The foreigner bowed his head, auburn hair framing the sides of his head. Everything was closed, his neck, his posture, his eyes, and his hand; closed and bleeding into a fist. Blood rolled down his knuckles, and down, down into the grooves of the tile floor. The blood filled the holes in the floor where there had once been fruit, but the fruit was long gone. It had been taken by two robbers, and her knew their names and faces when the world had entirely forgotten then. Even the elder, who was looking at him from beneath heavy brows, and bright, too blue eyes. The foreigner pressed his fingers into his heart-line, feeling the soft, and broken flesh between his fingertips. It has sealed, into a thin red scab, the blood staining the paper in his hand. The line was hurting still, and he knew that the ache would last. It would become one of those scars that always hurt, particularly in bad weather and times of sickness. It was the ache of secret knowledge, of a private burden. The foreigner pushed his fingers down hard against his palm, reopening the wound. He let a little blood trickle in-between the lines of his skin. He remembered what the
Cailleach had told him all of those years ago.
You were chosen. Those words pounded in his ears, with the flow of his blood, with the beating of his own heart.
The foreigner lifted his head, and looked towards the elder. The words tumbled from the elder's lips; a task in Askal's Deep, but the words were less important that the elder's own discomfort. The prison warden; enslaving and abusing children. He knew what that was. Before this blue-eyed elder, another had stood in this same spot. A man with a staff made of hard stone, and a golden flame for a heart.
Thynn they had called him, and he was the one who had called for freedom for the
gwerin that had come before the Messiah's time. His people had been enslaved, under the heel of tyrants - and the Gods had sent down visions to Thynn of what he must do, of how he was to free his people. They gave Thynn special powers ; the ability to speak with animals, and command them to destroy the vile kings and slavers of the
gwerin. It did not matter, in the end. Thynn's head had rolled across a far-away floor, where there were no tiles at all, no fruit, no tree. His last words were written in the foreigner's heart, in his eyes, in his mind;
rebellion towards tyrants is obedience towards the Gods.
The foreigner nodded his head, and swept a deep bow before the elder. He raised his hands, the palms facing out, towards the assembly, thumbs upright. His hands crossed one another. He then brought these to his chest, and brought his thumb against the sides of his palms. He outstretched his hands again - and they were slightly cupped. He then clasped his hands again, and straightened his back. The foreigner's light eyes skimmed across the assembled congregation, bright and searching, staring all of those hooded faces that did not truly know him. He clears his throat, and spoke again; his voice as sweet and serious as dark honey, imported from Timinster;
"The Gods' will be done." The foreigner turned away from the elders, and stared down at the floor for a moment. He traced the tree with his eyes, and then - looked away from that too.
He turned instead towards the voice of the girl. She had an accent too, a lilt in her voice/ He stared at her with his light eyes, and a small, gentle smile began to spread across his face, dimples appearing around the sides of his mouth, eyebrows raised slightly. He nodded at her words, and gestured with his hands. "
Please, lead on, miss." The foreigner's voice was light as well. He mimicked her lilt - it was a voice entirely at ease. He offered her his hand, the one free of blood. He had small hands for his height and build, tan-skinned, with callouses around the base of his fingers, in the space between thumb and forefinger. There were old scars around his cuticles, but they had long turned to small, white chip-marks in his flesh. His smile was ready, and genuine; it made his eyes light up, and reflect all of the sunshine that always lingered, and never left. "
And please, call me Elyan — what was your name?" His tone was cordial.
She said that she looked like a child - but she was not one. Elyan did not know what she was, but since she was here, she was not a child. Maybe one of the
faie, who lurked in the woods, and invited children to come play with them, only to lead them to their deaths. In his youth, he had seen many
faie rings, where the bones of children had sunk into the marsh, and their eyes had been eaten by insects. The mushrooms were always thick, and always poisonous, and always eaten. The foreigner had never known a child to refuse one of the
faie — and if she was one, he wondered why she was here. But, Elyan was not suspicious of her intentions, nor did he fear her charms.
Faie only devoured children, and she had pledged herself to the Dirge - and by extension, his Gods. It did not matter what she once was, or whatever she was now. None of that mattered at all.
Elyan began to walk towards the hall he had come from - that wide and endless temple. He kept pace with the girl, either slowing or quickening his footsteps to match her perfectly, and his smile remained on his face, a sweet, encouraging smile that would not feel real on anyone else. But on him, it was real, it was genuine. It showed in his eyes, and in his cheeks. They entered the great temple, through the massive, oaken doors. The doors were carved with many faces, all looking out at them as Elyan pushed them back; his fingers pressing against their many mouths. The faces, he knew, represented the ten
allyriadau; the ten ways that the Gods represented themselves on earth. But nobody knew that anymore. Elyan had seen through the eyes of the man who had carved those doors, watched his knife chip away at the eyes of Severity, or carve the lips of the face of Eternity. His fingers lingered for a moment on the face of Understanding -
dealltwriaeth - and he let out a small sigh. His smile flickered on his face, like the torches that cast those faces in light and shadow.
