Private Tales The Hierophant

[Selene]

Segale of the Twin Branch has been seen again swimming in the waters of the Wda river. The great fish spirit has long been dormant, and its return bodes well for the surrounding forest. However, an old wives tale says that each one of Segale's scales will grant a wish if the great fish is caught. Some lordling has decided this tale is true, and has put a bounty out, attracting all kinds of disreputable characters. Captain Selene seems especially perturbed by this - she has sanctioned full retaliation against the bounty hunters.

Meet with her in the township of Prathil for further instruction.

---

Upon the banks of the Wda river, under the great pine trees, a scattering of tents and cook fires made up the mercenary's camp. Distant from the other tents, perched within a cleared patch of what once was huckberry bushes, a tent painted with the red mark of an eye stood on its own. A woman in leather hunter's gear approached the tent. Her name was Scathach, and she had not yet proven herself to the Sightless.

She dipped her head in. There, a woman sat, cloaked in white. One known only as the Hierophant. Her robes were clean despite the muddy surroundings, but her flesh was mottled and scarred, discolored by some ancient trauma. Scathach bowed her head low to the woman, the beaded wrappings around her brow jingling at the movement. "My Lady of Three, it has been a lesser moon since Segale froze the waters of the river over. The men we have hired cannot continue their search through the ice, and they are beginning to lose faith in the hunt..."

"Small minded fools," the Hierophant said. "Are they so helpless against one little spirit? Very well."

The Hierophant rose from her seat. She walked through the camp without a word or glance at any of the blackguards that milled about, yet when they saw her, they stopped and followed. Soon a company was gathered at the frozen edge of the river. The Heirophant's robes trailed across the ice as continued to walk further off the shore.

The ice was thick. The sound it made as it grinded and echoed below her feet was almost as loud as a man could shout. She turned on the ice to face the others, and it seemed to buckle under her movements.

"Mortal bodies are weak, and our vision short. Alone, we are no match for a spirit of the Vale," the Hierophant said. The mercenaries shuffled, confused about how they ought to respond to the dismal message. "But fear not. The Everwatcher knows this, and he wants to give us another way. His strength lies beyond mortality. I will show some of it to you now."

From her side, the Hierophant drew a sword. With a harsh cut upwards and then down, she slammed it into the ice. It cracked beneath her. The sound rumbled beneath their feet, even through the muddy banks. The cracks widened, and the ice diminished, and the river began to flow again.

The mercenaries might not have understood all that about the Everwatcher and mortality, but they understood this. Whoops and shouts broke out at the display of power, and many turned to gather up their gear.

"The hunt's back on, boys!" one grizzled man shouted, as he slung a fishing net over his shoulder.

 

[Bebin Theros]

A puff of white steam rose from about black whiskers. Pushed out from nostrils flared with focused breath. Eyes shut to the waking world, as limbs folded in on themselves. Hands held to the center line of a broad frame, that kept still as a lake's surface on a windless day. But the currents of life's streams, stirred with gentle course beneath cloth and leather covered flesh.

To see the display. To hear the name echo across the black sea of memories. The Hierophant. Lady of Three. The cold terror turned to warm and bloody boldness. The Hunt. The Hunt. To kill the fish. To slay Segale. To rid the land of its spirits and bring mortals to the brink of godhood.

Old desires. Carried from the dredge by aphotic currents.

Bebin drew in one more breath. His frame swelled to full. Exhalation saw him empty out once more. The visions of the scene upon the ice blead back into the murk of his mind's waters, where glittering scales, the color of midnight, did whip and glide across the abyss. The wide hood, with white specks that shimmered like distant stars, obfuscated the horrible truth.

That hate within the hearts of men.

Syr Theros rose from the frost laden earth, limbs unfolding, like serpents come to life with the kiss of sun-fire's warmth. At his full height, he towered before the crumpled mess of man, who lay dying upon the cold ground. Muscles contorted by the slow work of poisoned arrow. Purpled veins branching up his neck, like angry hands spread and spidered to reach out and choke him slow to death.

"The one they call, The Lady of Three leads this rabble," Bebin said coldly to his counterpart. His dark eyes looked to her. "And there are many upon this hunt," his eyes looked back to the man who laid upon the floor. A farmer's son, by the name of Mattus. Bebin closed his eyes once more, and raised a palm to his center. With the tempo of waves upon a shore, his fingers twist and struck seals.

