1 - 1 [Fool] Cruel Gods Give A Soap-Maker His Feast

The Gods made Man in Their image. Lesser in holiness and power and might, but no lesser in design. Free of will and imbued with vital breath; spirit.

Man shares with the Seven all that makes him good and evil. For only those that are of kennen sacren—most holy knowing—may make good judgement.

The anger of the Gods is just, for They are wise.

The anger of Man is unjust, for he is mortal and unwhole.

-Mandatos Oriatthi, Holy Scripture of the Cult of the All-Father.

The Exorcist - 1st of Mead’s Tap, Year 1125 A.E.

The lone Exorcist tracked his prey through the cold forest as the amber light of the fading day bounced off the snow. His advantage would soon be lost along with the dying radiance. The once white forest was caressed by the warm dregs of Solaria, contrasting with the frigid, sharp air.

Most of the trees and vegetation were bereft of leaf and greenery, the dead of winter claiming its due. As Mortus came for all, be they sanguine or verdant. None could escape their final fate, only delay the inexorable.

The Exorcist ran, his steps not falling into nor disturbing the surface of the snow as if he was as weightless as a feather. His black coat trailed behind him in the wind of his chase. A small, one-handed crossbow was bound to his left side and a longsword was strapped to his back. Neither made sound nor did they hinder his mobility.

He was no mere mundane, nor mortal. He was a mage, a being elevated beyond the foundation that was their species. Borne of humanity, yet human no longer.

The Exorcist’s prey ran not far from him, still in his field of vision. A humanoid beast of leathery-white skin, not unlike a bat, scrambled on four legs. Yet its beastial ambulance was one faster than anything a mere mortal could achieve on their two legs. Each of its talon tipped limbs dug deep into the earth under the snow, bringing it forward. The creature had three bolts sticking out of its back and various wounds throughout its hide.

It possessed no hair whatsoever, yet the cold did not hinder it, for the Dead did not mind the cold of the grave.

Beady black eyes looked back in terror. It had made a mistake. Even wasting a blink to look back at its hunter slowed it down far too much. The beast increased its speed, chittering about with the agility of a four-legged spider.

It was too late.

The Exorcist dexterously took out his crossbow from its straps at his left thigh, a bolt preemptively loaded, and the thick string already coiled back and ready. His was not a normal gadget, instead a much more advanced model in which the bolt wouldn’t fall out of its loading mechanism even upside-down. He unlatched the safety apparatus, a piece of steel that served to stop the crossbow from misfiring.

The Exorcist barely needed more than a thousandth of a breath to aim.

His finger pressed the trigger. The force required to fully activate the release mechanism was much greater than that needed for oxen to plough a field. The noise was a veritable explosion, more of a gong than the twang of a thread.

The Exorcist silenced any sound with his spirit, tightening the invisible influence over his crossbow. Like a wolf with its jowls around a hare’s neck, the noise’s very spine was wrung and twisted in a violent manner.

The bolt cut through the air, its silvery edge gleaming with oily venom. It plunged into the humanoid creature’s leathery-white back, burying its barbed edge deep. The monster could not evade what it could not hear.

The metal itself was death incarnate, a poison to the spirit, be it living or undead. And the venin applied to it was a lecherous toxin. And like a leech, once it got its abyssal teeth around flesh, it was wont to never let go.

The undead creature scrambled from him, scared and weak. Black blood shed from its unhealing wounds, shimmering and melting through the snow like maggots upon a carcass.

Both hunter and prey ran through the otherwise peaceful forest as light snow began to fall. The Exorcist rewound the crossbow as he ran, the act not hindering him in the slightest. It was natural as the years of practice had given him the ability to rewind the gadget with muscle memory alone. He took another bolt from the quiver on his right and loaded it onto the crossbow when it was fully wound and ready.

His prey tripped on a thick root and looked back. It caught a glimpse of the bearded man, his coat billowing in the slight wind.

The sound of the string hitting metal resounded in the ghost-quiet forest. The Exorcist needed not to silence the shot as its trajectory would be known anyhow. An act of magicking not effectuated saved energy.

