For Bronduff and his fellow worshippers of Malan would never cease to be, no matter how many times they were smited by hollowed light and flame. They always came back.

‘One day you will meet defeat war god.’ And he would be there, no matter how far off. Till then he would continue his work, supporting his god the best he could.

With a wave of his hand, Shadows closed the heavy wooden doors behind him. Silencing the howling wind and bringing peace back to the hall.

Combing through his pockets. He began putting together intricate pieces of stone. They slotted together perfectly, and when the final piece fell into place, connecting the runes, it flared brightly for a breath.

Removing any filth on the floor with a miracle, He carefully placed it on the ground. Equipping a miracle worked blade, he effortlessly began cutting a patten around it. Claiming the ground for his god. Same as the stone, the patten flared dimly before going dormant. The sign he’d done his task correctly.

Out of habit he fell to his knees, eyes closed, mind emptied. He began sending his Devotion, the act tranquil, and promptly ruined by the whimpers of infants. Looking upon them with his third, ethereal eye. He watched the foreboding aura of blackness that wafted off the children marked by troubled dreams. Even those newly initiated at gazing upon the realm of the Glen, would know something sinister was at work.

Normally he would ignore it, his travels and knowledge of forbidden lore made the matter unimportant. An act of some forgotten or fledging god that would fade like so many others. But this was a patten now, a sight he’d seen from too many villages. And to spread out. Power worth noting was behind the work, and a matter his god was in need of knowing.

But first there was appeasement.

Rising to his feet, he and some Shadows eager to affect the realm. Began pulling comatose villagers into the circle. Dagger in hand, he lifted the head of one adult, baring their neck and with a clean stroke, opened it.

The younger him would have begun chanting praise, speaking out his devotion. But that wasn’t needed, only the intent.

The blood came to life, gushing out of the sacrifice and racing into the runes he’d carved. He let the body drop as the lifeforce within drained away and the corpse withered before his eyes. He began the process again with each villager, the power within the runes increasing.

By the time he was done the floor was caked in dust and scattered garbs. The runes glowed bright, bathing the hall in a golden radiance.

Closing his eyes, he thought. ‘All for him, in return for audience and answers.’ The lights so bright, ceased to be. Darkness fell only to be battered away a moment later as a being most divine appeared within the hall. Without thought he collapsed to his knees, staring as his god.

Clad in silks of gold, each woven with endless patterns, his fur the color of the sun. Eyes beacons of power glowing with the promise of salvation or damnation. Bronduff lowered his own, half prostrating himself as joy took him. The knowing that he was worthy of being personally visited whenever requested.

“Rise my champion.” Malan said, his words a sweet melody.

Without thought Bronduff lifted himself to his clawed feet. Looking upon his god who stared at their surroundings. At a hall of ash.

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Malan mentally sighed, his nature at odds with the scene. In the beginning he was a healer, an icon of wellbeing, and life. More often than not, he was now that of death. But that didn’t change the core of him, even as reality forced his hand.

A part of him wanted to scolded his monstrously large Kolune of snow colored fur. His devout champion, headhunter, execution and bloody right hand. But he wouldn’t, this is Bronduff nature, the way he dealt with heretics. And the best way he saw fit to provide Devotion.

Its warming in a sickly way, the depths his champion went into preserving every sacrifice to the last moment. Making sure as much life could be drawn from it as possible. In a way it was very respectful to the dead. To the souls all around them looking upon the scene in horror, now that they were freed from their bodies. Many were mourning, most glared at him and his champion.

One look from him and the souls flitch, the wisest hurried way following the natural pull of the Glen to find their afterlife, or a new body to inhabit. News of this settlement end would reach guardians, and the fact he’d shown himself in a place partially claimed by Wargain. He and his champion would have to be quick with their talk.

“It was a fine offering.” He started, for his champion and friend deserved the praise. Few would offer all they’d gathered to him, not after the unnecessary amount of work Bronduff put himself through to see it done.

It came with strings but they were paltry requests.

As such he sent half back. Light streamed from him, most going to Bronduff while other smaller lines, spread out and into the Shadows that had aided his champion.

“You’ve been offering quite of bit of late.’ Malan continued. This was the seventh village now in recent months, though most were small, never reaching above a hundred. It was still enough to draw attention to the area. “And though I am always apperceptive of the Devotion, I wonder why the risk?”

