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Oblation; Part 1: Scorwitch
Topic Started: Feb 6 2012, 12:03 AM (473 Views)
Volksgeist
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Darieal stood quietly among his fellow Templars. He was suited up in his full outfit, his helm underneath his arm, the insignia of The High Pantheon on his tabard stretched across the front of his gleaming armor.

A wind picked up as they stood in the center of the town, and his eyes flicked upwards to the wood that the town bordered. It was black, and had gained its name along with the Cinderpeaks, based on their coloration. To those of The High Pantheon and the Main Houses, it was called The Slag Rushes, a place that had seemingly been burnt to a crisp eons ago and had never recovered. When the wind picked up through the trees, flakes of charred bark and ashes were caught in the wind and drawn out into the open. As a result, the grass in and around the town of Scorwitch was choked, a piss-yellow with black muddled throughout it. Darieal found it hard to believe anyone would want to live in this town, and yet they had since the Templars had created it before the dawn of the High Heroic Era. He spat on the ground.

The locals called The Slag Rushes something entirely different. To them, it was The Witchwood, and it was most certainly aptly named. Legend had it that, when The High Pantheon came to power in Peleras and the Templars were established, there were massive covens of witches who called the wood their home. They lived in colonies, sharing everything, wearing no clothes, and committing strange and dark rituals by moonlight. When the Templars came to power, they moved against the witches, and the witches against them. The Templars, backed by the Main Houses, The High Pantheon, The High Magister, and better suited for combat, utterly obliterated the covens. Now, they only existed in Wive's Tales. Or, at least, that is what Darieal had thought.

"Found 'em out in the Rushes, I did. Three of 'em, with a baby between 'em, with those Witchknives raised high. They was chanting, they was..." The other Templar continued. He had been explaining how he had personally come across three witches who had stolen a baby from Scorwitch. They had been performing a dark ritual, he said, planning on bleeding the baby out and using the blood as an oblation to their heretic gods.

The air was punctuate by shouting. Darieal glanced outside the small hovel they had set up as their base of operations.

In the center of the town, there were three massive metal stakes, each with a pale, naked woman strapped to it. They had their eyes closed, and their faces were bloodied. The one in the forefront had orange, matted hair and mud on her skin. The other two were dark haired and fairly clean, save for their own blood. Mounds of thick, dry brush were piled near the bases of the stakes, almost up to the knees of the witches. A crowd of town's people had formed a crude circle around them. One little boy was throwing stones at the orange-haired one.

Finally, someone interrupted the Templar telling the story. It was their Captain. He was a tall and slender man, handsome and muscular, with a clean-shaven square jaw and jet-black hair. In his eyes was a fire, a fire that Darieal had only ever seen in that man. It called not only for respect, but for blood as well.

"Well, Templars? It seems the time has come. Put on your helms. Darieal, it is your honor to please The High Pantheon. Light a torch in the brazier and, when you have finished, meet us outside for the ceremony." He was gone as quickly as he had appeared, and the others followed behind him, leaving Darieal all alone.
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Flynn The Rambler
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Letholdus looked over to his Captain and gave a bow. Thy will, of the High Pantheon, be done. Darieal stood back up. He held himself high, his back straight and his large shoulders up, no slouch in his form. As he stood there he placed his helm back onto his head. Making sure it was straight for standards, and seeings, sake. He walked over to the blazer, and lit the Torch. He then took the light flame and walked outside following his other Templars, he eyed the witches with curiosity. Though the largest feeling he got from the woman was that of rage, what they were planing on doing to the child was... horrible. He shook his head and walked onward to the rest of his group. Waiting for orders.
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Volksgeist
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It was a strange sight, a Scorwitch burning.

The three metal stakes rose high, almost twice the height of the average man, though to Darieal they were not so big. The witches, two dark-haired and one orange-haired, were bound to the stakes at their feet, their waists, and their hands. They were bare naked, pale, and bloodied. The dark-haired witches eyed the surrounding commoners and the Templars with hateful gazes. Their eyes were heavy with anger and sadness and one of them was whispering in a strange tongue that nobody in the surrounding area seemed to understand. One of the other Templars at Darieal's side murmured:

"Heretic."

The orange-haired witch's head snapped up and eyed him. In her eyes there was not anger, was no sadness, but rather a strange calmness. She spit at him and then muttered something in the same strange tongue that the other was whispering rapidly in. Then, she turned her head toward Darieal and she smiled.

The Templar Captain took no notice, instead, he began. "You have been charged with the practice of Forbidden Magics in the name of The High Magister, who acts as a conduit to The High Pantheon, the only true gods. You have been charged with stealing children from the village of Scorwitch and other nearby villages for your dark deeds. You have been charged with the attempted murder of a babe in the midst of dark ritual. What say you, witches?"

