RL issues, chapter 5 thru 5.5

Sorry, I've had to deal with real life, and so this hasn't been updated in a bit. I haven't been writing much, but here's half of chapter 5 to hold you. If you're looking for chapter one, look here. I'll post the rest in time...

At dawn Ægon woke Jarrod and Iryl. In the small cellar room they inhabited there was no sign of dawn’s first rays as the pair stirred from their slumber. Yawning profusely they dressed, and rubbing bleary eyes emerged from the dark room into the Inn common room. The common room was empty, but for a barmaid who was busy cleaning the cheep wooden furniture for the new day. A mop and bucket lay in the corner of the room, and the barmaid gestured at the group whispering “Breakfast isn’t ready yet, you can get cold scraps from dinner in the kitchen if you wish, just watch the floor, its just been mopped.” Head down she returned to removing a stubborn stain from the table. Jarrod and Iryl left, whispering thanks to the young barmaid as they passed. After exiting the inn the pair continued towards the stalls that were already set up, the inhabitant watching their competition finish off their stalls. The pair strode along the stalls, checking prices and quality of goods, occasionally pausing to barter for an item.

****

Ægon waited patiently for pair of ghosts to awake, Iryl had clamed that they would awaken soon. Ægon marvelled at his lack of fatigue despite the long night spent awake first discussing plans for today and their escape tonight, later watching the city through the night from the rooftop until the sunrise. Suddenly the spectral ghost whose name he still didn’t know woke slowly, clearly confused at her surroundings. Ægon held out a hand, helping her to her feet. “Good morning lady, I'm Ægon.” Clearly confused she suddenly remembered, “…the priests, pain…. You saved m-…” Embarrassed she took a deep breath and introduced herself as Marie. Although dead, it could be seen that she was from the northern plains, by her dress and her features. Her blonde hair was braided and fell over her shoulders in a carefree way. Her blue eyes shone brightly, despite belonging to one who was dead. Ægon thought she was beautiful, and was dumbstruck in her presence. Despite his apparent confidence as she awoke soon an awkward silence covered the room. Shortly Bjorn began to stir, and Ægon quickly busied himself to helping his new comrade up. “Thanks for the help last night, I was having a little tro-” He was soon cut off by the old warrior, “Twas nuthin’, lad.” Jumping to his feet he continued, “Wish I coulda helped out more. They gonna be chasin’ you lad, and this young girlie ‘ere. They prolly can track this young girlie here as well, so we should ‘ead off towards the Temple of Morr. Before we leave the city there’s a few people I wanna talk ta. And don’t you say no, coz there aint nuthin’ you can do ta stop me, and I figure that Iryl guy could do me a few favours too. I’m not deaf ya know.” Grinning Ægon replied, “Wouldn’t think otherwise.”

****

Soon Ægon and Bjorn were introducing Marie to the ghosts at the temple of Morr. Sooner or later all ghosts were drawn to this place; the temple began to pull at their essence from the moment they died, and the longer they remained the stronger the pull. Bjorn was strong in essence, otherwise he could not have materialised even for a short time; the ghosts seen by mortals for any length of time have mighty essences, granted by great strength of spirit/willpower. These are usually madmen or victims with a purpose in remaining. Those afraid of the beyond usually have weaker essences. Bjorn could resist the pull for a time, but the longer and further away he went from a temple of Morr the stronger the pull of the temples would be.