Bronduff lowered his head, resembling a child being scolded. It pained Malan heart to see.

“I know it breaks your command god, but local priests of Cycure have been proclaiming that you have been defeated, broken, no longer a threat.” Bronduff showed some teeth.

Angry on his behalf, even as Malan himself felt nothing of the sort. “I wanted them to see the folly in this. And,” turning his head, aimed at the bundles of cloths resting on a table. “I have come across a mystery that I believe needs your attention.”

Malan knew of the infants, knew of anything living within and near the shrine his champion had made. He instantly recognized a claim upon them, a foreign one. Its very nature was chaotic, a shifting of colors, all mixing together into a blackness that couldn’t be pierced, even with his eyes.

Alarming, but not the greatest part of it. Looking upon those claimed infants, he saw changes taking place. Some parts good, some bad, it felt random. And almost the entirety of his being compelled him to undo the act, to fix and repair.

“Sloppy work.” He voiced disgusted while Bronduff move over to the table and plunked one of the bundles, bring it over to him.

Pulling away cloth, Bronduff showed the child face, it was misshapen and getting worse. Flesh bloated; teeth were growing unnaturally long. But most prominent of all was a physical third eye growing from its forehead. “This is the only one with so much affliction, but others are showing sighs. And none will wake from the nightmare they seem to be in.”

“And its only affecting the children?” He asked, and received a nod.

“This isn’t the only village affected with this.” Bronduff added. “All those I recently sacrificed to you in these lands have had the same problem. And it’s getting worse.”

Malan hummed in thought, stepping closer to the mishappen boy. “No newly formed god then, nor a withering one.” Neither would have the power, nor would the latter do something so slow as a finally act of vengeance.

Naturing compelling him, Malan flexed his will, undoing the mutations, and tried pulling the child from his sleep.

Eyes, an endless sea joined with a landscape of blackness filled his vision before disappearing as quickly. This due to the fact he removed his influence from the child.

Bronduff dropped the infant, deftly grabbing hold of his axe and half way from carving the thing in two. Malan raised a hand and his champion went still.

The boy let a small whimper as he hit stone, then fidgeted about as the nightmare plaguing him grow worse. The aura around the child deepened and Malan watched as his work was quickly undone, the boy once more a disfigured mess.

“Troubling,” Malan voiced. “Thank you for bring this situation to my attention.”

Bronduff bowed. “I take it there is nothing that can be done then?” he asked, eyes fixed upon the thing.

Malan hesitated with an answer, not out of any personal pride, but what the admission would entail. Bronduff, his executioner, would react befit his nature.

Malan pushed the urge to protect the boy aside, he knew his limits. But not the entity claiming the infant, he would not waste himself trying to save them. No matter how much it chafed the core of what he was.

“No.” He forced out, his sight focused on his champion, the child pushed from his mind. “The god doing this is willing to fight for its claim. Whatever I do, it will counter.”

Bronduff grunted. “I’ve taken some of them under my care, those from other villages, I’d assumed they would recover.” A silence fell between them. “I’ll take care of it.” His champion responded, knowing full well how he would feel about choosing the children’s fate.

‘Out of mind, out of mind’ He recited, blocking the thoughts. “If there isn’t anything else, I’ll be off. This problem has to be investigated, and you need to be going.” He looked about the hall, gazing at the trophies honoring Wargain and some of his sons. “By now enough souls will have informed Wargain loyalist of your activities in the area. And once they find signs of these deformed, we’ll be the ones blamed.”

And that was going to be truly irritating, shoddy work claimed to be his doing.

“There is nothing else god.” Bronduff said kneeling, an arura of Devotion glowing from him. “I will do as you say, enough has been done to still the tongues of Cycure priests.”

“Farewell then” Malan said out of politeness before dispersing his form and moving his will away.

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In a brilliance of light, his god was gone, and the hall darkened from the loss of divine radiance. He waited three seconds before acting.

Removing the central piece of the shrine, the runes going dormant. He turned to the infant, and with a trained hand split the deformed child in two with his axe, its whimpers finally coming to an end. He looked to the other bundles; all spoiled pups that would never grow into devout followers of his god.

“Such a waste.” He spoke, nearing them.