FateGuard

Eric watched as Derek descended into the maw, its presence in the home of one of the FateGuard brought back the troubled memories of his encounter with it thirteen years ago. Now it was back, and in less than auspicious circumstances. Eric was troubled by the omen, yet the only evidence of this was in his eyes and hands. The hands were tight upon his sword belt, his eyes focused upon the taunt rope ladder that disappeared into the darkness below.

"You've faced this before... and killed it? Then, it can be done and we shall, right?"

He glanced up at Erilyn, his eyes momentarily softened and a playful smile crept upon his lips.

"Now Miss Erilyn, how does one kill rock and soil? Swords and arrows do not make it bleed. As for prayer and sorcery well…" Eric shrugged and gestured back to the maw.

"Yes, I've faced it before. Corben has witnessed it before in person as well. We did not however, defeat it. It left of its own accord before we could act, its evil deed already done. The secret to defeating it lies at its source."

Glancing down he saw that the rope had gone slack, Derek was no longer on it. With a well practiced motion Eric began to climb down the rope ladder into the hole. Before he disappeared he gave Jenra a small but confident smirk. "We'll see you on the other side Miss Cathair."

The climb downwards was claustrophobic, he felt more than saw the rough hewn halls around him, the light from above disappeared quickly.

As the rung below him did unexpectedly. With the suddenly loss in balance Eric lost his grip on the ladder and plummeted the rest of the way to the dusty cavern floor with a muffled thump. Muttering several obscenities he pulled himself back up to his feet, dusty and sore, but unharmed. Suddenly the cavern was filled with light that assaulted his eyes. Malwin had found a brazier in the chamber.

Eric frowned as he approached behind Corben, his eyes darting across the cavern taking stock of what was, and was not in it, his eyes lingered on the ancient stone gate. Malwin had taken the lead once down here. He had grasped the torch and found the brazier that was somehow still stocked with fuel, he seemed to know something, he was confident, in the lead in this underworld of darkness.

Eric hoped that the darkness of the place and what had occurred above had not already crept into the soul of Malwin.
 
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"Sir?"

"Master Balein?"

"SIR?!"

Harrel blinked and came out of his thoughts. A shadow was standing over him. He looked up at Bjeorn, easily the largest of the new recruits who were training in the courtyard. The Master-at-Arms had been watching over them, sat at the edge of the cloister, but had drifted into reverie. The return of the Rove Maw - a mystery to which he had been witness 12 years ago - had put the old man on edge. It was feeling of old ghosts whispering... of eyes watching him.

"Hmm? Oh, the Son of Søren..." The old man muttered an acknowledgment to the muscular shadow, then realised that Bjeorn was pointing at something. Harrel looked down at the suit of plate armour draped across his lap. "Ah, yes." He sat up straight and fixed the final rivet, finishing the job he had started before he drifted off. "Yes, the repair is sound. Here..."

He passed the Bloodstained Armour back to Bjeorn, who received it like a treasured gift. Since the assassination attempt on the king there had been a raft of new recruits to the FateGuard initiate trials. Harrel himself had inducted many from the schools where he taught. Bjeorn Sørensen had proven himself the mightiest of the fighters, with a hot temper that had bested many of the youths now nursing their wounds across the courtyard. But his armour had been damaged in a fight with Arkavenn, and Harrel had agreed to fix the shoulderplate.

"Next time, let him come to you. A charging dog is more vulnerable than a cornered one."

Bjeorn nodded, and though he took the armour his eyes stayed on Harrel - a questioning precision. Harrel sighed and looked away. "Forgive me, boy. My mind is elsewhere. Marshall Corben and the champions go to face a threat in the city." The old man looked down at his hands, flexing them as if frustrated by his inaction. The next part was muttered. "And I fear there are too few of them to prevail..."

 
Bjeorn nodded taking the armor from Harrel, he couldn't help but notice the man's thoughts were else where at the moment. The expression on his face made it seem that he was worried, had something happened? After the assassination attempt on the king it was not surprising that he wouldn't be in the best of moods, but it seemed that something else was plaguing his mind it didn't look like he was worried about his own well being but someone else's. Bjeorn couldn't help but stare at him trying to figure out what it was. Harrel sighed knowing that Bjeorn wanted to know what ailed him. He was worried about the others, it seemed that while Harrel was here training the new recruits most of the others had left on a mission to prtect the city. "Sir perhaps I could go...with your premission that is. I may not have their experience but I could atleast be of some use to them with what ever evil they may be fighting."
 
