Vedek

“You return, young Avenger.” Croaked the Eldest Cleric of the Vulture Mother.

“Indeed. I have been amongst the soldiers of The Order of Suffering. I believe I have insight as to what they want of us.” Rerume responded.

Both spoke New Quetzal, as both were both coatlmade. Vedek knew the language, he knew all the major languages, and it was easy for his long ears to hear what was being said inside the temple where he wasn’t allowed. He sat on the steps while eavesdropping on Rerume’s meeting. A repeat of the last time he had visited the temple outside Ramuf.

“They mean what they say. If their conviction were iron, it would make a fine sword, but we cannot ally with them. The alliance as proposed is only for their benefit. I would not see the vulture’s feathers used as ornament. As a private party I wish I could aid their cause, but I have already sworn an oath, and that oath demands neutrality in all manners. I recommend the same for all of the vulture flock.”

So that was why Rerume had denied Zam. If he had given the slightest inkling that he was in favor of the Order, then Zam wouldn’t have ceased his prodding. Zam struck Vedek as the kind of man that would take continued rejection poorly, perhaps even violently.

The wind was blowing continuous today. Since he was alone, Vedek undid the bandanna covering his face so that the wind could cool it. Tumbleweeds rolled by, collecting in bunches at the walls of Ramuf.

“I was believing much the same. You were not present, but the Council voted against the alliance. Still, the imperial-scale has returned each day to plead his case. I will no longer mince words with him. What will become of you now Rerume? There is little call for one of your ancient sect here.”

“My sect is dead. I never finished my lessons.” Rerume’s voice was colder than the breeze outside. “As for my future: if you no longer have need of my council, then I shall return to the Dune Sea.”

“My apologies young one. Sometimes this old maw forgets its tact. No, I no longer have need for your council, but I have need of your oath. Vulture Avengers like yourself are rare, and there is a duty you might perform.

“I swore my oath for a reason. You shall have my justice. Speak the identity of the blasphemer.”

“A necromancer has made themselves known in the territory of the Spiral City. Rattling Bones, the duende cleric who attended the council, spoke to me in private that his graveyard has been violated to fuel an undead legion.”

“What details did Rattling Bones provide beyond that?”

“Regrettably little. He claims he was drugged in the night, showed the injection point as proof. He did not wake until the graves had already been robbed of their contents. The Vulture Mother demands that the bones of the dead remain at rest. I call on you, Rerume of the Merciful Reapers, to end this violation.”

“I accept this task, but first I must request a new mantle for my powers. My previous one was lost when I was captured.”

“A fair request. You may have your pick of the initiate mantels here until you can craft your own replacement.”

A mantel of divine power. That was the fulcrum through which miracles were focused. It was a physical declaration to a Divine that you were theirs, and in return they would grant you a portion of their strengths. The omniscient power of the Divines was inaccessible any way else. Each of the four magical paths benefited from a focus, but users of divine magic were lost without it. It had not occurred to Vedek that he had not seen Rerume perform any miracles, despite his role as an Avenger.

“Though our decision is settled, I still worry about the Order. They are aggressive, and aggression has never looked kindly on neutrality. I’ve known it before. I am exceeding 170 years old.”

“You are the Eldest Cleric.”

The Eldest Cleric. That was a concept unknown in the Northern Continent. Each Divine had their High Priest, then the ArchFaer had their Speakers, but those titles were determined by the Divines themselves, not by seniority. As a king, it would’ve been Vedek’s duty to meet regularly with all the High Priests and Faer Speakers. Fae’Riam made separation of monarchy and divinity, unlike the humans in Greyholm, but it was still a professional courtesy that Vedek memorize all their names. The High Priest of Kinder was always exhausting.

“Did you ever hear about how Ramuf almost fell to the Cult of Kurtzkith?” The Eldest Cleric asked in a deceptively benign tone.

Rerume responded, but it was so quiet that Vedek nearly fell over trying to listen closer. The words were indecipherable, but the tone was clearly contemptuous.

The Eldest Cleric made the satisfied grunt of a fisherman receiving a bite. “They began amicably enough. Offering their own funeral rites. I believe part of their appeal was the lack of inconvenience. We still practice the oldest form of burial, burial as carrion, as the Vulture Mother intended. It’s a brutal sight to watch a loved one be devoured. Kurtzkith dictates simple burial in a casket. The cultists would even rip the soul from the Borders to say a final farewell to the grievers.”

