Baker leapt out of the shrubbery like a madman, pouncing onto his quarry like a bloodthirsty wolf. “Stop fuckin' squirmin', ya little shit!”

He wrestled the thing into the long grass, snarling and spitting.

“Finish it, quickly!” shouted Alric from a distance. His side was bandaged so heavily that he could barely move...forcing Baker to be the one to seize their prey. Aside from the dressing, the pain was sharp and cold. He was desperate for it to end.

Kent, the self-proclaimed former heretic, was at Alric's side. “You'll have me believe that this...thing we're hunting will aid your recovery?”

“Aye. Thine as well,” explained the knight.

Baker thuggishly pushed to his feet, grasping a dinner plate-sized creature in his hands. It buzzed loudly, jerking back and forth in desperation. It was a spindly little thing with four sets of rapidly spinning wings. It had a single eye on its thin frame.

“This ain't a fuckin' faerie, it’s a demented little cunt...!” snarled Baker through his teeth. “You should be restin’...in a tent...! Yer gonna bleed ta death out ‘ere!”

“Do as I say, Baker! Before it escapes!”

Not willing to tempt fate any longer, Baker thinned his lips, clutched the faerie firmly and wrenched. With a ‘snap', the creature’s wings stopped whirling about. Minute sounds still emanated from it, however.

Kent hobbled forth. “Is it...dead?”

“Nay, only crippled. Bring it to me,” commanded Alric as he set himself down onto a tree stump. His face twisted in discomfort.

As Baker approached, very obviously disgusted by the paralysed faerie, Alric drew his rondel dagger. Baker passed the beast to Alric who then pressed his dagger against a specific point on the faerie’s hide.

Without any indication of pain from the small creature, a shimmering liquid secreted from the puncture point. “Kent, the skin,” said Alric.

Instantly, Kent carefully held his empty waterskin beneath the faerie. Slowly but surely, it began to fill with the strange substance.

Baker stood watching in disgust with his hands planted on his hips. “Fuck me.”

With a roll of his eyes, Alric said, “Faerie tears are incredibly potent healing solutions. Thou best remember that.”

With the faerie fully drained, Kent's waterskin was filled with faerie tears. Alric tossed the faerie's carcass over his shoulder and gestured for the flask. “Simply apply the tears to the afflicted area. It will seep through clothing with ease.”

“That’s all?” pressed Kent as he handed it over.

Alric poured some of the liquid onto the tips of his fingers and rubbed it into his bandages. Kent retrieved the skin and followed Alric's instructions, patting his right knee with the stuff.

Baker cocked his head. “That's fuckin' gross, mate. Fuckin' hell,” he spat. “Are we done here or what?”

As the trio lumbered back through the forest, Alric could already feel the concoction navigating his veins. It had a signature sting to it. Painful, but satisfying. In his mind, it was an indication that it was working.

Sir Olin and the majority of his host were travelling back to his keep at Billingsham after Baron Antony had dispatched his own men to occupy Tvatch. Alric and Kent were accompanying them for the time being, not entirely sure what it was each of them were to do.

Baker led the way, naturally moving faster than his two injured companions.

“From whence did thou come, Kent? What was thy trade?”

Kent's limp was almost rhythmic. “I was a scribe at Kristantin. I transcribed manuscripts, penned letters...repetitive work.”

Alric swallowed. Kristantin... Only God could orchestrate such an alignment. Be this a sign?

“The tedium made me...vulnerable when I heard talk at the tavern of a ‘true religion'. But now...my doubts are no more. Indoctrinating children? Raising the dead...? I am ashamed to have fallen for their lies. I only hope that my master at Kristantin will forgive me when I return.”

“The blessing of a Knight Thestor shall clear thy name. I shall accompany thee to Kristantin.”

Kent scoffed. “I don’t understand you. You left me to die. You threatened to kill me more than once...but now you offer your word in my defence. Why?”

“Thou hast acknowledged the sins that are thine and are serving God once more by righting them.”

Kent did not seem satisfied by that answer, evident by the coming response. “Forgive my candour, Alric, but that doesn’t make any sense.”

Alric shook his head. “It need not make sense, my friend. God's plans are under no obligation to be comprehensible to thee.”

The mining village of Worthing Hill was accommodating Sir Olin's travelling party. They had tents erected at the outskirts of the village and, quite frankly, brought a dark cloud with them to the settlement.

Baker had been speaking with his fellow soldiers and ascertained that morale was not serviced by the orders given to slay the indoctrinated children at Tvatch. The men had been split in two; those who believed in what was done, and those who protested it. Alric was ready to strike down anyone foolish enough not to rescind their doubts.

As the trio left the woods and mounted the main dirt road into Worthing Hill, glares of mixed intent met Alric's form. Although he was not dressed in armour, he wore his Thestor surcoat over his tunic.