And borne of humanity as he was, endurance and persistence was a difficult trait to shed.

The bolt flew true, warping the air as it blurred forth.

The beast’s body fell limp with the addition of another quill. Profane blood seeped into the earth as it lay there. A barbed steel bolt was lodged in its blackened heart. Each thrum of the muscle-bound organ sent a shudder of pain through its body and another spray of vitality from its wounds.

The Exorcist quickly holstered the crossbow back to his side in a swift motion, the steel mechanisms and latches doing the rest of the job. He capitalized on the creature’s weakness, taking a breath to unsheath his blade.

The longsword rested on his back, the scabbard diagonally crossing his right shoulder down to his left hip. Its point stuck out slightly to the left. He tapped the bottom tip of the scabbard, rocking the handle of his blade forward. It met his outstretched hand over his shoulder.

Cold terror gripped the insides of the Exorcist's profane prey as its death inched closer.

The Exorcist fully unsheathed the blade with a dexterous twist of his fingers and wrist, flourishing it in a wide arc. Cruel, cold, and calculating as the silver in his hands. A bit of magick helped grease the act of drawing the blade from such an unorthodox position. No common man could unsheathe such a long sword from their back with such casual ease.

But his prey was fast. Faster than the would-be executioner. It gave no hint of its last reserves of strength. The skin of its spirit was placid and unfathomable as still waters, giving no implication of escape.

The creature contorted in a way impossible for the human form it imitated. Its sinewy limbs and torso twisting as if it had no bone to begin with.

The blade struck a tree, yet it did not get caught on its bark. The metal cut cleanly through, shearing the two-and-a-half span thick oak like it were some middling branch of livewood.

The beast bolted, running on all fours like a rabid dog. The creaking sound of the trunk as it fell heralded the arrival of Death Himself.

The last dredges of amber sunlight died as did the Exorcist’s advantage.

Blood would be on his hands for such a failure.

The Thief - 1st of Mead’s Tap, Year 1125 A.E.

The light faded away at the end of the day, the residents of Arvenpyre closing their shops. The twin moons had yet to appear in the dusken firmament. The month of Last Frost was one where the celestial bodies of Solaria and Lumenari did not align so succinctly to give way to visible whitemoons.

Arvenpyre was a city etched into the White Cliffs. Towers and houses wrought of marble jutted outwards and up. Tunnels and caverns permeated the cliffside that overlooked the sea. A semicircle dam protected the lower levels of mining from flooding. Limestone and coal were extracted from their sweltering depths.

The nobility and high society were housed atop the cliffs, while the poor scurried below, between the tunnels and rocks. The tunnels were fuller of life than the settlement above.

Where the dwellings above made up a sleepy coastal town, below was a city filled with noise of breaking rock and coughing lung.

A boy ran through the rocky passageways of the Undercity, fleeing from thieves looking to steal his food—a hearty loaf of weeks-old bread, bone-dry jerky, and an assortment of other paltry goods wrapped inside a bundle of rags not fit to clean even the floors of a sunchild’s washing room.

Well, perhaps him calling it his food was a stretch of the truth.

The fleeing boy had stolen it. Better to be a thief than to be dead. Yet, if the lads caught up to him, he'd end up so. Another corpse to be thrown down the Soap-Maker’s Pit.

The two that chased after the thief were much older, each around eightten winters. A runt, small and quick with a big head, and a tall, skinny kid with a face only the Blind Mother could love. Scratch that, not even She Who Dwells in Clouded Eyes could love that, thought the thief with a breathless smile.

The fleeing thief had a lean frame forged by sixten winters of hunger. He had sunken cheeks, boney limbs, and a protruding ribcage. But that didn’t stop him from being as fast as, well, a thief. Gotta call a pick a pick, he thought.

His eyes and hair were a mundane mousy brown, and his body was filthy with stains of coal, grease, and ashen-marble dust. He carried a small torch made from driftwood, old rags, and rendered rat fat.

He lumened his invention the Rat Stick. A grand name for such an artifact.