“What did you do to expunge them?”

“You misunderstand me. This was not when I was the Eldest Cleric. This was not even when I was a member of the faith. I was one of the cultists of Kurtzkith.”

Rerume’s throat sounded like two stones scraping. “You...”

“I performed the rites of Kurtzkith, painted his mark on the city walls, and I gave pressure to the Vulture Clerics. We grew close to driving them away from Ramuf, which is why the temple is now situated outside the city walls. The people favored Kurtzkith.”

“He is a demon! A vile Instigator of the Apocalypse!” Vedek flinched at the volume of Rerume’s roar.

The Eldest Cleric was calm. “These are common folk, they haven’t the time to know all the names and roles of every being in the cosmos. They simply knew that Kurtzkith’ methods brought them comfort in the face of death. People like comfort, especially in a country as harsh as this. The head of the cult was quite well-spoken, he was good at deflecting any question of Kurtzkith’ character as ‘Vulture Propaganda.’ He posed it not as a question of worshiping a Muspellr over a Divine, but whether the people could stomach a sky burial over an earth one. The only time he lied was in telling people that the souls of the passed would arrive to their intended heaven, rather than the realm of Kurtzkith. I once spoke to the head cleric of this temple. Not the Eldest Cleric, I believe at the time they resided in Finis. I asked her why she allowed my cult to so easily steal her followers. Why had she not sent for Paladins and Avengers to crusade against us?”

“She replied, ‘It won’t change what the people think. They will think us petty, and that we stole the happiness they had found. Conflict is always settled by the neutral.’ I thought this madness. That she meant to sit and let Kurtzkith destroy what the Vulture Mother had built in Ramuf. I soon realized what she meant. She did not mean neutrality as in her own passiveness, but as in the neutral people of Ramuf. The undecided. The hearts and minds.”

“I took matters into my own hands. I was the Channeler for the cult, the one who summoned souls from the Sunless Border. At the height of the market’s activity I stood on the city walls and called to one of the citizens. Their father had passed a year ago, I had performed the ritual myself. I asked if they would like to see how their father faired in the afterlife. Of course, they accepted. I called forth the specter of their father in the Muspilli Abyss. He was a withered creature, with paper skin and sinew hair. His flesh had been chewed on by ravenous feejee and his forlorn eyes looked desperately for his kin to save him.”

“That was all the people needed to see. The deception of the cult had been revealed. If it had been one of the Vulture Clerics, it could’ve been stalled on a debate of legitimacy, but I was a well-known member of the cult. I peeled back the facade flesh of the cultists to reveal the rotten truth underneath. ‘Go to every person deceived by Kurtzkith’ I shouted to the people ‘and let them know that Salazaar, a ranking member of his cult, rejects him because I can no longer bear the deception!’”

The temple was silent. If Vedek strained his ears, he could hear Rerume’s heavy breathing.

“Do you understand my story, Rerume?”

“Did you ever face punishment for serving Kurtzkith?”

The Eldest Cleric started and stopped his response several times. “Punishment? No. I recanted Kurtzkith, repented what I had done, and converted to the Vulture Mother. I have served her long enough to become her Eldest Cleric.”

“You are the Eldest Cleric.” Rerume repeated. “What became of the cultists in Ramuf?”

“This was one hundred and forty years ago. They have moved on. Their true nature has been shown and their words will no longer work on the people of Ramuf, all without a single fell of a sword.”

Another silence. Vedek scrambled away from the temple once he heard Rerume’s footsteps heading for the exit.

“I will find your necromancer, and then I will return to the Dune Sea.” Rerume promised.

“Thank you, Rerume.” The Elder Cleric was terse. Vedek recognized the tone as that of a disappointed parent.

Rerume burst through the curtains shrouding the temple entrance. Vedek feigned interest in a fish-shaped cloud passing by. Rerume stopped beside him. He wore his new mantel, a collar made of bronzed vulture feathers.

“I take it you heard most of that?” Rerume hissed.

“Only snippets.” Vedek lied. “You have been given a bounty?”