There was an eerie silence and a crow cawed somewhere in the Witchwood.

The orange-haired one murmured in the strange language again and a soft bout of laughter rose up from the witches. The peasants stepped back. The orange-haired witch turned not to the Captain, but to Darieal and began to speak:

"We have practiced no forbidden magics. We have stolen no children. The child was given to us and we were told to sacrifice it. But burn us, for it is prophesied. We shall die and be lifted up, but it is you who shall lose yourself, truly. Light the kindling and let us burn!"

There was a chorus of shouts and whoops by the witches at this. The Templar Captain nodded to Darieal... it was time.
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Flynn The Rambler
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Darieal shook his head. He stared at the cheering villagers, it disgusted him. He had no love for the witches, but cheering for death was something he never understood. He nodded at the Captain, in one hand he held the torch, in the other he held open his bible and looked over some verses. He began to walk forward toward the witches. He then began to speak.

Oh Holy High Pantheon! Forgive Them for their sins, O Kind Pantheon; forgive them the sins of their youth and the sins of their age, the sins of their souls and the sins of their body, Their secret and their whispering sins, the sins they have done to please themselves and the sins They have done to please others. Forgive those sins which they know, and the sins which they know not; forgive them, O Great Kind High Pantheon, forgive them of their ignorance, they were blind to the light, though blind and wicked, they are still thy children! Please O High Pantheon, guide them in death where we have failed to guide them in life! Hear they Humble servant! Hear your Templar and treat them with the kindness I could not. Forgive me, and forgive them all. With all Thy great goodness. Amen

Darieal had been circling the guilty while saying this right. He then stooped in prayer for just a moment, and then walked forward an light the brazers. He stepped back and then keeled back down in prayer, continuing to pray for their poor lost souls.
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Volksgeist
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Almost at once, the kindling around the witches' feet began to smolder, and soon a blaze was forming. The two dark-haired witches were howling violently, as the fire licked their skin and blackened it. The first of the witches to ignite was the one to the far left, one of the two dark-haired ones. As the fire crept up her skin, blistering and reddening and blackening it, she howled in pain. Her hair caught fire and the horrific and pungent smell filled the air, black smoke climbing high into the sky. She screamed and screamed as her eyes bulged and then popped, the gelatinous fluids that had filled them steaming down her charred cheeks. Her screams died and gave way to a rasp as her blackened breast heaved, her body no longer pale but rather as black as charred wood. The skin began to slough off and fall from the stake into the flames. The ropes that had bound her to the stack began to burn and the body crumpled and fell into the fire, lost amongst the conflagration.

Midway through the first witch, the second witch, the one of the far right, the second dark-haired one, began to undergo the same torment. She was screaming, and turning to see what once could only now assume to be her sister, began to weep with loud wails that accompanied her screams of torment. The fire crept up her skin, and like the first, she was eventually charred and the ropes gave way, dashing her against the burning brambles and the ground, a thick crack sounding as her skull met some of the larger pieces of the burning firewood.

The third witch, however... the orange-haired witch... she just looked at Darieal. Her face was neither anger nor hatred, nor sadness or grief. She was stoic and her eyes were fixed on his, as if she were peering deep into him. As the flames crawled up her skin, she remained so, and when they reached her hair, tears began to stream from her eyes and yet she kept them open and trained on Darieal. She opened her mouth and something that was somewhere between a gasp, a whisper, and a statement came out, though later Darieal would reflect on it and realize maybe he was the only one who heard it. She said:

"You... have set... into motion a great... and terrible... thing.... The Old Gods... will come...will come... will come..." and she trailed off into what seemed less a death and more a slumber. The flames burned her fair skin and her orange hair. The ropes gave way and she fell, and the crowd cheered and screamed in happiness. A few of the other Templars, forgetting themselves, let out whoops and exaltation. Only the Captain and Darieal stood silently and watched as the fire burned, carrying the remains of the witches in to the night sky above.

A few hours later, the fire was doused. All that was left of the three witches were they bones, charred black like the wood. The bones were wrapped in black cloth and the Captain gave them to Darieal in secret.

"Take them, tell no one. Bury them deep in the Witchwood. We are Templars, but we are not disrespectful to the dead." After that, he took his leave.
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Flynn The Rambler
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Darieal stood after the event had finished, letting his prayers end. His mind flashed over to the visions of the burning witches, and his former Templar companions... he remembered them burning as well. He stood stoic and watched as they burned. He prayed for their souls as they burned, and hoped they would find salvation. He then was taken aback, confused by what the witch had said. There was so much that was wrong with the statement... it was laced with heresy, he glanced to his other Templars, yet the didnt seem to hear her. He placed a hand over his heart and prayed to the High Pantheon. The he watched her burn. Never standing till the event was done.

