Ravens! The friar cursed when he walked the wide bailey. He didn't know how many times already. On the top of the towers and battlements, they're always there, always ravens if not the pigeons. They settled on the gables of the keep even before the injured became the dead. Hopefully, no one will come back dead, he muttered silently before entering the donjon. It has been a day since the riders left, and there are no words delivered. It was rare for the friar to walk to the battlements. Some of the men almost didn't recognize the friar. If it's not for the long robe he usually uses for the mass, maybe those men would drag him for questioning. And the friar didn't like it, the beating. But although the friar preferred to be secluded in the praying temple or his workshop, playing with his ink, parchments, quills, brushes and paint, he simply couldn't turn his eyes off from happenings outside the keep. The friar leaned forward against the battlements, at one of the guard posts. He nodded to the birds, a dozen of them in a black line, with their wise and watching eyes. But he too knows that the birds weren't the enemy. They're just looked like that, ravens and pigeons alike. He throws seeds, and corns at them. They merrily flocked, cawing, danced as they pecked the corns. It's the band of marauders that disturbed him. And more, the letter from Els to the Lord Commander Jack Amberville. More or less it was the images. The village-square ran red. Blood in the gutters, blood on the stone-paths, blood everywhere. The corpses posed as corpses do. Some of them, reaching for the sky with missing fingers, and not peaceful. Flies rose above the wounded as they struggled, all betrayed by their buzzing entourage if by any chance there are any survivors. And there is no salvation for them.

"Please! Mercy!" “Water! Water!” It’s always water with the dying. But the friar knew that it’s killing that gives marauders thirst. While those riders left, two scouting parties returned from the borders of Altkeep, weary and with ill-news. Those blood-thirsty men burned down two more settlements while sighted riding north, filling their own greed. But the friar almost cried when he heard that those monsters didn't spare the men of faith. The priest they hanged from a tree, while the sisters they raped before locked in a shed against fire. Again with raping, wanton murder, and pillaging. There's no stopping. There were words, whispers. And again, the friar didn't believe them all. Is it the Brotherhood of the Unseen? Is it the Witch Cult? A stray wyvern? Or maybe just some marauders? Just when he thought that the clouds became grey like a beard, then blacken like coal. The gods cried, or they just emptied their chamber-pots. It was a short deluge but a cold one. The friar silently cursed himself as he didn't hurry to deliver the words from Els to the Lord Commander, needlessly stormed under the rain, leaving the guards. He ran down the battlements, and finally to the inside of the donjon, drenched, and cold as ice. "Gods....", he cursed again. Cold and wet, the friar reached for the nearest hearth he could find. And someone called from behind. "Brother Aldwin," the voice said, stern but familiar. Clinking sound was heard from the friar's rear side, and now the voice's owner is facing him. He's tall and chiselled, with almond brown eyes and silver like grey-auburn hair. "Sir Kayne," he said again. "At your service." The men smiled. The two found themselves seated on the long seat near the hearth. Inside of the barrack, and the mess hall, four furnaces placed on each corner. Northwind currently saving the firewood for coming winter, but fifty small-already-quartered-logs, with dried twigs and barks, wouldn't mean anything when winter comes but one day of fire for one hearth. Since it was near the time for breaking the fast the friar had no choice but to take his meal together with the men inside this gloomy hall. But still, the breakfast for the friar is quite a luxury for most of the men; three loaves of rye bread with three slice of back-bacon, dried fish, two moulded and a yellow cheese, onion and gravy, and wine. Which is why the friar usually eats by himself in the early morning. "That's a breakfast." Ser Kayne laughed. Compared to his usual portion of not too decent looking teared-rye-bread and chicken-onion soup, it was almost extravagant. "Who worked in the name of the Lord, and the gods, deserves the share of the body," the friar replied, almost praying. "Being a man of faith is hard. But surely had merits of its own." "Compared to... be free of vows?" Ser Kayne bit back at the friar. "I live