“I have. A necromancer. I shall leave for Spiral City soon.”

“What about Outpost Onx?”

When they had returned to the city Azeroth told them about the suspicious place where goods stolen in barbatus raids were being stored. Discussion had been actively divided between what to buy with their pay from the Order, and whether to pursue what was stolen from them. Vedek was the only one who was adamantly in favor of pursuit. He believed that his lost treasures would still be at Outpost Onx. The others were more cautious.

“It seems that is for the four of you to decide. I must go my own way. Unless...you wish to come with me? I can’t speak for the three, but I enjoy your company. I don’t have to worry about you becoming feral or crushing my head.”

“What about Cole?” Vedek didn’t ignore Rerume’s comments about Frost and Azeroth, but it was notable that he hadn’t mentioned the boy.

Rerume shook his head. “He’s a child. A tourist on vacation. Once this proves to be more than dangerous, he’ll find a safer distraction, or retreat to his academy.”

Rerume’s words were cold and precise. Had he felt this way all along? They had only known each other less than a week. “Allies of circumstance” Rodd had called them. Did Rerume value Vedek —no, to Rerume he was Bréag— did he already value him that much? Was it just because he was an Elden Fae? Maybe it didn’t matter. Rerume was still a strong fighter, and Vedek needed him if they were to go to Outpost Onx.

A thought occurred to Vedek and he spoke quickly to give it voice. “The necromancer might be connected.”

Rerume stopped walking. He was curious. “How do you think?”

“The cleric that reported the necromancer claimed he was drugged, just as we were when taken by the barbatus. The symptoms were even identical. There is a third group involved in this that’s the connection between the raiders and the necromancer. If we go to Outpost Onx, we may find answers.”

Rerume touched his collar of vulture feathers.

“I would like to recover my previous mantel. It was an heirloom. All that is left of my parents.”

“What became of them?” Vedek asked cautiously. He had heard Rerume’s tone when the Eldest Cleric had brought up his parents.

“Murdered by cultists of Kurtzkith. My entire community was. I was on the path of becoming a Merciful Reaper of Dragons, now I am an Avenger devoted to hunting every blasphemer of death that crosses my path.”

So that was the cause of Rerume’s attitude. Vedek reached out to the coatlmade’s shoulder. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Rerume looked over his shoulder to the temple. “As am I.”

They started the walk back to the others. The breeze picked-up again. Vedek realized he was not wearing his bandanna. In his scramble to tie it, he drew Rerume’s attention.

“I have told you my pain, will you do me the courtesy of telling me why you hide your face?”

Vedek gritted his teeth. He had still not decided on a back story should anyone ask. At least Rerume had not recognized his face...he hoped.

“I won’t lie,” Vedek decided, “but I also cannot give the full truth. I am an exile. I hide my face because of paranoia.”

The answer would suffice, Vedek knew that. He had had five-hundred years of practice in choosing his words carefully. Rerume said nothing more. The breeze enveloped them. With his eyes shut, Vedek could feel it carrying him back in time. Back to Old Vadalis.

~-~-~

Vedek has just celebrated his hundred-and-fiftieth birthday. In fifty more years he’ll be a man. As a gift, his father has allowed him to spend two week at their spring castle in the Slevelisk Glade far northwest of the capitol. Vedek likes this place because of how the castle is the only structure for miles. It was built as a refuge for the royal family during the Era of Terror, but now it served as a hunting lodge for nobles.

Pollen is thick on the air, Vedek relishes the smell as he races over fallen trees and trickling streams. His bow claps his back. He is meant to be hunting, but he has been trapped in a carriage for the longer half of the day. He needs to run.

When his burst of energy is spent he waits on a thick tree limb. His ranging teacher, Longstep, signals he has found Vedek by pinning an arrow between his hanging legs.

“You could’ve struck me!” Vedek shouts in surprise.

“No I couldn't. I am old, but not old enough to miss an easy thread like that.”

Longstep removes his wide-brimmed hat. His brown hair is grayer than Vedek remembers. How old is Longstep now? Two hundred? Wood Elves lived so much shorter than Elden Fae. Even Hobs could last fifty years more than an elf. Vedek always wondered if Longstep would live long enough to see his pupil eclipse him in age.