He moved quickly after the fires were out, cleaning them up and making sure the ground was not tainted with their evil. He then was surprised when his captain gave to him the bones. He smiled, though it could not be seen under his helm. Darieal gave a bow, placing his hand on his chest. Thy will be done. You bring honor to the Pantheon. Darieal then continued to clean around the burning until he could slip off with out being noticed.

He then left out of town heading towards the, WitchWood, of all places. As he walked into the woods, he had one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the sack of bones were held in his other hand, along with the spade. He walked deep into the woods, far out of the villages sight. Darieal did not want some foolish peasant to disturb the eternal rest of a witch. Once at the spot in the woods he began to dig a small yet deep hole for their bones, the ground was cold, but Darieal was strong and plowed though it all the same. Then he placed the bones in the hole and pulled out his Bible once more. He looked at the cover for a few seconds, feeling the worn leather, this book had been his sense he became a Templar. He felt comforted by it. He then opened it and began to speak a rite, one of burial and rest.

O lord Bahe, God of Fire and Death. Your servant calls to you now, I rest before you the bodies of your children I send them to you, bringing them back to the womb of all life, the great earth below us. The souls of the departed shall now be guided unto the afterlife, where they shall now find peace in the comfort and love of The High Pantheon. These children have been forgiven of their sins, they have been set upon the path of the light. My they find the peace in the great beyond, that they could not find hear. My they watch over us, along with our gods. Rest in Peace. Ahem.

He then began to bury them. Listening to the wilds around him, smelling the burnt skin even still. He hoped it did not draw out the wild life.
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Volksgeist
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Darieal moved deep into the Witchwood, so that the people of Scorwitch might not be tempted to desecrate the grave of the three witches who had just met their end. When he had reached a spot far enough from the town, Darieal pulled his Arca (the bible of The High Pantheon) free and opened again to one of the prayers to Bahe, the god of Fire and Death. He spoke the words solemnly, and as he continued to recite them, a cold chill crept up his spine and unease rose in his stomach. However, by the very end of the reverent prayer, both had subsided and in their place was a calm placidity of mind, for now all that he had to accomplish was the burial itself, which presumably would not take such a long time, as the remains of the three witches were scarce.

With the spade, he began to dig, and he kept on digging, listening to the woods around him. He could here crows and ravens cawing far off, and he could hear the wind whispering through the trees. As he dug, a shower of what could have been cinders engulfed him along with the wind for a short time. He could hear small animals in the rushes, but judging by their sounds, they were simply foraging for food and would mean him no harm.

Darieal placed the blackened bones, the oblation to The High Pantheon, into the ground and began to cover the grave. Just as he was nearing the completion of the grave, he heard a stick crack somewhere to his left. When he had lifted his head, he noticed that a thick fog had engulfed the Witchwood while he was at work.

There was a crack, and another sound of something larger than a squirrel making its way through the rushes.
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Flynn The Rambler
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Darieal looked about the area, the fog was strange to him. Perhaps it was just fear, or the night playing tricks on him, but he wasn't really sure if fog was something that normally happened here. He looked about the woods listening to hear where the nose had come from. He drew his longsword and held it at the ready, he half smiled at himself, but he knew to never take chances. He then centered his head where he was most certain the noise came from. He cleared his thought and began to speak.
I have heard you! If thy be man, show thyself. If that is but an animal, leave this place. This grave is not to be disturbed! He allowed his powerful voice to flow freely. He then waited for a response, listening and waiting. He would not be caught off guard if he could help it.
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Volksgeist
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From the mists, a shape came, though it seemed to be very hesitant in approaching Darieal. At first, he thought it was a small bear, and then as it moved closer, it seemed more a ghast or a ghoul birthed by the mist that now sufficiently clouded any area that was more than five feet out of sight for Darieal. However, once it was about four feet away, the shape paused and stood, trembling against the wind. Darieal finally saw what it truly was.

It was a little girl, a girl that could be no more than ten, and she was covered in tattered gray cloths of very coarse making. He could see through the tears here and there that the girl was entirely naked beneath her self-made swaddling. Her hair was a deep red-orange color, her skin was pale, and she had large watery-gray eyes. In her thin arms, she held a bundle, and as Darieal eyed it suspiciously, it became increasingly apparent that the bundle was...

A Child.