by myself. I am a knight, though I don't like the ride. It's cold, even when the sun at the top of you. You could almost see the snow. They covered the mountain, white like a blanket. We rode down a small band of thugs, poor them as they didn't see us coming, and take back whatever they take from others. And unlike you, priests, we didn't have to celibate. Women, we could weigh a few silver for them to spread their legs open." Ser Kayne put a smug in his face, looking at the friar. The friar lets out a sigh. Of course, the friar's not blaming him. The knight's face suddenly turned sour. "And almost half of us ended up mining, seeking warmth, all night. This I confess." The friar lets out a heavier sigh. "In nomine Domini ego te absolvo ab peccatis vestris." In the name of the Lord, the gods, I absolve your sins. The friar prayed in that very second. It was awkward for the knight to talk with the priest at the moment, for everything suddenly felt serene. He waited for the friar to finish his prayer. "Thank you," he said. "Men who died by the sword died also by the sword. But eventually, we met in the front of the White Hall." "So... tell me, brother. Do you fond of riding?" "Compared to work in seclusion? I think so. If I could have a ride during the pilgrimage, I will. But books don't fill its insides by itself, both the passages and drawings. The scrolls and documents too." The friar paused for a while, dipping his fried onion to the gravy. His mouth line became hard as he crunched them inside his mouth. "Yet, I still wanted to eat bread." "Men says, you can't eat books. Men eat bread." One more thing that disturbs the friar is maybe that those marauders may know that the priest may also pose a scribe. They may also target the manuscripts or tomes or scroll the priest may have in his possession. Parchments costs men his pay, and a manuscript, his fortune. Scribes make good money out of their works but spend months and years instead. "It's my job," he preached the weary-looking knight. "And before that, I am bound to give my service in the great fortress of Northwind. You wanted some?" "Thank you," the knight joined the friar with his fried onions. Hence, this argumentation is won by the friar. Ser Kayne dislikes the ride, particularly at this time of year. But above that, Ser Kayne didn't like books, and he knows how arduous it is to make one. His face is sullen while eating those onions, imagining ponderous tomes inside the friar's workshop and countless hours the friar had spent inside his room. Immediately after eating those onions, Ser Kayne belched short, one after another. The friar assumed he caught the cold wind inside his stomach. He won this time. "Guess I should wear thicker clothes. Fecking wind. So cold these days," Ser Kayne cursed. "And I'm trying to not to get my hands on wine." "Yes," the friar said and nodded. "And you should ask Scholar Rithdan while he's here. He could brew you hot honeyed horn-root water." "Ok....Uh...Horn-root? And that will stop me from belching like a fool?" "Umm...", the friar turned his eyes up to the ceilings. "Ginger. They're from Sagvis and came from south of Sagvis and its south. It's a kind of root-herb that could warm your body and alleviate symptoms of some ailments and eventually cure it. It'll help you with that, or at least warm your inside." Ser Kayne obediently nodded to the friar's explanation. Help from men of faith is worth something. But that miracle-like thing also fixed the vitality of men. The most potent of the species are considered panacea; could prolong one's vitality and life, delaying ageing, and last but not least, filling one's cup; both men and women. That's the one thing that the friar wanted to keep as a surprise for him and his very few paragons. "Or you could try to ask Old Jack whatever things he put inside his wine. Although I'm guessing it's clover, nutmeg, cinnamon, and honey." "Gladfully," Ser Kayne said as he stuffed everything on his plate and stood. He clasped the friar between his dully shining gauntlet. "Take care, brother. Blessings to you." The friar then finished his meal and stood, left as he still remembered his task. He walked to the stairs, walked again through the spiral steps, and passed the long corridors. In no time he had reached the heavy doors of oak wood. He gave a soft knock on the wooden part of the door. "Who is it?", a stern voice inquired from the inside. "It's me, sir." The voice of the friar is low and almost unheard. "Get inside." And the friar opened the door and closed it. The door made a heavy sound as it shut the entrance, to prevent words coming out of the room.