A feint blue-purple glow emanated from his hand, and beat by beat, Mattus' struggling heart slowed. His breath shallowed. Life left him as he slept.

A new swell of breath. Another long wash to empty his lungs. "There is much work to be done, Selene," the Pursuant said, as his eyes came open once more, and he looked to the Captain. "On your command,"

Selene

 

[Selene]

White stones dotted the muddy shoreline of the Wyd, remnants of the old Prathil estate. The trunks of proud pines were still blackened with the marks of fire, their branches twisted by the disaster but still growing evergreen. Selene sat upon one of those great foundation stones, as she watched the life stolen from the man at Bebin's feet.

Below the silent ice, the current of the river rumbled, pulling all within its waters down to the Great Fork - silt, rubble, rage. She could feel Segale's anger, and that anger churned through the land even as the surface stilled. Through her.

"Segale will do everything it can to stay hidden," she said to her Pursuant, looking down at him with dark eyes. "It would be a fool's errand to try and reach the spirit before the hunters do. We must go after this Lady of Three directly, and stop her."

She turned her gaze to the distance, where chimneys of the nearby town smoked, its residents burning through the last of their winter stores. "Did you see where upon the river they were?"

 

[Bebin Theros]

"The memory is too old to trust," he stood, straight and tall as he took Selene's side. "But it showed them upon the western bend, further into the wilderness," his eyes looked toward the stacks of smoke that rose from the township.

"It would do us well to confer with the locals," he glanced toward Selene, "Gather what information we can from them, perhaps," he held on to the thought a moment. Nod. "See who among them may prove useful to the cause,"

---

Within the township of Prathil

Hired swords loitered about the streets. Hung about taverns and cook houses with a strained look behind their eyes, and an itch to their fingers as they milled through town.

"Ain' gon' find not in this fuckin river, Petrov, and you bloody well know eh," A bearded man said as he swigged from his brown jug.







A horned man with a bearded axe upon his shoulder shook his head. "A fool's errand,"

A woman with fiery hair shouldered the smaller human man who dribbled his drink.

"-Oy!"

The woman smacked the table. "Ha! But it's not the fish that brings the coin, Hyld, its the merchants," she said with a wiggle of her brows.

Petrov nod. "Leave the spirit killing for the others," he picked up his cup, and took a deep drink.

"Tch-" Hyld wiped the drink from his long beard.

"This many coin crazy would-be-spirit killers come pourin into a place like this," there was a hungry and pleased look in the woman's eyes. "Plenty of trouble that needs to be dealt with,"

"Plenty of easy work," Petrov assured.

 

[Selene]

Selene stretched her legs out and slid down from stone upon which she sat. Her feet crunched into leaf litter. Time and ash had turned the ruined estate green, the underbrush heavy. Not looking down, she stepped past the dead man and through the abandoned gardens.

"The locals, hm?" Selene mused over the suggestion Bebin made. "Let's hope they cooperate." The path she walked down had once been the outer courtyard. Fragrant bushes grew over cobbled paths, and wildflowers mixed with the bulbs of imported blossoms.

Doubt and curiosity washed over her, as her gazed turned to Prathil. Would she recognize what it had become? More than two decades had passed since Selene stepped foot in her home town. It wasn't likely that anyone remembered her.

---

The gates of Prathil were open. Though she had been gone for so long, the bridge over the watermill and into town hadn't changed at all.

A gasp escaped Selene as they got out into the open square. At the center of the square was a fountain, frozen over now from the cold. Selene looked up at the frost-laden statue which towered above them at the center of the fountain. Cast in bronze, it depicted a young woman who looked remarkably like her, a mythically proportioned carp writing in pain at her feet. In the statue's hand, was a rusty sword.

"I know that sword," she exclaimed. Her brother's sword. One of her hands grasped at her side, knowing the scar that lay there beneath her layers of robes. At the edge of the fountain, there was a plaque. Hastily, Selene went to it and scrubbed the snow off with the edge of her coat sleeve. Engraved, it read:

In honor of Selene Lamothe, who gave Her Life to quell the great ur-Beast Segale upon the Banks of the Long Branch in the Year 348.

Her eyes narrowed at the words. "This is not right," she said in a low voice, cold as the river behind them. "It did not happen like this."

 

[Bebin Theros]

The sight was strange to behold. A Selene of yesteryear, as she had been when they had first met. Sword in hand, striking down the great fish of the Long Branch.