The silver-haired master-at-arms sat against the cloister column, looking up at the volunteer. In the backdrop, those initiates who had not been beaten by Arkavenn and Alexander had received an equal battering from this Bjeorn Sørensen. There was no doubting his skills, nor his proficiency with the Bloodstained Armour gifted by the Alchymia Chapter. The man was like the berserkers of old.

"I know your family name." The trainer's eyes took in Bjeorn's appearance, his memory recounting. "You were the boy attacked by the Crimvale Demon, two winters ago." He noted the scars on Bjeorn's chest, the many wounds from which he had bled. "They say you should have died that night. But tis a common story. Some people are sent back to us..."

With this strange answer, he returned to putting away his cleaning kit, returning each tool to its correct pouch. Another round of sparring had begun across the courtyard, but Bjeorn remained where he was, expecting that Harrel was not yet finished.

"The Marshall would have my head if I sent a novice his way." The old man gripped Bjeorn's wrist and used it to pull himself to his feet. Once steadied he looked up at the man and gave a slight smile. "Then again, there is a message I need sending." He clapped Bjeorn on the shoulder and moved past him. "Put your armour on, boy."

In the space of a few minutes Bjeorn was fully clad, and Harrel had finished writing upon a scroll. Turning, he rolled the parchment and handed it to the recruit. "The Marshall is at the house of Malwin DeFell, on Hemlock Lane. Put this message in his hand and no other's."

He gripped the shoulderplate of Bjeorn's armour and adjusted it slightly. The smile was still about his face. "Welcome to the FateGuard."

 
Bjeorn took the scroll from Harrel and slid it under one of his gauntlets, "Yes sir." Bjeorn wasted no time making his way to Malwin's home, he ran through the streets not stopping for anything his armor clattered against itself and each step sounded like that of thunder. It wasn't long before he ran into the other members that had gone with Corben, he recognized a few of them Marcus, castanamir, and Jeylssa. "I have word from Harrel to Corben, his eyes only please let me pass." He was slightly winded but was able to grain his breath within a few moments, they looked at him skeptically. Bjeorn pulled the scroll from his gauntlet and showed it to them, "Harrel asked that I deliver to it him personally."
 
Alyss took her time, waiting and finally gave one last look to her surroundings before climbing down. As soon as her feet touched the ground below, she checked her hood, making sure her face was still enshrouded in the shadow of it- then felt her face, only to frown at the still-solid layer of ice on it- cracked and chipped, but still, it clung to her.

She moved back towards Malwin, uncertain of where else to go.

Her hand reached back, gripping at her bow and an arrow, preparing for anything they might find. The place has been eerie and gave her an odd feeling above ground, but now that odd feeling had grown... the place was beyond unsettling. She moved a step closer to the poisoner, looking to Eric, wondering if the fall had hurt him any- though unsure of how to ask.

She looked back to Malwin, uncertain of this whole situation- something was wrong with him, certainly, but there was no way to go about asking him what had changed. He'd always been a little different from the rest, but this was... more so than usual, of course. Her fingers twirled the arrow absentmindedly while she focused on her thoughts- what was her standing with this man, now? What was to happen? Were they going to be okay, or was this to create a rift between them?

All she knew for the moment was that until Malwin told her to, she would not leave his side.
 
The Legionnaire was next, and smoldering eye sockets stared into the abyss. Truth be told, the occupant inside was a bit scared. The illusions thrust upon his eyes by the foul, remnant magic in the skull played with his vision, twisting the boundary of his sight, setting edges white hot. The descent into the Maw was clearly outlined for him; long, very long, with all the ways to break a leg highlighted as sharp white protrusions in his vision.

Still, the armour jumped into the hole without hesitation. As it dropped down, it caught in the last moments of its fall the hulking silhouette of a man entering the house. A recruit? It could feel the uneasiness oozing off him, awkward green and purple hues. No matter, all fell away in the woosh of air in the Maw ...

