The Wielder of Death Magic

The Church

*Drip, drip, drip,* blood fell on a stone path, two men walked. Nighttime had befallen the entire island. The moon was absent for a few days but had come back, the clouds were partly responsible. The greyish cover broke, a clear and starry filled night sky presided. Both men’s strength came from adrenaline, their body looked battered. Something kept them alive, adrenaline wasn’t capable of keeping a dying body for that long. A mythical phenomenon was at work, their posture didn’t seem natural either. A massive church stood at the end of said stone path, the yard was dimly lit. The trees all around whispered amongst themselves, the wind made it look as if they were conversing. Reaching half-way, a statue stood, a statue of the deity they worshiped. One whose name is a mystery to the church itself. Around that statue, the main path continued moving forward while two opposite paths leading left and right appeared. The men, badly hurt, hadn’t the strength to move. Their eyes looked dead, no ounce of life within, dead shells. This much was revealed thanks to the torch standing below them.

The struggle continued, at this time of night, the pope would usually give lectures about how life is meant to be lived. These types of teachings were available to anyone willing to learn, it was the foundation of their belief. Mysteriously enough, that night, it was called off, none expected it. The Pope remained adamant and none dared challenge him. People round Kreston knew about his demeanor, a man of religion upfront but a belligerent individual behind that well-crafted fa?ade. This hidden persona of his was a boon, whenever war or conflicts arose, his true talent awoke, he thrived in such situations. Silence, nothing, not a single soul, complete peace and quiet. Benches facing two enormous figures that captured a single event. On the right, the same deity as the one outside held a sword. On the left, another figure, this time she knelt, her eyes looked as if crying. The point of the sword pierced her throat slightly, however her hands folded, she prayed. None knew the real significance of this picture, but some portrait it as good prevailing against evil. By good, the man who stood strong and mighty while the lady knelt and begged. ‘The spawn of the devil,’ another name given to women. Luckily, that line of thinking grew archaic, and people began to ignore such things. Sadly, here in Kreston, that practice was still commonplace; the province’s focus on being militarized for the good of humanity forced many young babes to be slaughtered.

Parents, some brainwashed while others simply fools often wrapped their newly born child into wet blankets and then drown them. Many other ways of female infanticide grew common, it all depended on the families. Raising a girl was seen as weak and feeble, almost like a curse. The church was in no way responsible for that line of thinking, but some speculate that they helped propagate that myth. All and all, it was unfair, but none paid attention to said thing, it was done secretly without anyone’s acknowledgment. Six different provinces and six different types of thinking and ideals. Hidros was an island naturally born for conflict. Peace here was an illusion but people dreamed, everywhere, all around, they dreamed.

“Y-your holiness,” the grand entrance opened. Before they stood he who controlled everything, a saint, the one who guides all, the pope. On one hand, he held a staff, on the other, a grimoire. Blood continuously dripped, the two men moved closer. “Speak my puppets, speak.” The Holy-man’s personality differed from when he woke in the morning. He bore a smirk, his fingers constantly twitched, it was as if he was a puppet man and threads were attached to his fingers. “Who did this to you?” the tone he used was one of power and total control. “G-girls, a d-demon, c-cursed-sword, D-Dorchester s-strong.” The sound of bone cracking echoed, the bodies gave in. Their frame nearly became liquid, they cracked. The reason for this was the one who guides all, the pope. “Pathetic, controlling bodies with mana after their dead. Necromancy may be useful but this is far too weak, their bodies can’t adapt to mine, what a quandary.” He ignored the men who now screamed, they were still alive, but barely. They begged for another chance, sobbed, but ultimately succumbed to their injuries. “Sten Parcyvell, you are a man who I respect. If it wasn’t for the feud between our provinces, your research on necromancy paired with mine could have changed the face of this planet.”