“Allow me a moment with Sir Eaglesham,” requested the knight of his comrades.

Baker and Kent broke off, allowing Alric to enter the tavern, wittily named ‘The Nagging Noble’.

The place was loaded to the brim with patrons, all of them soldiers under Olin's command. Despite the number of people inside, Alric could hear his own blood coursing through his body. The only discussions took place in the form of faint whispers.

Olin sat alone at the bar counter, momentarily approached by Alric.

The lord glanced up at Alric’s face with confusion lathered about his expression. When he glanced down at Alric's surcoat, it suddenly made sense. “My apologies Brother Alric, I hadn’t the chance to properly behold thy face. Please, join me,” he greeted, sliding up a stool.

Alric nodded, mounting the chair with a strained grunt and leaning onto the counter. “I trust that the eldritch artefacts found in the tomb were dispatched to Nulentt with care?”

Olin huffed with a smirk. “Aye, my friend. But if it were any choice of mine, those cursed objects should be cast into fire and destroyed.”

“I feel thy doubts, but the study of black magic will further our ability to counteract it; like in martial combat, one will struggle to defend against something he does not understand.”

“Good point. But the dark arts...they simply terrify me. What thou and the men spoke of. The departed, walking once more...” Olin shuddered. “Forgive me. Anyhow, I realise that I…never thanked thee for burying those poor souls at Tvatch.”

“I require no thanks for performing what is expected of me,” Alric replied. “Besides, it would not have been becoming to leave rows of skewered townsfolk atop the battlements.”

He didn’t laugh.

The tense silence was broken when Alric declared to Olin, “I shall soon take my leave with Kent, the informant whose confessions led us to Tvatch.”

“Thou shalt continue the search?”

“Aye, for both the demonists and a fugitive. A man I believed to be an ally shed blood within the walls of a church,” snapped Alric. “He shall discover that such an act incites unrelenting pursuit.”

Olin took a sip of ale. “Tvatch was a victory. This…looming silence does not befit it.”

Eyes nearby were drawn by Olin's words.

“Where is the celebration? The feasting?”

The infantrymen who were close enough to hear started shifting uncomfortably in their seats. One of them, stood from his table. “We just executed dozens of young. That ain’t somethin’ ta celebrate…whatever that peasant knight ‘as ta say about it.”

Another voice cried out, “Shut yer mouth! They were killin’ us! Keith lost ‘is fuckin’ brother!”

One by one, more and more voices piled on top of one another until there was nothing but cacophony. In his earlier years, Alric may have tried to calm the masses with some kind of inspirational speech. The truth was that he was tired. Tired of trying to reason with people who could not see the light. It was Olin’s job to control his men, not his. His job was to dispense punishment to those who would ultimately decide to commit crimes against the Church. Until then, he had no business here.

Amidst the shouting and even trading of blows, Alric pushed to his feet and exited the tavern. Some soldiers actually managed to shield Alric from attacks meant for him. It reconstituted a fraction of his faith in the Tritan people to see that some of them still knew right from wrong.

When the brawl’s noise was but a whisper on the wind, Alric took a deep breath and looked into the sky. The demonists were organised…they not only created and manned defences around Tvatch, but they had black magic at their fingertips. Raising the dead. Alric couldn’t help but wonder how large their enterprise was. Was this the prelude to holy war? Never have apostates or heretics come together to form armies before.

These questions are not befitting my position. Let the lord marshals of the Order dabble in these uncertainties…I am a soldier, not a thinker. There is one thing I know; they must be punished for corrupting those helpless children.

The words ‘peasant knight’ stirred something thought long dissolved in Alric’s blood. It was an insult to the Knights Thestor, highlighting what many believed to be a paradox; a knight who owned nothing but the weapons and armour on his back. It made him think…did he miss being a true knight? An honourable soldier with a keep under his command and vassals who served him? The mere consideration brought him shame. These desires are sinful. Extravagance. To want such things is to embrace personal greed. I need them not.

With the small amount of coin that Alric had left, he was able to pay for space in a bed for both he and Kent in the local inn. They would do much better than the tents in the Tritan encampment. Alric had no desire to spend anymore time reliving his time fighting abroad by sleeping in the dirt.

Alric strode toward the inn, clutching his side. It still stung with fierce intensity. It would take time for the faerie tears to take effect, much to the knight’s chagrin.

The Striking Stone, being an inn, was a much nicer establishment than the Nagging Noble alehouse down the way. Inns provided food and accommodation for their clients and their horses as well. Alric was pleased for Nocht to have a comfortable night in a stable with good food for once. Alehouses or taverns typically did not offer lodgings.