Bebin looked from left to right. His eyes worked across the faces of those that milled around. "Selene," he said in a whisper. "Let us find a place of cover,"

Onlookers were already beginning to gawk. Some looked to the statue, then down at the Lady of Dusk, whispered to one another.

"You lot here to slay Segale?" a gruff voice called out to them. The tall elf asked them, his hair tied back into wispy tail.

Bebin grumbled, as his eyes turned to meet the man.

"Well, don't bother, cuz me and my boys are going to be the ones to lop the big fish's head right off!" he made a chopping motion with his hand, and laughed some.

"Aye, that we are. Though, ain't nothin sayin you two can't go and join us," a human man added.

The elf squint as he looked them over. Eyed Selene's staff. "Not a bad idea, hear the fish is mighty big," he jut his chin toward the writhing carp, frozen in its stony agony. "More like a great serpent though, than a regular old carp,"

 

[Selene]

Bebin's whisper barely reached her. She stood transfixed, looking at that burnished mirror of herself. And the sword, the emblem on the hilt unmistakable even from this height, rusted by her own blood...

"You lot here to slay Segale?"

The words, so casually tossed about, washed over her. Selene did not look at who said them, for in that moment she did not care about the shape of the man, his cantor or intentions.

"You could not 'lop' Segale's head off, any more than you can cut the river with your sword." She turned upon the man with a quick twist. An elf, a human. She didn't notice. Selene only saw their beating hearts, thin skin under a neck that jut upwards in indignation.

"But if you wish to try, you can start with me." She took one step forward, staff clacking against the cold ground. Tapped the comet mark upon her brow with a odd smile. "I've got one of its scales, right here."

 

[Bebin Theros]

A breath was pushed out from Bebin's nose, his eyes narrowed to dagger points. Yet he stepped before Selene, his broad shoulder shielding her. No worry for her. Not in true. But worry for the blood that would be spilt.

Worry for the attention the unbridled fury would bring upon them.

"What's it to you, rag head?" one of the men spat. "Got sand up your ass?"

The human laughed. "These two don't look too keen to share any, do they Laethurin?"

The elf snickered. "No, don't look too much like the generous sort," he swaggered forward, hip jut, and his sword's handle stuck out for all to see. "Look like the greedy, miserly sort," he stopped just before the wide framed man, draped in dark waxed cloak. The elf spat to the side as he towered over Bebin. "They rather rob good honest folk such as ourselves, wouldn't they, boys?"

A chuckle from the crowd. Their bodies seemed to swell with bloody courage.

A loud snap and a crack sounded against stone.


"Oy you fucken sods!" Came a shout from behind. A wild eyed man with a long beared, and in nothing but his furlined pants held a split plank in one hand. Tossed it. "What did Petrov go and tell you miserable lot the last time you went around starting trouble, aye?" A wild swing of his hands. A pound of his chest. "Keep it out of the town proper!"

The crowd groaned. Ambled about. Half seemed to think about dispersing as the wild man marched toward them, breath rising from his dark beard like steam from a rolling boil.

Laethurin's lip twist and twitched as he sneered down at the be-turbaned man, and he glared at the woman behind him. "Dirty mud lovers," he muttered as he started to turn away.

 

[Selene]

The two mercenaries did a good job of laying the words down for a fight. They puffed their chests up, readying themselves for the first blow. Another moment, another insult, and Selene might have stepped past Bebin given it to them.

Were it not for the frenetic energy of another voice hollering from across the courtyard. The clack of the wooden board and the clatter of the pieces against the cobblestone was enough to quell the turbulent waters that coursed through Selene.

"We do not have time for this." She huffed out a sigh, and relaxed back into her usual weary self once more. Selene stepped forward, pressing a hand briefly against Bebin's back. "Let us go."

The crowd had similar thoughts. They seemed to sense that there wouldn't be a fight to watch, as the two mercenaries backed down and scuttled away.

"Oy, not you two!" The short, long-bearded man who'd been shouting before came to stand before the Knights of Dusk, in the spot where the two mercenaries had just left. Selene looked down at him with cold, black eyes. One distraction after another. "I want to take a look 'atcha, see what you're about. You're not the first flutin' folks come in to Prathil with a fancy stick just for stirrin' shit."

 

[Bebin Theros]

Bebin nodded. Too much attention had already-

not you two!