Elyan was launched out of his thoughts by the arrival of his band. The first to speak was a halfling. Elyan knew little of their people; but the ones he did know did not look like this. He was thick, with heavy muscles in his shoulders, and his skin was very dark. White scars crisscrossed everyplace where the halfling's skin showed, and the foreigner's eyes traced those scars, imagining, dreaming, thinking about where those scars must have come from. Perhaps he would dream of it. This man was an inversion of all that the foreigner knew of halflings, with their jolly dispositions and red apple cheeks. The foreigner may not have understood this man, or where he had come from, but he did understand what he carried with him - a crossbow and a cudgel. He was a fighter - maybe closer to a thug or a thief that a knight, but a fighter nonetheless. Elyan's eyes glittered in his face, the torch-light making them seem amber and glowing in his face. He raised his hand to his chest at the halfing's greeting, and exchanged his own.
"No, we are not strangers, Master Taneashira." His voice was honeyed, and cordial - but there was a note of hesitation in how he pronounced the halfling's name, a stutter in his syllables. "I hope I have said that correctly." His smile turned sheepish, and he dipped his head. "
I'm glad to have you along with us." His words were more solid, as he said this - no notes of hesitation, no stutter or stammer that would make it a lie. "
Elyan, of somewhere far away." Elyan's grin widened slightly, and he laughed, "
Though I don't suppose that matters." The foreigner turned his head - others had arrived. He heard their footsteps clack against the hard-wood floor a moment before they arrived, he had had seen their shadows dart across the walls, or the pause in the priest's chant as they caught sight of these new arrivals to the scene. The ones that had been lurking on the edges, and only now, revealed themselves.
Elyan's eyes went towards a boy, in silver armor, with thick, dark brown hair. The armor was good quality, and the foreigner could see his face within a polished pauldron, making his features distorted. His nose was longer in the steel, and his eyes high on his face. He looked away from the boy's shoulder, and up to his eyes. He stared at his eyes. The knight had large, dark eyes that had a youthful roundness in them - a sense of earnestness and honest that seemed to fade away with age. The foreigner nodded towards him, in greeting and agreement, raising his hands once again to his chest. The line of his hand was bleeding slightly, dripping down his heart-line. He pressed his thumb against it, letting the pressure clot the blot, stop the bleeding. He could feel it aching. Elyan began to move again, as the brown-haired knight did, walking and talking all the way. The knight had a small smile on his face, and he suspected it was genuine. There was a lightness in it - softness that matched his features. He was a boy, not a knight. Elyan wondered if there was a witch in his village, wherever he had come from. He wondered what she had said about him. That too, could be found in dreams.
"Ser Grayfon, a pleasure." The foreigner offered him his hand, as they began to walk;
"I see you've visited Skarsifall before." He commented, lightly, his eyes skipping over the wood floor to the others that had arrived.
A dark haired, dark robed, dark armored girl. She was dressed for killing, and Elyan knew that. She had curved blades, and the leather of her armor was oiled - to not make sounds as she wandered through the dart. Her boots had thick treads on the bottom of them, so that they could catch onto rough cobbles, tiled roofs, and stone walls without falling. He did not know why she killed, whether it was for coin, for Gods, for country - or simply because she liked it; but she was a killer through and through. Her eyes were bright though, bright and clear. They did not have the glazed over look that cannibals had, or the madness that Elyan had seen in those who killed for sport above everything else. He smiled towards her, and nodded his head once. "
Glad to have you with us, Raven." He laughed, "
I'll curb my formality around you." His smiled widened, showing his teeth. Elyan had good teeth - relatively white and clean; though one of his canines was strangely twisted in his mouth.
The soft sound of elvish came; a chiming language that sounded more like it was spoken by bells than a mouth. The man who spoke it stood across from Elyan, and the foreigner looked him up and down, his smile twitching closed. In many cultures, it was disrespectful to show your teeth. Elyan knew Elvish - pieces of it. On the long journey from his people, from the burned wreck of the
gwerin, Udyrr Many Scarrs 's had employed an high - elven mercenary. A cruel, snake-like man, with pointed features and hateful arrogance towards all that were not elven. His name was Kawna, named for his unusual, dark red hair. He had none of his people's grace, but all of their hatred and contempt for that which was not elven. Elyan had asked him how he had become so hateful - and the elf had told him. The foreigner had dreamt the story, and suspected he would remember that story until he died. Elyan's face involuntarily twitched, a slight tremour at the corner of his eye, and he clenched his hand. He brought it to his chest, and the smile returned to his placid face, as if there was nothing wrong at all. And there wasn't. It was in the past, and it was not even his past.