Bjorn was a well-known face at the temple, and was probably the ‘oldest’ ghost there. He said his hardest goodbyes to aged monk, who was probably the oldest ghost there as far as mortal uses of the word go, having died of old age at the age of 103 he was ancient in appearance. “I would go with you, my son but I cannot leave this place anymore. It has been more then a century since I left, and my essence grows weak.” The ancient monk had remained as part of a mission to convert the souls of those who had died before the afterlife, and ease the passing of souls from this life to the next. He was Abbot Peter of an Abby of Morr in his day and still followed the path of Morr. He believed that in death he could serve his god further, and thus he did in the same way as he did in life. He assuaged fears of death, he eased the passing on of many souls, he counselled those spirits left behind, giving them purpose, and in fact he converted many to the path of Morr. He had converted so many that he had a small priesthood of Morr made up entirety of the dead, helping where they could with the running of the temple and helping the weakening monk with his self assumed duties. They also held celebrations for those who passed over. The continual flow of ‘new blood’ ensured that spectral chapter of Morr would continue to exist for long after their founder left for the domain of Morr, and there was talk of starting another spectral chapter at another temple.

Bjorn was one of the inaugural members of the dead chapter of Morr, having converted soon after meeting the old monk. The Norse were known for practicality towards their dealing with gods, and he figured that now he was dead, paying homage to the god of the dead would be a good idea. He never took part in the ‘priestly nonsense’, but he took care of much of the off-grounds business of the temple, his stronger essence allowing him to leave the temple without much discomfort. The long dead baresark drifted around the crowd of well wishing ghosts bidding him farewell; Ægon and Marie followed closely, mostly keeping to themselves. Suddenly a bellowing voice interrupted the gathering.

“This is Arch-Inquisitor Nathaniel, to the temple of the damned. Your blasphemy has gone on enough, and now we have proof of your transgressions. We have traced a minion of a warlock to this place, and warlockery is a transgression of not only the divine will of our most holy god, but of the laws of Romah. I have here a detachment of soldiers of the city, and a coven of inquisitors and they have been ordered to clear the premises of people so we can hunt down the dark spawn of hell -”
“That’s us.” Bjorn whispered to Marie and Ægon.
“ – and return them to their dark master! I suggest you comply.”

A deeper more resonant voice boomed out around the courtyard. “I suggest however that you back off. Men of the city – you are not to take part in religious feuds, ask your officer, he’ll tell you. I was a Lieutenant in the city guard before I dedicated my life to Morr. Any religious conflict is to be contained so as to not hurt the citizens, and any faction that endangers citizens, their property or city property is to be treated as a criminal faction. There have been no illegal proceedings here, and the city guard can come in and check this if they will.” By this time most of the ghosts had congregated around the front of the temple, under the shadow of the imposing obsidian building. A successful market day was wrapping up, and a sizeable crowd had gathered outside the temple, stopping their shopping to catch a glimpse of this unusual spectacle.

Arch-Inquisitor Nathaniel stepped forward from the gang of inquisitors. He wore a white cloak, covered in writing. Parchment covered in scrawled lines of scripture was pinned all over the Inquisitor in armour of faith. Standing at 7 feet he was a giant of a man, and in his right hand was a crossbow made for a man of his great stature. It was loaded with a bolt made of wood, as long as a fencepost, and thicker. Instead of a left hand he had a silver device attached to his wrist. The flesh had grown around this device, which was covered in holy sigils. It consisted of two long spikes extending forward on either side of a small hook. To his side stood a young man, barely more then a child with the X shaped mark of the excommunicate emblazoned on his face. He carried a quiver full of bolts for the monstrous crossbow in arms scarred with what on closer inspection were more lines of scripture. His bare chest was covered in more scripture cut directly into his flesh. From beneath his tattered trousers more of the litany of the white order emerged, covering his legs in purple scars. His back may have been covered in more holy texts, but if it was it was hidden beneath a chaotic layering of scars, his back a tattered mess as the result of a whip. Some of the marks were still bleeding, and others were newly headed scabs.

