2 - 1 [Magus] Omens O’ Doom, A Shadow ‘Ere Looms

Death wanders in the shadow of Man, for he is unwhole. Not by disobedience to the Sevenfold Faith, but by his very nature.

All who live shall die and all things shall end, for the Gods hath made it so.

Imperfect beings wrought of perfect design, constrained by their forms yet possessing the vital breath of the Gods Themselves.

When bones break and blood becomes weak, the spirit bolsters.

When the brow is heavy with the weight of age and the eyes a perch for the feet of crows, the spirit is full-grown.

It stands tall upon its legs, for the spirit is willing where the flesh is weak.

-Mandatos Mortes, Holy Scripture of the Dust-Reaper.

The Mercenary - 15th of Last Frost, Year 1125 A.E.

A lad of nineteen winters woke up, not knowing that today was the day all would change. He was on the path of a sellsword. His body, well-muscled and deadly, was forged by the cycles of training and practice in the martial arts.

He got up from his cot as dawn broke on the cold horizon. The mercenary rubbed the sleep out of his eyes before pulling a dull green tunic over his head.

He made his way out from under his tent and to the river. The water was bone-chilling, shocking him out of his stupor. The mercenary went through his routine, donning his cheap brigandine vest and old plate spaulders. The plates sewn into the brigandine’s leathers were always out of place, poking him in the gut whenever he was hit. Better to get a bit bruised than a blade to the gut, he thought.

His spaulders connected to thin plates of steel that ran the length of his arms. The plates connected to joints near his elbows, both requiring a bit of oil every morning. The joints were bound by leather around the bend of his elbows.

Then came his vambraces, long rectangular plates of steel bound to leather, protecting his wrists and forearms. He had no armored gauntlets, leather gloves instead fitting snugly under his vambraces. Sure, he could’ve simply gone without them, but as blood splattered everywhere in battle, it would surely pool on his hands. And even before blood had been spilt, sweat would shake his grip.

A slippery weapon handle was a death sentence. He dared not risk a brush with Mortus. Especially not with Lumenari in the form of Blackmoon Erebus still barely visible on the horizon.

Then came his grieves, some cheap clothen padding that he put atop his leggings. He slept in his gambeson pants and on top of those were some thickened cloth armor. He couldn’t afford any better as plate chausses were too expensive and so too were the brigandine variety.

Lastly he donned his helmet, a common bascinet that protected all but his face, and as such didn’t obscure his vision. He buckled the leather straps under his chip snugly. It was his most expensive piece of equipment, costing him eighteen silver Talents and four silver Bits. He had been saving that sum for around a winter and a half, be it from contracted bounties or spoils of battle.

Coin’s startin’ to get low. The lad took out his coin purse and got to counting it. One full Talent, four Bits, two Shillings, and fifteen copper pennies.

One-hundred-and-sixty pence total. Damn. Gotta take up some solo bounties when we reach Berrowden. Don’t got enough for any upgrades to me gear. I want a strosunian round-shield so bad.

The young mercenary picked up his axe and practiced his stances and cuts. It was an old thing from before he joined the Red Sparrows. A mundane woodcutter’s tool, a bit too heavy to comfortably swing in battle. Yet, after two years with it in his hands, the weight was barely a concern, his body having adapted quickly enough.

The Arms Master - 15th of Last Frost, Year 1125 A.E.

Stregor had taken last watch over camp, as he always did. The last dregs of darkness always came with night terrors, so he had long since learned to wake before they came.

The twin moons hung low on the dark horizon. The great whitemoon disappeared into the fleeing eventide, but the middling blackmoon did not. It stood stark still, its dark visage so dark it was blinding against the lightening firmament.

Gods be with us, Stregor prayed. A bit of talk and begging to the Seven and Their godlings would do no harm. Especially not with such a dark omen. A morning voidmoon was one rarely seen. But when one did witness it, they knew that calamity would surely follow.

The celestial gesture brought a spark of remembrance, the rhymes to a folksong coming unbidden to Stregor’s mind.

“You’ll shiver in fear,

Omens o’ Doom,

Didnae ya hear?