The knight of Dusk grumbled. His dark eyed gaze shifted toward the small frenetic man. Bebin calculated.

"We are but passing through," he said in a tone cold and even.

"Pah," the smaller man sounded. Turned his head and spat. "Passing through like a pair of wolves skulking about the caribou run," he grinned, and cocked an eyebrow, lifted his chin as he looked them over. "Don't look like no simple travelers, neigh," he paced, easy and calm about them.

Bebin's limbs wanted to tense. His spine rigid, and his breath, kept long and calm, shoulders rising and falling easy with each long pull and empty out.

"Well, armed by the look of ya," the shorter man mulled over.

"The roads grow dangerous,"

A humph. A nod. "That they do,"

"Is that all then?"

A grumble from his throat. A click of his teeth. "Aye, get on with yas then, and better not be in any more mess,"

Bebin nod, and looked to Selene, motioned for them to go on.

---

Selene

 

[Selene]

Selene held back as Bebin spoke to the man. Cleared the air, but just barely, the long bearded brute leveling a skeptical look at the two knights as they pushed past. The statue fell behind them, and the cobblestone of the square dipped into a half-muddy, half-frozen road. Selene picked up the hem of her robes as she navigated the heavily trodden throughway.

Prathil was built into the hills. The road was steep, and the buildings steeper. Multiple stories rose out of the muck, huddled tightly together as if they themselves were trying to stay warm. Industriously constructed, their decorations were sparse, limited to wood carvings along supporting pillars and painted shutters. Closed tight to keep the cold, and the spirits, out.

"Mercenaries around every corner," Selene said. Above them, on a deck overhanging the street, sat two that caught the eye. A fiery haired woman and a broad, horned demon sharing a drink. She glanced up at the pair as she passed by, and the demon's horns tilted down to return the look.

A rumbling crack, like thunder, reverberated through the town. The sound was followed by shouting in the distance. Selene came to a stop. "Rushing water," she said, though no such sound could be easily heard. "But the waterfalls should be frozen over, in this cold--"

An orcish man, dressed in the oiled cloak and boots of a fisherman, came running down the street. Selene stepped out of the way as he barreled past, watching where he went.

"Ghelz, wait up! What was that sound?" Came the voice of another man, opening a door to meet him.

"The water mill's overflowing!" Responded the runner. He skid to a stop, heaving out a hot breath before continuing. "The ice cracked and the water's coming down all at once!"

"Shit, someone get Petrov! We need hands on the levee to re-route the water!"

In the distance, an alarm bell rang out high and clear. All down the street, doors opened and boots scuffed against entryways. Fishers and townsfolk shouted directions at each other. Some of the more insolent visitors stayed put, to finish their drinks, or to gawk at the townsfolk in their hurry.

 

[Bebin Theros]

From the Tavern's door stepped the horned man, and the fier-maned woman. "Well," he grunt, "ain't that just the luck," a wistful grin as he shook his head.

The woman, tired eyed, made no motion of agreement or disagreement. Tall and broad as the horned man himself, she seemed his bright shadow.

"Ghelz, go and find Hartop, and Leola, then round up whoever ye can to help with the diggin, you two," he called sharp to the pair of strangers, over the chaos of commotion and movement. "Make yourself useful, or stay out of the way," he warned. "Vanka, round us up a mage if you can," he spat. "Bound to be one of those learned bastards in this place," a hard clap of his massive hands. A howl from his throat. "On then!"

Vanka smiled, and let out a howl of her own, a clap of her own. "You heard the boss!" The village folk moved quick. Vanka, relaxed as cut through the crowd. A nod for Selene and Bebin both, cocksure and confident. "One of you must be a mage, dressed as you are,"

Bebin grinned back. "I can assist, yes,"

Vanka nod, motioned he follow.

Bebin glanced to Selene, and gave her a nod. I will find you, if you do not follow, he whispered through the Loch.

---

At the watermill, the disaster mounted.

Spray and frigid mist blast through the fissures in the frozen riverscape. The waterfall, alive with the horrid sounds of the surge underneath that struggled to come through.

Bebin's eyes stared, wide as they beheld the unbridling wrath of the river once set to crystalline sleep. Whole sheets cracked off, and fell in thunderous crashes that splintered faster the river's frozen face.

"What, exactly, do we hope to accomplish here?" he asked, with a cruel humor hid beneath his tone.