It almost forgot to grab the ladder, and had to dig its toes into the side of the drop, sending a harsh screech and a small cloud of gravel to tumble down into the opening. It slowly descended the last portion of the drop and dropped neatly from the ladder, looking up once - framed by whatever dim light made it down from the opening, before moving onward to make room for the next.
 
Jenra couldn't help but respond with an exasperated smile of her own, shaking her head as she watched him descend. The Legionnaire went next, and then it was her turn. She was plenty apprehensive, but steeled herself for what lay ahead as she, to, descended into the darkness below.

Eric's sudden fall, and the sound of his landing and curses, were plenty of warning to her as she approached the middle of their ladder; halting briefly, she looked down, trying to make him out in the darkness to make sure he was okay—but surely he was, with the language rolling off his tongue. By the time Jenra reached the bottom and dropped down the rest of the way, the light of the brazier had already flooded the chamber and tunnel.

She approached slowly, taking her bow into her hands warily as she entered the chamber. Turning slowly, she took in every detail of the room they were in. "Tis a terrible joke," she murmured softly, mostly to herself, as her eyes lingered on the religious depictions. "If this was once a true place of holiness… that it should now be part of something like the Maw…" Soon, too, her attention fell on the footprints on the dusty floor, and the skeletons by the door they lead to.

Her eyes lingered on the bones; without marks of damage, it was impossible to tell what had killed them. Frowning, she looked down again at the footprints. "The smaller prints," she pointed out. "Corben, you spoke before... that it comes for three, parents and... And a child." That train of thought was ever more troubling the more she thought about it, though. The last time the Maw opened, it swallowed three--two adults and a child. But there was but one set of adult footprints here. Yet this time, Malwin's wife and child, deceased, though their bodies were not swallowed... She feared to speak her thoughts aloud; was Corben right, about their souls? Could souls have made these prints? She looked to their leader, her expression as troubled as her thoughts.
 

The ominous answer of her mentor left Erilyn with a cold feeling in her stomach, something akin to a shiver that seemed to settle in her bones. A creature made of the rock and the soil that not even the previous Fateguard could defeat? After all, in Erilyn's mind, there was no real question that the previous generation's guard had been more noteworthy and impressive than this one - they'd never seen the near assassination of the king or lost their members to betrayal, had they? She glanced around at everyone present, all of whom seemed to be leaping down into the gaping wound of the earth that was all but vibrating with ill omen and foreboding.

Closing her fist so that her nails bit little crescent moons into her palm, Erilyn followed suit of the others and her feet touched the ground with a satisfying 'Flump'. Straightening her posture, unable to see for the initial shock of darkness as her eyes adjusted, Erilyn suddenly wished that she were above the ground and relaxing in the sunshine on a patch of grass just outside her brother's smith while he crafted horseshoes and hammers. Shaking her head, her eyes finally managing to detect silhouettes, she took a step forward and was met with an unsettling sight that seemed to have caused all the others to freeze in their tracks as well.

Catching the tail-end of Jenra's quiet observation, Erilyn understood the implication and it was not a wholesome one. Was there a chance that the Maw had taken more bodies into it than any of them knew? But that seemed unlikely, given that it was not easy to miss a vast hole erupting in the ground. That would mean that the footprints should belong to Malwin's family, yet no one had heard of either of them stirring from their beds since before Erilyn had even begun the trials for acceptance into the Guard.

"We're going to follow the footprints, aren't we? We'll find what's at the end of them, then, I fear. Perhaps, perhaps there's a chance that the family of Malwin remains among the living and his fortunes have taken a peculiar turn for the best." Erilyn did not look to Malwin as she spoke, nor could she bring her eyes to search for Leo's face. How must they both feel about this situation? The family matters between them had never seemed a willing topic of conversation for either.
​
 
"Malwin's family are dead," Corben stated, the blunt words cutting short Erilyn and Jenra's thoughts. Whatever conclusions they were reaching for would not be welcomed by the Marshall. Armour creaking, he crouched between the light of Malwin's torch and the gleam of Leonardo's robes, and in this twin-illumination observed the tracks by the doorway. "And spirits leave no footprints."