Extending his right arm he held the gigantic crossbow out at arms length. He squeezed the trigger, launching the javelin-sized bolt straight from the crossbow into the chest of the Ex-lieutenant, his crimson blood spurting out of his chest as the momentum of his giant bolt carried the impaled man into the great wooden doors of the temple. The massive bolt continued into the great dark oaken doors of the temple, pinning the hapless man into the door with his feet dangling above the ground. Somehow alive, after all of this punishment he calmly looked down at the spear protruding from his chest, as the great doors swung open, a throng of black armoured knights spilling out of the temple. Following them came a group of purple clad priests, hooded and mysterious. Each carried a dagger in each hand. Bjorn noticed that each carried the longer dagger pointing up in their right hand, and the shorter dagger in their left hand held blade down in the duellist’s stance. All the priests of the god of death should know his art, and to a man they knew it well. An older priest with white trimmings on his armour lead them, despite being weaponless all the other priests seemed to defer to him. Behind this group the door swung closed once more, revealing a now dead body, blood dripping from his robes. His face though, was not in an expression of pain, but one of happiness.

Within moments the courtyard of the looming black temple became a hectic melee, the inquisitors leading in their retinues of white clad priests, and frothing fanatics against the temple’s defenders. The black clad knights of Morr marched in, their extremely heavy suits of plate armour heavy, but protecting them from all blows. The first to reach the Arch-Inquisitor was wielding a massive broadsword, glimmering bright against the black of the knight’s armour. In a loping stride the he closed the distance as the gigantic man levelled his crossbow, low reloaded with another heavy bolt. The young man next to him cowered behind his large frame, his fear for the grim black knights outweighed by his terror of the consequences of fleeing. A quiet click and a loud whoosh later – both unheard over the sound of screaming zealots in battle – the knight had stopped and fallen forwards, at the feet of the immense Arch-Inquisitor. Smiling Nathaniel stepped onto the body, dropping the crossbow and grabbing the sword of the now fallen knight in his one good hand. In the same movement he swung upwards with the blade, decapitating a purple clad priest. The spray of blood rained upon the Arch-Inquisitors white robes and parchment, covering him in a pattern of red splashes and speckles.

All of this happened in a moment, and then Peter held his hand up, instantly gaining the crowd’s attention. “Spirits,” he yelled to the ghosts surrounding him, “This temple has been good to us, and for those in the service of Morr, you are bound to defend it!” His stirring oratory continued, “The land here will strengthen your essence, go help in the defence of this temple as you may!” The crowd reacted slowly being used to inactivity, and not being in immediate fear for their lives (as their lives had already been taken). However there were a few exceptions. Bjorn and Ægon had rushed forward as soon as the knights began to charge at the interloping priesthood. As the guards slowly pushed back the citizens who were crowding in greater numbers and arrested those who tried to break into the temples courtyard, more of the ghostly host began to break off from the crowd, first one, then another, then a small group until the whole congregations of ghosts had joined the fray. Unsurely at first, but more confidently as they continued they flashed onto the mortal plane running about the courtyard; they drew strength from the temple, allowing even the weakest of the spirits to appear albeit faintly for at least a few moments. Many of the priests drew back in fear and revision, but the inquisitors stood firm, as did the fanatics who merely tried (and failed) to inflict grievous body harm on the wisplike spirits.

Ægon ran darting in out of the mortal plane, hidden from sight one moment, the next appearing for long enough to put a blade through the shoulders of an unlucky fanatic, and disappearing again. The repeated blinking into reality exhausted him, dragging at his essence, but his essence was continually replenished by his surrounds; the energy he needed flowed into him like a river, continually at a tremendous rate, so that he could not run out. In the maelstrom of souls the first inquisitor he attacked didn’t even flinch or attempt to black his attack. This one had nerves of steel. However hi didn’t have a chest of steel, and fell to the ground; a bloody furrow of gore appeared on his chest like a gasping red mouth of a daemon. One of the inquisitorial priests saw him in the flicker he struck and yelled “there is a real daemon in the apparitions!” The fanatics took no heed, unhearing in their frenzy. The Inquisitors ducked or parried any weapon blows from the ghostly host, but remained grim and unflappable in demeanour. The priests and other retainers in the inquisitorial retinues began to panic, diving to the ground as ghosts approached, flinching at everything and generally becoming useless.