The thief turned to a dark section of tunnels where no sconces nor lanterns nor torches gave the mercy of light. Since he had already lit the rat stick, he became a beacon, leading his chasers much as like a will o'wisp.

The two that ran after him were being led by the nose. They had hurt him and his own before. There would be a price paid in full. Retribution doled out by gangs of half-starved children were malicious and sadistic things. As black-hearted as the suffering wrought by roving bands of bandits.

Yet, with gods so callous and cruel, why would Man not take after their creator? Fighting hounds learned their capricious ripping of flesh from Man and he learned it from the Seven that Dwelled Above. The thought brought forth others, a chain linking back to a common Undercity tavern song.

“Callous and cruel,

From Man to Beast,

May those Above o’ Law and Rule,

Know no peace,

For the bottom of their hearts awful,

As a soap-maker’s feast.”

The passageway’s stone flooring were damp and cold, yet the overall temperature mild. Warm even, when compared to the bone-chilling winds above ground. The periodic waft of warm and balmy heat from the Depths made most Undercity dwellers wear light cloths. Pants and shirts wrought of rags thrown down from above.

The thief himself was shirtless as he hated the feeling of linen on his chest. Too itchy for even his lowborn tastes.

He kept just enough distance so his pursuers wouldn’t lose the trail. He may have been easy to injure, being skin and bones and all, but he was fast. One could not hurt what they couldn't catch. He ran from tunnel to tunnel, knowing them like veins on the back of his hand, not needing the torch for his own navigation.

He turned the corner into a dead-end—a tall tunnel, with darkness covering its ceiling. He made sure to drop the torch just before entrance of the dead end, leaving most of it clad in shadow.

The two boys running after the thief rounded into the dead end. They were huffing and puffing but were otherwise content with finally catching the little rat. They shuffled forth, like dogs snarling and growling their prey into a corner.

“Ha!” Exclaimed the ugly-faced boy, his face constricted in crazed and excited expectation of violence. “We gotcha, ye fuckin’ mouse!”

“The dumbarse ran himself inna dead-end.” Said the runt, wringing his wrists like the Greedy Wolf of Berronath.

Both lads approached the thief, their backs to the entrance, casting long and ominous shadows upon him. They savored each step, practically tasting the would-be blood on their knuckles and the sound of frail bone breaking like rotten wood.

The cruel glint in their eyes flashed like the glimmer of naked steel being drawn.

Well, guess there’s only one thing left to do, thought the thief. His heart pounded like the hammering of pickaxe upon stone as he back pressed to the marble wall. Memories that hid in the dark corners of the mind strained at their shackles, wanting and dreading to be let go.

“Lisa, Bert!” The thief yelled, his voice cracking like a stonefall. “Now!”

Two figures jumped out from shadows just above the sides of the tunnel, falling from the enshrouded alcoves. They were positioned right behind the two lads who were quite charitable with their food.

One was lithe, landing almost without a sound. The other was brawny, abounding upon the floor with a dull thud.

The lithe ambusher dodged and slipped through them, striking in vulnerable and soft places. The brawny one was more straightforward. The sheer power of the punches outweighed the lack of finesse.

The runt tried to fight back against the nimble lass, but couldn’t land a single punch nor scratch. He overcommitted on a jab, his posture weakening as did his balance. The lass took advantage of her opponent’s lack of agility, and kicked him in his leading foot’s thigh. Since the range of a jab relied on one’s step, his punch was cut short. Her sharp nails rent angry-red lines over his forehead and his groin.

Blood blinded his sight as it dripped from his temple, and his hands went down to protect his unmentionables.

The ugly lad had no defense against the brute's sheer strength. Each of his strikes and kicks were met without any resistance. They simply bounced off his attacker’s corded muscle and sturdy bones. Yet, when the brute’s winding punches met his body, he was beaten to a pulp.

The thief ran in, striking at both his pursuer’s backs. He aimed for their kidneys and livers, seeking to do as much damage as his frail body could.

The charitable boys ended up bloody and bruised from the brute and cut and scraped by the snake. Their insides were scrambled by the thief, well placed scrapes and blows stacking the damage upon them like plaque upon a farmer’s teeth.