If only he had Aloysius's eyes... or Lilith's... or Kael's... or the senses of the Twins...

The prints were left in bone-dust... centuries of death... Corben's gaze drifted to the corpses piled either side of the doorway, broken entirely now, more like stacks of kindling than human remains. The gaunt edges of bone found likeness in the carvings of the mosaic walls. Lines were all that remained, marks and trenches in the canvas of oblivion.

"These men..." his voice echoed around the dome of the chamber. "...were they trying to open this door.... or keep it closed...?"

He straightened. His gaze came level with the door - with the slight crack of darkness where it had been opened. The words there seemed to carve themselves anew behind his eyes. Pure of Heart. If the adult and child who passed through this door were indeed shades of the dead, then there was no evil in them. This was a holy place... a sanctuary... a sleeping sepulchre belonging to people who had lived before the Age of the Pilgrims. How had they fared against the Evil? Had they buried themselves in vaults like these? Were these walls enchanted against the Outside?

Or had they fallen... was this place a picture of what awaited Gothenheim?

He rose from his thoughts and drew his sword. The ring of metal cut through the chamber. "Clearly two of our own have survived the fall into the Rove Maw. We must find them."

And with that, he started towards the breach.


* * * * * *​


By the time Bjeorn had talked his way past Castanamir and ventured beyond the cordon to find Malwin's house, the others had already descended. The recruit arrived to find the surface team, consisting now of Atlas, Heydrich and Dyne.

It was the latter who greeted him. Dyne was busy tying other ropes to the wooden pillars of Malwin's house, trailing three more into the gaping hole so his comrades could make a rapid ascent. "The Marshall commands an expedition below."

Bjeorn stepped aside as Atlas pushed past, bearing an enchanted candle to one corner of the room. The young scholar was deep in concentration and seemed almost unaware of the newcomer. He was muttering incantations and his other hand was sprinkling dust. And no sooner had Bjeorn moved for him than Heydrich came the other way, with a body wrapped in linen and borne upon his shoulder.

"Leave the message with me," Dyne said, as he secured another knot. "I will ensure the Marshall gets it."
 
"I have no doubt in your capabilities, but I must insistthat I deliver the message personally to Marshall Corben, I gave Harrel my wordthat I would give it to him myself." Bjeorn took a moment to look around; therewere smear marks on the floor and walls, when taking a closer look he couldmake small portions of their original shape. Clearly someone had gone to agreat deal of trouble to cover up whatever their original form had been. Hiseyes drifted to the rift next, the Marshall and other members of FateGuard weredown there; the thing looked like the abyss itself. He could feel the evilintent radiating from the gorge; he chanted a small prayer before moving closerhe looked down and then Dyne. "I'm sorry but I really mustinsist."
 
The narrow jaw between stone and door seemed to pull at the Marshall as he approached. Each step was just an inch farther than where he'd intended to set it, and the darkness reared up upon him with far greater swiftness than he'd prepared.

The light he cast cut a shaft of illumination down the tunnel from the main room, highlighting fresco of white faced saints with golden coronas about their heads. They strode with singular purpose, frozen across the walls as if in instruction to continue. Here and there the lantern glare picked out the fallen forms of those who had not made it past the breach, twisted skeletons lying in discarded heaps. Several were splintered pale shadows of themselves, speaking a violence that had been done here once before...a violence that left its mark upon those unlucky enough to not die beyond the door.

As Corben stood at the entrance, a faintly sweet smell, like lilac or honey, wafted from the hallway on the back of a faint noise...like shuffled footsteps. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the silence of reverence was broken when the door shuddered, rolling aside suddenly and smashing the bones that had once tried to hold it closed in a cascade of white dust and dry splintering cracks.

Malwin hung away from Corben, skulking at the edge of lantern lights. He was a bandaged phantom with neither expression nor opinion, stealing past Corben's light and down the corridor with silent footfalls, pausing only to speak a dry whisper back to his companions.

"I can see the end, the passageway splits. I'll await you there."

He was gone, and as the party would continue down the hallway, the pictured of the white faced saints grew ever darker...not in design, but in aftermath. Long rents carved the pictures from their original form, claw marks that shattered stone and broken bones like signposts of danger.