When he entered the common area of the Striking Stone, he saw Kent seated at a desk fiddling with rolls of parchment that he had removed from his shoulder bag. Also sitting on the surface of the table were an inkhorn and pen knife. The quill was in Kent’s hand, briskly dancing across the parchment.

“Best not stain the table. I haven’t the gold to replace a piece like this,” Alric remarked, knocking on the desk.

Kent huffed in amusement. “I’m not sure of much, but I’m sure of my craft. I won’t spill a drop.”

Alric leant over the scribe and peered at his writings.

“I am…detailing the heretic faith. What they would lead us to believe.”

“Hm. Excellent foresight. It is vital that the Church possesses a complete understanding of the apostates and their twisted beliefs. Perhaps it could assist in our search for their wretched temple.”

With a shake of his head, Kent continued, “It is not complicated, brother Alric. The core teaching is that we are not truly alive. What we call undead? The heretics believe that is our natural state. The cause is simple; everyone, no matter their faith, their people, must be killed then resurrected. Everyone.”

---

The halls of this strange cathedral seemed to be shaped from steel. Hundreds of followers had gathered here...hundreds. Among them was one who did not belong; a non-believer seeking answers of another sort. Ulvor, a woodsman who never left the hamlet of Oak in his entire life, finally felt that his son was within his reach. It wasn’t a journey he made lightly. No man, no matter how conflicted he was with his faith, wanted to spill blood within a church. Desperation, however, is fuel enough to turn men to things that once horrified them. He just wanted it to be over. To go back to Oak with his son by his side.

His eyes leapt from person to person. Face to face. However, before his sight spread too far, a booming voice echoed through the hall.

“We all have congregated here to declare in one voice; let the Church's lies bind you no more, for we have seen the truth!”

The voice oozed with determination that caused Ulvor pause. His eyes were magnetised by the melodic, deep tone and sucked toward the visage of a man dressed in fine livery.

His face was margined by a crown of skeletal hands, all fused together into a perfectly symmetrical pattern that erred on beautiful. Fixed to the crown and covering the speaker's head was a bright crimson cowl that matched the flowing silk garment that draped across the steps on which he stood. His skin-shell was a deep forest, telling Ulvor that he was not a native of Tritania.

“I come from a place far from here. Even there they speak of a God, all-knowing and all-powerful...but yet, where is he?! In the sky? In the heavens?” The speaker's hands writhed and jerked about with every word, his voice rose and fell like waves in a storm. “If so, why are we, the children of God, emergent of the ground!? When life is born, it does not descend from up high. It rises from below! Beneath our very feet!”

Silence answered him. Ulvor didn’t necessarily agree with him…but he had a point. Churches did not have holes in their roofs to allow people to be cast down from the heavens. However…there is no evidence that newborn life emerged from the earth. As far as anybody knew for sure, they just appeared.

Ulvor continued his search discreetly, scouring the sea of faces before him. However, his heart froze when his eyes met with those of a mysterious figure tucked away in shadow behind the demonist zealot.

A woman, but unlike any Ulvor had ever seen. Not only was her skin shell stark white, her face… Her features were smooth. Her nose was sharp. Her eyes were black. They had an infinite depth to them.

She wore an exquisitely embroidered gown that was the blackest of blacks, amplifying the tone of her skin shell.

Hey, poser. You're not one of us. Fairly obvious if you ask me. I can pretty much smell it on you.

The woodsman twitched. It was a voice...inside his mind. A smooth tone, low and tender. The strange words and phrases it used were beyond Ulvor’s understanding. It’s accent was equally bizarre.

The mysterious woman smirked.

Ulvor felt his mind drain. His purpose slipped away. His thoughts...his memories...his son’s face...they spiralled out of his grip. As those things departed, something else slipped inside.

The zealot continued his crazed ranting, “Every thought, every emotion, every sensation is but an illusion! A grand deception! The reality is that we were forged to serve as immortal, immovable vassals of our true Gods; the Lords of Hell! I know this for I have spoken to them! We must return to our old ways; to feel no pain, no remorse! To feel nothing!”

Come on, you believe this stuff, right? Mythar Tehreem knows what he’s talking about.

Ulvor's lips quivered. He muttered to himself, “N-No. This is all garbage…!”

The zealot, who Ulvor now somehow knew to be Mythar Tehreem, raised his hands. “It is clear. The Enlightenment at Tvatch was much too small; in order to succeed we require legions of trained soldiers. These soldiers will not only defend our rituals, but create more husks for our masters! All shall return to oblivion, the natural state!”

Roars of approval filled the chamber. And much to Ulvor's confusion, his voice was among them.

Follow him. Follow him and do whatever he says. Burn down churches, end people, whatever. His crew is making this place exciting for the first time in a long time.