"Suilad, aredhel." The foreigner was careful in his pronunciation - it was clear that he knew the language, at least piecemeal. What was written as a "d" in high-elven was pronounced as a hard "th" ; and if he had been a novice, he would have surely misspoken that. The high-elven language was a relative of his own, in many cases, and that "d" to "eth" was one of them. They called it the "eth", but the elves did not call it anything at all. Why did they have to have a word for a letter for what they all knew? "
Gi nathlam hí." He said, bowing his head to the elven man, his bangs falling infront of his eyes.
You are welcome here - the formal, reverential tense. He fluidly switched to common, and his tone was smooth and clear, "
They have a right to anger, but I will not encourage children to kill. Killing is not a choice that children should be forced to make. I will tell them that we will prevent further children from being harmed, and that those who treated them so badly will face the Gods' inescapable justice." He nodded once,
"They are children. They do not need to kill - not with their own hands."
Elyan turned towards the barbarian. Large, with a huge axe and a large attitude to go along with it. He could see that the axe had been used many times before. He was goading the others, and his voice was thick and harsh. But the foreigner understood the sort. There were men like that amongst Udyrr's people, men who wanted to war against one another - simply so that they could fight, and harm, and kill. He had seen fighting pits all across the wide world, filled with people like this man. He was surprised, nonetheless, when the barbarian addressed him by his name. He nodded at his words, his smile fading away, expression drawn and grave.
"I assure you, our enemies are not to be trifled with. These are men - great and lesser - that are like weeds. Thick, tough, and always come back." The foreigner reached out to the barbarian,
"Warm greetings, friend. We are all meant to be here - and that includes you. We are all part of the same battlefield." He laughed lightly, and his smile stretched.
"And I promise you, there will be blood and killing. We are the Sanguine Dirge, afterall. They might as well call it the Bloody Death." His dimples deepened, and he would, if permitted, clap the barbarian on the forearm - before, he nodded to him.
The huntswoman spoke next, and Elyan could not help agree with her. He dipped his head towards her, and spoke in his sweet words; "
You're quite right, miss. Offering them the chance to help others, and bringing honey instead of blood, will likely provide more valuable assistance." Elyan eyed the huntswoman up and down. She was tall, or seemed so because of her proportions, with long, slender limbs and narrow shoulders. She had thick, dark hair that had a slight curl in it. There was a smell that wafted around her, the smell of characol and cinders, like she had spent time by a campfire recently. There was the bow on her back, a jagged black and angled thing, with arrows that had chevron tips. Elyan knew why. Those arrowheads would catch on skin, shred muscle, rend bones. Her eyes were bright, like embers burning away in her face, and her spirit seemed to match.
"Thank you, miss Scarlet — but I am certain that none present are liabilities. If they become such, the Dirge will remove them." A bit of tension flickered across the foreigner's face, a tensing of his jaw. He cleared his throat. A shadowy flicker appeared on the wall, the light had changed. It had changed because of the raising of a hand; fingers blocking light.
The source of it was a woman, a woman with sharp teeth and canine features. Elyan's eyebrows raised, and he turned his head to the side, peering at her. Her language was a strange, guttural thing that bounced around in her throat, and was filled with laughter. He did not know what she was saying, even when she spoken the common tongue, with the same, excitability. She seemed to speaking, largely, to herself - a chattering that sounded like she was still a child. Elyan's placid smile did not slip from his face, but the tension in his jaw remained. But eventually - she spoke, and Elyan understand. She agreed with Scarlet — and Elyan agreed with her. Scared people did make mistakes. And food was the best incentive.
"I agree with both you, Miss Kiyoko, and Miss Scarlet." They were nearing the end of the hall. The wooden floor was heavily scraped and scared beneath Elyan's feet - bearing the marks from many steps, from activity the entrance to the Sanctum never saw. He could hear a chnating far away - and the hum of the sword that had stuck through the Messiah's heart. It was quiet now, a low buzz like a fly in a jar, but it still existed, and it made the teeth in his gums vibrate. He did not let this discomfort show on his face, speaking clearly and firmly as he outlined his approach: "
I suggest we bring the children a gift of some cakes - provided such can be obtained readily. Then, our friend here," He gestured with his hand to the small, dark haired girl with such large, brown eyes. He could feel coldness coming off of her in waves, "
will explain that we intend to stop these men from hurting them - from hurting anyone, ever again. We just need their help." His eyes narrowed, and small wrinkles appeared at the top of his nose.
"
These children will not become killers; not by my command. If that is a choice that they wish to make, that is there choice. But, as it stands, I believe that this temple could use some dusting, or help within its kitchens, to feed the followers." The foreigner adjusted his posture, so that he addressed the rest of them, "
But what happens to the children afterwards is not our primary concern , though I assure you, they will be well cared for." He smiled, a thin lipped smile, that showed no teeth,
"Is that understood?" 
Aloette Viscenna
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