At the split of the passageway, the fresco also split. The white saints continued in solemn march down the left side and a new line of people, dressed in common clothes with thier heads bowed penitently, were checkered down the right.

Malwin waited just beyond the flame's light down the left path, silently awaiting Corben to decide the path best to take.
 
Derek's eyes quietly darted around behind the faceplate of his helm. The battle damage of the statues surprised him. Was it from something lurking below? Or perhaps those consumed by the holes had found weaponry to defend themselves with? Regardless of the source it was abundantly clear that the FateGuard were not alone in this place.

Coming to a stop when the path branched out Derek looked at the mouths of both passages. One lined with saints, the other with commoners.

"Strange," Derek began to think aloud, "The statues are obviously an indication of some kind, but of what exactly? Who was supposed to go down what tunnel? Holy men down one, commonfolk down another? But the path before was lined strictly with holy men, which would mean there would be a path for commoners to reach this place. If the paths were indicative of who followed what path, then the commoner's tunnel would have no meaning..."

Derek's thoughts stopped when he realized this particular train of thought was a dead end. Using Alondite's glow Derek tried to search for the footprints that had been followed, but the dust that had been used to make them was significantly less. There was nothing that he could see, even as a constable trained to spot such things in lighting such as this, "I suppose the question is which passage did our mysterious footprint makers go down?" Derek frowned. There was no real way to tell, but he'd try to deduce it regardless.

"Let's suppose I'm one of the townspeople. I'm not of outstanding physical prowess and years of taking shelter from the horrors of the wall have rendered me not much the risk taker. On one side we have statues representing people like myself. The statues appear to be in relatively good condition. A promising sign," Derek next turned to the saint's passage, "On the other hand I know running away with my fellow townsfolk will do nothing to drive whatever evil might be down here away. Since I fear the mages, the FateGuard, and the power that they wield as something I cannot understand I turn to my almost catastrophically unshakable belief that God will make everything better before anything else. So is the battle damage of the statues enough to make me seriously consider following the other villagers?"

Derek folded his arms for a moment before shaking his head and sighing, "I hate to admit it but I'm at a complete loss of which way to go. It would seem as though unless Malwin has any suggestions that this is strictly on you Corben," and with that Derek's thoughts came to an end. At this point he would simply await orders.
 

With the sharp reply from Corben regarding her spoken thoughts, the vague hope in a chance that the child and wife of Malwin could still be alive, Erilyn lowered her chin to look at her boots. Was it possible that her words would upset the apathetic Malwin? Unlikely, she speculated, stealing a glance to him while he rasped his unemotional input. What man could bear witness to such a fate for his offspring and partner and not show any sign at all? It was chilling to her that Malwin seemed unaffected and she mused on this more than listening to the ramblings of Derek as he speculated which way the footprints might have gone. Before her thoughts could go any further, she reminded herself that he was perhaps simply stunned and that to pass judgement on a brother of the guard was to deepen the rift split by the betrayal. Now, more than ever, was the time for solidarity.

"Must we make a decision about which path to take? Who knows how deep they lead and what if, by chance, we pursue the wrong one? Then again, if they lead deep and some unknown evil lies at the bottom, I'd hate to be at half strength. An interesting conundrum indeed. Unfortunately, with our ambiguous answers, all Derek and I have done is further cloud the issue..." Erilyn bit her lip, realizing just how unhelpful her musing had been. There must be a decision made, one way or another, or to split the group and risk functioning at half strength and not knowing where the others were.

"I trust in your judgement, Corben" she said finally, her hand resting on the sword at her hip, though for no other reason than to reassure herself against the dark unknown. The villagers could have their God, she would take her sword in a pinch any day. At least it was always there when she needed it. She stepped close to Leonardo, whose robes gave off a faint glow in the dark, and placed a hand on his shoulder. He had seemed unusually silent and she wondered whether his thoughts on the matter were affected by his relationship with Malwin.
​
 
The suit plodded after Erilyn and Derek, down the middle of the hall. The Saints, caught in its periphery, appeared as ghostly figures flitting in and out of his vision. Their glowing visage was rent by exaggerated gashes, dark streaks of lightning that burst from head to toe. They were not permanent but continuously faded in and out, like the sunny shadows a lake throws on the divers below.