Under door it loom,

Run for this ain’t nor jeer.

A shadow ‘ere comes,

A killing spree,

If you hear it hums,

Make haste and flee.”

The blackmoon ran after its twin into the fleeing eventide, disappearing over the horizon. Slowly the dawn broke through on the opposite end from which the Twins fled. Solaria was graceful in the birth of Her glory, Her rays comforting and warm on Stregor’s skin.

The first to wake was Barry, the young lad that had joined them two winters back. The lad’s a man possessed, thought Stregor with a chuckle. Every dawn, Barry awoke, donned his armor, and went through each and every stance and cut he knew. Stregor had trained Barry in the martial arts himself, teaching him how to wield an axe and proper footwork. The two cycles of Solaria had been good for the lad’s body, corded and hard muscle packing upon his bones.

He had been chubby before, a good deal of child’s fat on his frame. But with the daily conditioning drills and practice on the martial forms, all that had melted away.

Ever since the young lad joined the Sparrows, Barry had yet to pick up a new set of arms. Stregor had admonished him for not using a lighter and more battle-ready axe, and yet Barry would not budge with his woodcutter. His fightin’s quite… strange. Yet it's been a boon so far. His cobbled-together style has been the bane of brigands o’ the Corners. It’s more like he uses a mace than an axe at times, what with all that weight and all.

Even when the dawn had fully come, banishing the dark, the ominous feeling had yet to leave Stregor. Like an itch in the middle of one’s back, right where their reach became dull, the gut-instinct dared not leave until it was satisfied.

Nine-damned nerves.

Though an omen came in the form of the Blackmoon Erebus, the dawn was a warm one even in the dead of winter. Solaria was merciful in Her light over Terra, and yet Erebus was cruel in His vigil over the Veil.

Stregor hoped the two would even each other out, balancing the scales of fate. Then again, Fortuna was a fickle bitch of a godling.

I wonder how Helios’ fairing? Been a decade since he joined the clergy...

The Bandit At The Ruins - 15th of Last Frost, Year 1125 A.E.

Trevos felt an itch in between his shoulder blades. He clawed at the eluding itch with his long and unkempt finger-nails. Cut ‘em, they said. Poppycock, Trevos thought, for that was what it was. Long nails might’ve been ugly, but they were sure useful to cull an itch. Gods know that an itch don’t leave till it be scratched.

The morning was nice and dry, no rain to make mud. Gods, Trevos hated when Father Dyeus decided that His blessed piss was needed. The damn thing only served to give him rot-foot and sodden clothes.

Trevos stood watch over the brigand’s camp, his sight combing through the forest clearing. The camp itself was nestled in between the old bones of forgotten ruins. Probably a noble’s keep, Trevos reckoned. There be nothin’ noble ‘bout it any longer, he thought with a gravely chuckle.

Trevos’ beard was long and unkempt, as was the rest of his visage. No need to keep up appearances when there were no ladies around. Well, no ladies that needed persuasion. Trevos was glad they had captured a few lasses before winter fell. He reckoned they’d last at least until Gaia got off Her blessed arse and thought to bring spring with Her.

Huh, what’s that?

A silhouette appeared at the edges of the clearing, its dark form getting clearer as it made its way out of the brush. Winter may have come in full, wiltling the leaves and chilling their bones, but the sheer amount of trees still made it hard to see. The Kedweni South had always been so with its dense forestry. Can’t see nothin’ more than half a league away.

Slowly, the figure became clearer until Trevos got the full sight.

A man, clad in black, made a leisurely pace towards the ruins. He had a queer hat on his head like a kettle-helm, only this one was made of richly-dyed black leather and the brim was much longer.

Trevos looked down at his tatters, ragged cloth covering his frame. It had been poorly stitched with fabrics of different colors so many times, the thing was like a drab rainbow as Trevos repaired it again and again. With the cloth of his prey.

His lips formed into a greedy smile.

Need me a new hat. The coif I’s gots is pitiful. Wonder if the boss will let me take it though. Shit. His mood’s been on the downs ever since his brother left last cycle. Godsdamnit Hal, why’d ye have to go and shit the bed?