“Your Highness could have waited until I finished strapping my boots.” The two speak Arcadian to each other, the oldest language of the Fae, but not the most common.

“You promised you’d call me Vedek out here.” The Prince snaps.

“Did I? I apologize Vedek, it has been years since your last lesson.”

Vedek drops from the tree limb. He’s almost as tall as Longstep now. The two continue deeper into the glade, much slower now that the lesson has begun. Vedek engages in his standard game of trying to guess Longstep’s real name. Today he went with Brandhain. He had interrogated older soldiers and stumbled on the story of an archer named ‘Humorless Brandhain’ who smiled as often as the sun set in the east. It certainly sounded like Longstep, but the elf denies it. Vedek wishes he could call him a liar, but he knows it had been a long shot. Longstep wasn’t ‘humorless,’ he just showed his joy differently. That made two-hundred and seventy guesses since Vedek had known him. Longstep couldn’t be the man’s true name, but it was the only one he was known by.

“We’re trailing to Vadalis today.” Longstep announces.

Vedek arches his brow and canvasses Longstep’s frame. “That’s a long way from the castle. Are you hiding supplies for this journey somewhere?”

Longstep raises both his eyebrows and looks down at Vedek (or, as far down as he can given their equaling height). That was his way of showing amusement. Vedek has seen it many times. “No, we’re going to subsist only on what we find. True Rangercraft.”

“Was this planned?”

“All the right people know, if that’s what your asking. Given how persistent you were to get out here I thought an extended stay in nature would be welcome to you.”

“It is. I wish you had told me before leaving.”

“I tried, but I was still strapping my boots.”

Their mid-day is spent testing all of Vedek’s previous lessons. His archery has progressed smoothly, though he needs to practice his quick draw. He can bird call well enough to communicate with the thrushes overhead. His ability to pass quietly through the forest received no marks from the keen-eared Longstep. Vedek blames his stiff legs on all the posture training he has undergone.

“A king of Fae’Riam must be able to transition seamlessly between his many crafts.” Longstep advises. “You’ll get no sympathy from me. I’ve seen dozens of nobles be able to switch from forest to throne room with barely a trace of mud on their shoes.”

“It’s like there’s a barrier in my mind.” Vedek catches the stem of a falling leaf between his slender fingers. “On one side is the wilds, on the other is a polished hallway. I can’t bring them together.”

“You can’t because it’s difficult, or because you don’t want to?”

Vedek doesn’t respond. He wants to return to the lessons. Longstep teaches him how to catch fish with a bow. That will fill their bellies until dinner, or it would if Vedek could make a fire to cook with. The circle of stones meant to be their fire-pit rest peacefully as Vedek struggles to summon an arcane fire. All that he manages is wisping smoke without source.

“Still the odd one when it comes to Arcana?” Longstep makes a shallow etching of a sitting wolf on the nearest tree. It’s a ranger’s symbol. A sign that they had rested here briefly.

“Grandmother Dylla says that if they don’t manifest by the time I’m a man, then they never will. Her father had the same defect.” Vedek mutters. He feels the veins in his head might burst from the strain of him trying to manifest even the slightest spark.

“How has the court taken this news?”

“They’re worried.” Vedek sighs. He stops trying to create a flame. “I think it will pass. Their worry, not my lack of ability. It’s not like the king needs to be the Archmage as well.”

“No, but an Elden Fae who can’t use arcana. That is peculiar.” Longstep cups his chin to look at the river.

“I’m not bothered by it. It just means that my abilities are my own.”

“Fair.” Longstep tosses him the rock he had been using to carve. It was flint. After gathering kindling, Vedek has the fire going with one strike.

The fish are skewered on a long branch and set on a makeshift spit over the flames. Longstep removes his hat to sit down. He won’t stop staring at Vedek.

“Something wrong?” Vedek asks.

“Why do you think you prefer the wilds to the court?”

Vedek grimaces. He had hoped that this trip wouldn’t involve Longstep’s classic psychoanalysis. Sometimes Vedek wonders if his parents assigned Longstep to him because of his ability to get straight answers from the Prince.