Up ahead the fork approached, at first slow, then with great speed in its eyes. It tightened its grip around the leathery straps of the shield, and the knubbly sword handle. Inside, its occupant was short of breath. A great turmoil boiled in the side, its occupant's faith singularly focused, merged with the natural evil that pervaded the suit. Deep, slow breaths whistled in and out from the skeleton's clenched jaws, gasping from some deep depth.

"Commoners"

The word floated in and out of its ear holes. But, where people not all equal in the eyes of god?

It turned to face that path, rigid as the will that commanded the carapace.
 
Dimaethordîs stood at the archery field with her newest and youngest student, Gilgador. It was only their second session, but he was showing promise. The whelp hit the target two times during the entire three hour session. Typically, a student like him would never be expected, but she knew the lad's father before he died. As usual, she was harsh with him like she was with every other student, but it made them more military prepared than most. Dimaethordîs' mind wasn't fully on the lessons though, and it was beginning to become rather bothersome.

She promised Gilgador's father she'd keep him and his mother safe. Even after a month, Dimaethordîs was still having nightmares about him dying in her arms. Shaking the thought, she told Gilgador it was time to cease and slowly led him back home in the sinking sunlight. After he was safe inside, the Marchwarden pulled a piece of parchment from her dress and read the short script writing. It was an address for a meeting place of the Fateguard. Dimaethordîs was doing all of this for Gilgador and his mother; she was going to keep her promise to Gil's father. His dying wish would be part of her life's work.

As Dimaethordîs approached the place on the paper and looked around to be sure she wasn't being followed. She pulled the hood of her black cloak over her head, running her fingers over the golden embellishments on the hood's rim. Taking one last look around the streets, Dimaethordîs knocked on the door with three harsh raps. There were muffled voices behind the door, but she couldn't put a face or name to them. A wave of unease raced up her spine for only a moment. Dimaethordîs hated to be in the dark when it came to information. She had to brace herself and knock a second time to calm her own nerves. This wasn't only about her; she couldn't be selfish.
 
The door swung open on the second knock, and Dimaethordîs had to step back as a figure, seemingly twice the size of a man, loomed before her. But as afternoon light lent detail to the scene she saw it was not one body, but two - the first carrying the second upon its shoulder.

"You're late, Marchwarden," Heydrich said, with a stoic smile as he struggled through onto the street. Dimaethordîs could see a body slung upon his shoulder, wrapped in grey cloth and bound with twine. By its shape it was a female, and by the place she had come to there was only one conclusion to be drawn. The Bannerman caught the reaction in her eyes and confirmed it with a nod. "Malwin's wife. The child too has passed."

He left her with whatever sadness she might feel, and proceeded to lay the body on a cart across the alley. Meanwhile, beyond the doorway, Dimaethordîs could see Atlas, the FateGuard's alchemist, knelt over the body of the child. He was tracing wards upon the cloth in silver dust - a mark against evil.

Stepping inside, the Marchwarden continued through a world of candles and witchcraft markings. As the message had proclaimed, tragedy had indeed befallen Malwin, and with it a madness that was troubling. Soon she beheld the edge of the great chasm down which her fellow champions had descended. Dyne, the FateGuard climbing expert, was on the opposite side amidst a bundle or ropes and ladders. And he was in debate with another... a well-built stranger... but one who had the jawline of the Sørensen family.

"Insist all you want, Novice," Dyne said. "I'm not letting you down there. The Marshall would have my hide." Dyne extended his hand, trying to get the man to yield the scroll he was holding, but Bjeorn Sørensen held his ground. There was a tense silence between them as they stared at one another. Then, over Bjeorn's broad shoulders, Dyne caught sight of Dimaethordîs. And with a sigh, an idea seemed to come to him. "As stubborn as your father. So be it." He called across the hole to Dimaethordîs. "Marchwarden! If you're going down, take this messenger with you. He seems eager to meet his maker."