The child was asleep, curled up in similar gray material. The girl was holding it like a treasure to her breast. She did not say anything, but instead kept her distance and stared at Darieal, unflinching, unnerved, but seemingly upset.
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Flynn The Rambler
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Darieal was shocked. He was very surprised to see this poor girl out here in the woods. What took him back a bit was the resemblance this child had to the witch. He could hardly take it when he saw she also had a child with her. He shook his head and sheathed his blade. He then removed his helm, and stooped down to one knee. He cleared his throat, and spoke softly under his his breath What strangeness is this? The fog of Imer comes, and now a child baring a child... He then cleared his throat a second time, and tried to look friendly. He never meant to scare people, but his size tended to do that.
Come here child, step out of the cold, I shall give to you my cloak. Where do you live? Whom is thy next of kin? Do you need food? He wasn't sure what else to ask, he simply took his cloak off and extended his arms out in a hug, to cover her if she would accept it. He did not make a move toward her though, afraid he might scare her off.
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Volksgeist
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Though the girl did not seem to be frightened by Darieal's size, she remained completely unmoving. Her arms tensed, pushing the baby closer to her breast, but the babe did not wake in her tightening hold. The girl's gray eyes were almost glazed, and Darieal could see now that they were red and her cheeks were flushed, the girl had been crying. It was then that Darieal caught sight of another thing that was within the little girl's hand, something that made his flesh crawl and formed a knot in the very pit of his stomach. It was black and glinted somehow, despite the fact that it was night time and very dark in the wood, not to mention the thick layer of ghostly fog that had enveloped the entire place.

A Witchknife.

He could just make out its hideous form. It was sleek and edge was a glowing white. He had heard tales of the strange weapons that the witches of the Witchwood could forge through magic and other means. It was said that they glowed with the light of lost souls. Their edges were razor sharp and their tops were perforated with sharp serrated barbs, so that if they went into the flesh, they would not come out so easily. He had overheard other Templars talk of having touched the weapons, saying that in their hands the weapons would shake and quiver as if restless and alive.

The girl, seemingly noticing that Darieal had seen the blade, tried to tuck it into invisibility within the swaddling cloths that covered the baby.
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Flynn The Rambler
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Darieal gasped when he saw the blade. He couldnt believe it at first. He let out a small sigh, and continued to kneel, watching the girl very carefully. He needed to get the blade from her, but he wasnt going to risk rushing her and harming either of the children. He closed his eyes for few second, then he spoke again. It is cold child, come here and I shall take you to warmth, and get you food and something to wear. You have no need to hide that blade, just set it down, and come to me. I can take care of both of you. Please, come to me. Darieal hoped the girl would come to him, he feared having to take action against her.
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Volksgeist
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The girl did not set the blade down, but the reiteration of the coldness and Darieal's willingness to warm her seemed to finally get through to her. Hesitantly, she took a step forward. Her feet were bare and dirty, as if she had been running through the muck and grime of The Slag Rushes (the Witchwood) since the day she was born and had never bothered to wash them. She slowly took another step, now visibly trembling as she pushed the babe even closer to her breast and the knife further into the swaddling. She took another step, and a stick cracked, and the baby in her arms moved slightly but still did not wake. Finally, she took another step and was in front of Darieal, between his arms.

She was clutching the baby and the blade to her closely, they were like treasures to her. Darieal could feel a cool sweat breaking out on his forehead, feel shivers running up and down the length of his spine, the knot in his stomach twisting and turning. A strange glow was coming from the hidden blade, and Darieal thought he could almost hear whispers, though it might have just been the fog and the dark and the strangeness of the situation.

The girl kept her eyes on his.
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Flynn The Rambler
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Darieal breathed a quick sigh of relief once the girl had made her way over to him. He was still afraid, and curious, of the blade but he knew better than to try and wrestle it from her. Once she was close enough, he wrapped her in his cloak, and made sure that both were covered, yet comfortable. He then simply held onto the two. He was sad that this child was out here alone, and with the babe. He also feared as to why she had the blade and the child. Once covered and held, he began to speak again. I am going to carry you now. I shall take you and the babe to someplace warm. Sleep child, allow yourself to rest. He then did as he said he was, grabbing the the child, holding the babe, and then once the two were secure in his arm. He picked up his helm and placed it back on. He then finished the last details on the grave, and then looked to see if they had both fallen asleep.
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Volksgeist
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When he spoke, the girl did not move, nor had she when he ad placed the cloak around them and wrapped his arms around them as well. She simply just kept on staring, slightly eerily, at Darieal. Darieal lifted them into his arms, bathed and swaddled like two differently sized babes in his massive arms, and held them close. He freed one hand while holding them against himself and placed his helmet on, then finished the grave and patted it down with his foot. After he had arranged a few small stones into a tiny likeness of The High Pantheon on top, he turned and looked at the girl.

She was still wide awake and staring at him, her watery-gray eyes unblinking and unmoving. Her mouth was a thin slit, no smile or frown, just stoicism. The babe was still asleep.

Darieal thought he could almost hear a low hum coming from the Witchknife, but it was uncertain. All that was certain, was its faint glow underneath the layers of cloth and cloak that covered it and the children.
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