“I think it's because there’s no pressure out here. I’m the heir to the throne, and even though I’m young...everyone expects the world of me. I’m expected to speak with purpose, but not in a way that could offend anyone. I can’t speak my mind to members of the court. One misplaced word could ripple into a destructive wave. Out here...I can say any foul words I want.”

Vedek hopes ending on a joke would end the discussion.

Longstep raises his eyebrows. “Crude, but I understand. I’m grateful that you trust this old tuatha enough with your true thoughts.” Longstep’s face molds into one of his rare smiles. He looked like the kindest grandfather any kid could want. He rotates the fish so they cook evenly. “So what is it you’ve been learning in the capitol that has given you such a desire to be your true self out here?”

“Warcraft” Vedek answers glumly, “but nothing to do with the actual act of war. Strategy and command. I’ve spent countless hours in discussions on when to declare war.”

“And the nuances of these discussions don’t entice you?”

“It’s such an altering decision. Harrenhal, the Captain of the Guard, he keeps telling me that ‘a war that lasts for only a day still happened.’ War is the kind of thing that is never skipped in historical records. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that kind of power.”

Longstep nods slowly. His green eyes shift to the left, across the river where they caught the fish. He sees something that causes him to move quick and silently.

“Grab your bow. There’s a sylvain deer over there.”

Vedek’s reacts as naturally and efficiently as Longstep taught him to. The fire is dampened and he equips his bow. His stiff-leggedness vanishes as he moves into position for a clean shot. He moves as silently as his teacher. He has never felled a sylvain deer. Those wandered into the Prime Plane from Faehome Realm, the realm all Fae beings come from. They were larger than regular deer, with a crest of red hair, and had a glint to their antlers like burning gold. Vedek has seen them many times in tapestries and family crests. He spares a moment to take in the gentle expansion of the animal’s chest as it breathed.

“It hasn’t seen us.” Longstep whispers in his ear. “There’s no need to rush this, take all the time you need. Let me know when you’re prepared to fire.”

Vedek adjusts his grip. His fingers are tight on the fletching of his nocked arrow. He empties his mind and lungs. He wants this to be the cleanest kill he has ever done.

“I’m ready.”

“Hold. I’ll tell you when.” Longstep informs him.

This causes a crack in Vedek’s composure. Why did Longstep ask if he was ready, when he was just going to command when to shoot like it was their first lesson? Of course, Vedek doesn’t say this out loud. He adjusts himself so the strain of having the bowstring pulled wouldn’t tire his arm as quickly.

“Keep holding.” Longstep whispers.

Vedek has to take shallow breaths to regulate his breathing without altering his aim. The deer still hasn't noticed them. It bends over the river, drinking deeply from it. Its ears twitch. That elegant head rises to look across the river.

“It will see us and run.” Vedek whispers. He is ready to fire at any moment.

“Hold…” Longstep insists on drawing this moment out. Was this the lesson? Was Vedek supposed to ignore his teacher and fire on his own instinct? Such a roundabout lesson was not beyond Longstep’s teachings.

Then Vedek sees it. The sylvain deer looks behind itself. Two knock-kneed fawns approach cautiously from the foliage. Their pelts are speckled with gold dust. The deer steps away from the river so that the children can drink. Vedek lowers his bow.

“I can’t do it.”

“Why?” Longstep asks. There is approval in his voice.

“Because they wouldn’t survive on their own.”

“That is the difference that observation makes.” Longstep whispers. “Where once you were prepared to kill, now you can think of nothing but mercy. You were right when you said that the power to declare war was a great one, and I hope that before you do so you observe and wait. You never know what may come to light when there’s not bloodshed to cover it up.”

~-~-~

It had been centuries since Vedek had thought of that day. With training, an Elden Fae can recall with perfect clarity, but their long lives made it difficult to parse memories. It’s hard to recall what you have forgotten. He wondered if Rerume had detected his lapse. Possibly not. Rerume was in his own contemplation, looking back at the temple of the Vulture Mother.

Observation. That was how he would convince his allies to go to Outpost Onx. They needn’t attack it immediately, they would just observe it to confirm if the rumors were true. Time was still of the essence. If he couldn’t convince them to leave today, then he’d be done with it. Maybe he’d commit himself to the persona of Bréag for his remaining three hundred years.