* * * * * *​



Corben had half-stepped towards Malwin, his mind set on the path of the holy men, when Tahan's voice rang out. He turned and beheld the Legionnaire, one armoured visor to another.

"What makes you so sure, boy?" His voice rang hollow in the mangled tunnel, the very words caught in the claw-gouges of the walls, buried with the bone dust. "These are the murals of a sepulchre - a burial place for the righteous. Those defending it would surely make their stand with the bones of the saints."

And yet... for all the distrust he held for Tahan... there was no doubting a certain affinity with the things of darkness. In this was Father Gregory's wisdom, grudgingly beheld. Had the boy legionnaire truly earned his place amongst them? In taking an assassin's blade... in killing Elayna... in hearing the spirit voices of the Twins... had he not bled as one of them?

Bishop Wallstein's words echoed in his memory. "My Legionnaires are ready to do their duty. You are down eight men. It would take but two of my warriors to fill that breach. And... of course... they would not suffer the maladies of treachery or compassion that have so cursed the FateGuard of late."

There was a fresh surge of contempt, like an acid burn in Corben's heart. The Marshall turned away from Tahan and straightened his back. "No. We take the left passage - the path of the sa--"


A stomp and scuffle sound broke his words. Turning, the FateGuard saw two figures drop from the shaft into the main chamber. Painted there in sunlight, Bjeorn and Dimaethordîs had just arrived. With a smile, Corben backtracked a little and called out to the woman. "Well met, Dimaethordîs. We have need of your ears in this tunnel."

Then his gaze switched to the second newcomer and the smile became a frown. "Who is this?"

He approached more quickly, passing Leonardo and Erilyn, coming back almost to the doorway as he studied Bjeorn. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

And Bjeorn, in answer, simply bowed his head and held out the scroll that Harrell had given him. Corben crossed the space between them in a few steps and snatched it from his hand. A message? Now, of all times? It was the handwriting of his armoursmith. But what was of such great import that Harrell could not wait? Were his family in trouble? Had the king's condition worsened? Was some great demon besieging the town? Hastily, Corben unfurled the scroll with a glare and read the message therein.

His name is Bjeorn.​

The old man had not lost his sense of humour.

Corben stared at the message, a sneer at one corner of his mouth, a smile at the other.

Then he rolled up the scroll again and pointed it at Bjeorn. "Guard the rear. And keep up." Then he turned and headed back into the tunnel.


And with those words, Bjeorn Sørensen had begun his first mission with the FateGuard.

 
Continuing on with her silence, Alyss wandered after the others, slowly, yet her hands still holding the tools of her trade, ready to set up and shoot off an arrow, though... hopefully that wouldn't be needed.

She was still mulling over Malwin's behavior and appearance, and keeping closer to the shadows than anyone else. Sh could feel hairline cracks starting to form on the icy second skin, though she was unsure of what that would lead to- would it just fade away, or get worse? Her grip on the arrow tightened for a moment before she relaxed again, attempting to focus on the task at hand.

She tried to keep pace enough that her lover... or who had been her lover, was close enough to keep an eye on. Wary.... She felt wary. Wary of the man she had coveted, of the man she had grown to trust. Was he still the same person, or was he to prove that he had morphed into someone else? Was his family so damned important that he had to- no.... no, those thoughts were not appropriate for the situation at hand in any way. Worry about this later, the duty right now, front and foremost is to follow the lead of Corben. No distractions.

Focus.
 
The tunnel was damp and dark like every other cave Dimaethordîs ever examined in the city. There was something different about this one though that she couldn't put her finger on. Nodding to Corben, the Marchwarden stepped a little further into the darkness and let out a shrill whistle. She closed her eyes as the vibrations came back. Dimaethordîs put her hand on her bow and frowned, as she listened to the rest of the vibrations. There was something in the right path, but she couldn't detect what it was. Something about the path was off. Perhaps it was a trap or the floor was missing. It wouldn't be the first time.

The memory of Thaddeus, Gilgador's father and much to her chagrin, her lover, came rushing forward. They had been in a secret relationship for a year, hiding it right under everyone's noses even after his death. He was speared through the gut by some unseen thing in the darkness. Dimaethordîs held him as he bled out, and he gave her a last dying wish. Thaddeus asked her to watch over his son and wife as if their affair never happened. No one knew even now about that incident three years ago that started the affair. Dimaethordîs had a feeling that any knowledge on the subject could make her lose her title...or worse.