The lads shared a look before they scurried off, tails tucked between their legs. Bones and ribs were cracked, wounds they would be nursing and kneading for long.

Bone did not heal properly with the poor sustenance of the Undercity. They would die soon enough without the strength to protect their food.

A price paid in full, thought the thief with a sadistic little grin. He shook away the hate, and turned his attention to his cronies.

“Bert, that was nine-damned impressive!” Congratulated the thief, his breathless voice joyous. “You were like a ram! Just pummeled them.” He finished with a smile as he punched a hand into the opposite palm in the gesture of a wallop.

“Thanks, Eiden!” Said Bert, the brawny one, as he patted his crony on the back. The weight of the pat was enough to almost make the thief, Eiden, stumble and drop the food.

Almost. He had an iron grip on the spoils of his robbery. A thief had to have sticky fingers as there was no greater shame than dropping their pilfered loot.

“Ye got ‘ere quicker than we’s reckoned.” Bert continued, his broken Common showing through in his accent. “It ‘eally ‘erked. Dinnae, it?”

The brute was twenty winters old, yet he was more of a younger brother to Eiden. He had a bit of a lame head as they called it, his mind not developing as much as his body. The lad’s face was square and intimidating, always holding a bit of a scowl—or resting-bloodhound-face as Eiden called it. Yet, Bert’s nature was quite the opposite, being rarely quick to anger unless his cronies got hurt. He too was shirtless as Eiden was, his body covered in sweat.

“Aye, that it did.” Said Eiden, “I had my doubts when I got to the dead-end.” A shudder ran through his body as he thought of what would’ve happened had he been alone. Broken bones, splayed limbs, a bloody face, and a cracked skull. Each possible injury he could’ve suffered from the hands of those lads passed through his mind.

Man was known to be cruel. And those that had none to lose, lost their lives. Mortus was not one to deny entry to the spirits of the dead as they drifted beyond the Veil. Eiden knew as much.

“I know, I know,” Said the lithe girl of fifteen winters, breaking Eiden out of his dark thoughts. Lisa, in a sarcastic tone, continued. “If not for me and my plan, we wouldn’t have food on the table tonight.”

Her body was as emaciated as Eiden’s, both having gone through bouts of winters where food in the Undercity had been as scarce as a fly’s hairs. Fortuna had not been kind in the last two years.

“But, we’s don’t got’s a table.” Said Bert with a confused expression etched upon his stoney face.

Lisa proceeded to whack him upside the head.

“Of course, we don’t have a table!” Said Lisa, “It was a godsdamned expression!”

“Oi!” Complained Bert as he nursed the already-forming bump on his skull. “Blind Mother’s tits. Ya didn’t hav’ta wallop me!

“I didn’t get yer ‘ducation, little miss merchant’s daughtah!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Bert regretted them. Lisa’s face went through a multitude of emotions. Sadness, grief, and a dash of betrayal. Sure, Lisa had been wrong as well considering Bert was lame-minded, yet, in the end, both had hurt each other.

Not being able to handle the breaths of awkward silence, Eiden spoke up.

“Let’s go break our fast. We have food thanks to Bert’s strength and Lisa’s wits…” After a moment he added. “And of course, my dashing looks.” His tone was light and jovial with a mix of seriousness added in to better sell the jest.

The trio erupted into laughter as Eiden held a look of mock hurt. It was nice and easy getting them to laugh—and though jests were not among his strengths, their camaraderie compelled them to at least chuckle. A warm and fuzzy feeling filled Eiden’s core when he saw Lisa’s lopsided grin. She’s always so… pretty, he thought as his cheeks turned scarlet.

The thief surreptitiously made his way in between the two as they laughed, not wanting his blush to be seen. Eiden walked back to the entrance with the food under his left arm, picking up the still lit rat stick in his unoccupied hand.

“Let’s get goin’.” He said with his back to the group, his cheeks still a bit flushed and red. “We’s got to eat before our bellies growl.”

Eiden took a breath before he added, “Last one there has to empty the chamber pot!”

A stampede of urchins ensued.