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
****
Ægon waited patiently for pair of ghosts to awake, Iryl had claimed 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 blond 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
****
Soon Ægon and Bjorn were introducing Marie to the ghosts at the
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, and 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.
One Inquisitor however soon put an end to this. He was a fearsome sight, wearing nothing but tattered rags and scrolls covered in scripture. His bare chest was covered in more lines of holy dogma burnt into his very flesh. A great copper sheet covered with intricate and interlocking holy sigils was nailed into his back, a mirror for the sun. With a barely controlled frenzy he gave a scream that rose above the battle. Ægon couldn’t understand a word of it but the priests did. With grim determination the priests rose and reformed the circle. Ignoring all wounds they chanted, stopping only with death. If a priest was cut down they would reform the circle without a break in the verse.
Ægon saw this, and attempted to intervene. However as he neared the voices, he began to feel something he hadn’t since he was alive. Pain. Excruciating pain. He dropped to the floor and began to spasm, surrounded by other ghosts, blinking in and out of the mortal plain. The tide began to turn. An unknown voice cried out, “Back to the temple!” The retreat began.
****
Iryl however felt Ægon’s plight and turned to Jarrod “Ægon’s in trouble back at the temple.” The pair left the
Suddenly the pair emerged from the crowd, and found themselves at a picket line. The city guard had placed a portable fence line to bar entry into the temple grounds. Jarrod was about to climb over when Iryl placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Wait.” Moments later a trio of youths ducked under the simple rope fence. Or attempted to, as the closest guard moved quickly tackling the first and restraining him. Before the other two could retreat into the densely packed crowd a second guard arrived, grabbed the pair by a hand each and passed one to a third. The trio of unfortunates were then arrested and a path was cleared by a couple of the guard to take them to the holding cells overnight. The officer at the scene yelled to the crowd, “Disperse now, calmly and quietly.” He then motioned to some junior officers to take their squads and facilitate the movement.
This was all in front of a backdrop of conflict. The obsidian grounds of the temple were slick with blood and bodies. Iryl and Jarrod saw the conflict occurring, saw the flickering ghostly forms spasming in an arc around the ring of priests; saw the slow withdrawal of the armoured priests as they covered their brethren in faith, both living and dead. Falling back slowly forming an armoured ring of black steel around the gates as the lighter armoured priests ran in up the obsidian steps. Slowly stepping back beneath a tide of zealous flesh and blood slick steel the ring shrank, wounded comrades limping back hurriedly. The knights of Morr didn’t fear death, but to die now would be to leave the temple undefended. Slowly they were being pushed back, each step they moved back paid for in flesh and blood. Their great weapons were limited in usage with the close proximity of their brethren, however they were not defenceless. A blow from one of those black gauntlets would crack skulls, break ribs, mince organs and kill.
Iryl and Jarrod withdrew from the scene of battle, scattering with the crowd. Unnoticed amongst the multitude they snuck into the temple of Ani. The inside of the temple was almost empty, as per usual. Not recognising any of the priests the pair moved throught the temple, finding it increcingly evident that some recognised Jarrod from his comatose stay. Jarrod lead them towards the back entrance, until he found a face he knew. A cluster of what seemed to be senior priests clustered around the back door, each privatley meditating in the room. Seated on logs, rocks and on the earth, it was more an enclosed garden then a room, much like the rest of the temple. Approaching Vince, Jarrod motioned for Iryl to follow. Vince spoke softly. "Come to me Jarrod." As Jarrod aproched Vince continued, talking in a tone that sounded so quiet and peaceful, the duo wondered if there was any noise. "Your friend is in danger, he needs you. Go to him, many lives will be saved. Don't violate the graveyard under any circumstances. Now go, don't hasitate to ask. And remember - do not violate the graveyard." Vince had barely moved at all during this, only moving his mouth to speak, and barely that. Iryl didn't wait, and had started to run at "now go", and now Jarrod began to follow. They sprinted to the back doorway, which passed into the graveyard.
The graveyard was a juxtaposition of abundant life and weary dead. Worn headstones were covered in growing ivy, the ground was a carpet of pale wraithflowers living off the nutrients supplied by the concentrated dead. The wraithflowers showed the location of the bodies, and the locations of the paths between them. Jarrod was mindful of Vince's warning and carefuly picked his path across the graveyard, Iryl carefully following.
Leaving the flower strewn graves behind them they approached the looming obsidian monument-building. The back door was fashined form obsidian and covered in strange runes. Wide open it showed a back room with one sole priest standing in the doorway. A wizened old man, his gnarled oak skin matched the staff he leaned upon, he both embodied and defied death; showing the true terror of the ravishes of age. Jarrod waled up to the priest and hesitated. "Go in young children," the ancient form croaked "find your friend." The dynamic duo didn't question the man, knowing that there were more important things at hand then how he knew their objective.
Like it? Keep reading here.
Comments for this post
Posts
Spread the word.