Keeping the memories and emotions in check, Dimaethordîs turned to the left and repeated the process. The path appeared clear except for some sort of shelves. Dimaethordîs assumed these were graves. Turning to the rest of the party, Dimaethordîs pulled her hood down and kept her usual monotonous visage. "I agree that we should take the left; to the right, I sense something is off. My senses are usually right, but you may want to investigate both. May I ask what has possessed the Fateguard to start sniffing amongst the dust of our people?" she inquired, making implications of the graves.
 
"These are not our people."

Malwin's voice was a raspy weight on the final echoed words of his compatriots. In the darkness he stood just beyond the light, his bandages giving off a muted white haze in the shape of a man.

"You know?" Dimaethordis questioned, turning away from the right path and to where Malwin stood, enshrouded on the right.

If he nodded, it was lost, but his voice carried affirmation where his movements did not. "The Rove Maw was never part of Gothenheim, or if it was, it predates it. The architecture has variation, as does the religious clothing of the saints on the wall. And if that wasn't enough for you…" he let the words hang for a moment, "Does this feel like home?"

"Hush, ever hush. Come lay your worship at my feet" The voice whispered beneath Malwin's words, only heard by those already tainted by darkness. It was faint enough to be misconstrued, perhaps even lost…and if Malwin had heard it as well, he made no indication.

The Fateguard continued down the left corridor, the saints ever leading in stuttered animation from picture to picture. This hall was surprisingly clear of bodies. The walls did not show the damage the previous ones had and the passageway appeared to have been untouched. At the end of the passageway, a massive set of double doors, gilded golden in the lantern light, stood askew. Here, dust choked the brass handles of the portal, thick enough that the one who had opened it left a residue of their passage. The imprint of a child's hand, far too small to be any of the Fateguard, adorned the left door's handle, the one that lay askew. Such a door should have been impossible for a child to drag open and yet it stood like some black scar. The print was fresh, had to be. Dust had not yet had time to settle a film on the small print.

Malwin did not linger to take notice of it, pushing the left and right door open wide and stepping into the cavernous chamber beyond. On the other side of the doors, now visible to Fateguard lantern and gaze, a strange symbol had been drawn in long dried blood across both doors. The culprit lay just inside, threadbare white and gold robes swaddling what was little more than bones and skin. Beads were clutched in its fingers and a long corroded dagger beside it. Whatever had been put upon this door obviously held some sort of religious significance, and it had been used at the cost of a life. Strangely, the magically attuned would not feel fear or madness when looking upon the remains of the symbol. The feeling was almost…secure, a guttering safety.

The chamber was a cavernous cathedral, sweeping spires and delicately carved sculptures dominated this once hallowed place. They had stepped out of the passageway a priest might have, exiting at the head of the church and beside the altar. Above here, six men in sweeping robes and halos stood in humbled adoration around a young man bathed in light and crowned in precious gems. He held both hands out to the congregation, welcoming, comforting…although he said nothing. Likenesses of the six and this nameless king reappeared in other ways throughout the cathedral. Murals of the six brandishing ankhs, their holy symbols, against misshapen and grotesque demons…others of the nameless king standing victorious over a legion of shadows.

The pews appeared to be empty, a silent church by every account.

The air felt thick, cloying almost. It gathered around the Fateguard, grasped to their shoulders and their skin. It was sweet, a sickly sweet of an almost overpowering nature, but not strong enough to completely erase the smell it was masking.

Rot. Death. Blood.

The Cathedral was bathed in it, but only in smell.

Malwin slunk away from the lantern light, a shadow across the walls. The other end of the Church sported similar double doors, partly askew and on the right wall, another altar stood. Above it, the same nameless king smiled down on the congregation. This altar, unlike the one of white marble at the front, had been constructed of volcanic stone, obsidian…a strange way to honor the king of light above it. For those of the Fateguard with a talent for details, old scuff marks on the rug indicated the altar had not always been here.

But why had it been moved?

And where had it come from?
 
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