"Buy time, master mage," Valka assured, and pulled tighter the thick, furrlined skins she wore, silvery ice-water beaded across the oiled skins. "So folks can be evacuated," she pulled her gloves off from her fingers, as villagers ran from the mill.

Petrov and a band dug trenches, as fast as their arms would let them. Work steady and frantic as the river water crashed against the ice-coated levee.

Bebin laughed. "Time," he drew in a breath. Pulled his sowrd free.

Vanka's eyes widened, as she stepped back. "Hey!"

"I shall buy what time I can," he said, as he traced a circle in the snow packed earth beneath him. Seals and symbols traced quick with the curved blade. A whip, and a whirl cut saw the blade down turned as he shut his eyes, and his of hand cut seals and mudras to channel the magicks.

The cold winds whipped about him, and his voice whispered the susurrus sounds of old power.

Heed me, oh Serpent Sire,
Glittering black, your scales be,
bottomless blue, your eyes that see,
The currents, true,
The shifting, through,

Sarkan Sep

Basilisk of Baal

Everflowing,

His eyes came open, with a frigid blue, breath a swirl of mist before him, his sword whirled, as runes along its length burned azure. His free hand pushed out, and the snow about him shift, moved, with a wide sweep of his hand and a twist of his hips, the snow before him slushed clear across a long line that lead toward the watermill.

Vanka grinned, rubbed her hands together, and jammed them into the snow at her feet. The earth beneath her rumbled, and where the men dug a trench, the land shifted upward to form a loam.

Selene

 

[Selene]

The mercenaries were organized. They knew what to do, and who to call upon, and soon were rallying aid to the levee. That's right, Selene reminded herself, she was twenty years gone from this place. These people were the residents, and she the newcomer.

Selene bowed her head, both to Bebin and the mercenary woman. She would follow.

---

The water wheel had broken under the force of the rushing slurry coming off the hillside. It hung crooked and cracked on its axle, suspended only by a few planks of wood and rope. It looked like it would fall at any moment, and when it did, it would take the mill buildings at the base of the hill with it.

The wind kicked up, spurred by Bebin's magic. Selene raised a hand and squinted against it, as her robes whipped around her.

"I'm going to get closer," she shouted over the clamor of alarm.

Gripping her staff in both hands, Selene quickstepped down the path freshly made by the serpent's will. As she hurried, she chanted the prayer that would stir her own power.

'Segale of the Long Branch,
God of this River,'

The words fell silent. At the yard of the watermill, Selene stopped. Workers were fleeing the mill, as the crashing ice claimed more of the walkways and supports around them. Someone barreled past her, grabbed her shoulders as they nearly collided.

"What are you doing? Get out of here while you still can!" The man urged, then spun back round onto the path. Did not wait for her as he ran.

Selene scowled. She thrust her staff upwards with both hands, and began the chant anew. Harsh and arrhythmic, the magic undisciplined. Come from a place other than placidity.

"Demon! Through me, your wrath lives on!" Cold spray geysered forth as another sheet of ice sloughed off the waterfall above. "With mine eyes, look upon this place. With my heart, your torrent withdrawn!"

The ice came to crash down upon the mill. Before the cascade reached the building, it collided with something midair. Selene's own body shook with the impact, and she cried out in pain. Pieces of ice rolled off an invisible dome, slowed, sliding into the snow or tumbling back down the hill into the frozen river below.

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

A breath of exhalation, a whirl and whip of his sword, a trace of his hand, fluid in its motion as it cut a sign of life, a sign of loch, a sign of wyld as his sword came flat against his back, and his posture tall, relaxed as it drew in strength. Fingers bent and signed the mudras of lightning, of rain, of earth. Inspiration. Rejuvenation. Foundation.

New breath drew into his lungs, the magicks potent in his chest, Bebin sprang forward as the ice came to break. Selene came to shout, and all cracked and roared as the falls crumbled and fell.

Like the serpent of his namesake, Bebin struck from on low. His form slipped before Selene, blade drawn as he slashed the ice with one arm, and braced her up with the other. When the whirl of motion ended, and the light spray of ice and snow about them fell, they stood at the center of a circle.

A simple foci. Together, at its core, Bebin made one half of a locus, and with steamed breath pushed out from his lungs, he chanted words to draw in the power about them. Braced as he was against Selene, what magick passed through him, would pass through her. What pain flared in her, would flare in him.

The burden carried, halved. The power there, doubled.

Selene