The grimoire he held, closed, “you people hailing from Dorchester have slain men from my holy army. I shan’t allow you to breathe any longer, this war is ours for the taking, I’m going to personally end you all.” Sharply, he turned around, the white robes he wore continued flowing after he stopped. “I shall have your heads, I swear,” his face looked calm and composed but he was out for blood.

The two battered bodies laid on his way out, one of them still drew breath. “Amazing you’re alive,” he said with disgust. “h-help m-me,” he mumbled, a boy still young sent to war. “God shall help you, my child,” without remorse in his eyes, the staff went straight through the boy’s skull. “Humans are resilient, that’s for sure,” he gently tapped the weapon on the floor to remove the brain matter. “Disgusting,” he complained as the tapping grew louder. A strange rumbling caught his attention.

Before he could take another step, someone walked through the doorway. “My oh my, you’ve done a number now haven’t you.” The sound of expensive shoe clattering reverberated throughout the building. “Duke Hawkin, what a big surprise.” They both moved closer and shook hands. “What is this about, isn’t taking care of a province like ours on your own enough? You should have called on me, I’d have made the visit, you needn’t tire yourself on my account.” He spoke courteously.

“A man of God shouldn’t worry on such trifling matters,” the duke took a pause, looked around, then spoke once more, “-I’ve got bad news. I’m sure your aware that part of our forces was annihilated. Not only that, the village we were hoping to capture is naught but a massive hole.”

.....

“Interesting, if that’s the case then only one person is responsible, I’m surprised she actually decided to fight considering what transpired before.” The pope added, surprised, the duke asked, “-are you sure it’s her, the cursed-blade?” The pope nodded and slightly fell back, he now faced the statues. Hawkin walked and stood beside him, they both stared not at the statues but beyond it, they were looking further out – it wasn’t the eyes that saw, but the mind. “We are going to relaunch an attack and completely destroy Dorchester, we can’t have a place who once bore the presence of a pseudo apostle rival us. We may have been friends with the silver guardians but they’ve crossed the line. Duke Hawkin, I did tell you to claim Dorchester for us, look where we are now.”

“I apologize for not heeding your warnings, but running two provinces at the moment isn’t possible much less running one that stands on the verge of collapse.”

“It is settled then, we are to attack them,” the pope turned and faced the duke intently.

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” the duke replied while slowly turning as well. “The queen of Arda has told us to back-off from Dorchester and not attack nor try and harm that province. I know not why she’d act this way but that’s her message.”

“Are you saying that I shall kneel down and obey a self-proclaim queen? How dare you duke, how dare you.” He sounded disappointed.

“You don’t understand, your emotions are taking the better of you. The queen hasn’t ordered us to do anything, she just said to back-off and leave. We shall have our revenge, after all, they did kill our men. But the time isn’t right, if Arda grows hostile to us, then our future endeavors won’t come to fruition. We need allies who we can back-stab later. Plaustan is awfully quiet, we may need to start to grow closer with them, they are a wildcard, and are very close to Oxshield. Dorchester is a lost cause, even if we don’t attack, I doubt they will survive. It’s cursed, that place only brings chaos.”

After hearing the soothing and tamed voice of Hawkin, the previously agitated pope calmed down, the objectives were laid out. “As you wish old friend, let’s become the strongest province – our religion must spread throughout the island so that we can grow more powerful, a revolution through the guise of a holy crusade, that’s my goal and yours is the revolution through military and diplomacy, together Kreston will flourish.”

The night went on as if nothing happened. The message given to Kreston was delivered by the hands of two elves, the same one who wrongly framed Staxius. The queen, after he left, ordered the elves to be brought before her. It was there that they confessed that such allegations and lies were a plot devised by an elder elf who she already killed. It wasn’t made public yet, but the courtship between the queen and Staxius was still in the making. Rumors about Totrya acting up slowly spread. Taverns and the central guilds helped in said propagation. Large beasts were reported all around the borders, traveling merchants never returning, traders dying and mercenaries vanishing. The Order, leader of the magical guild, sent sorcerers to investigate but returned empty-handed. Only the fighter’s guild had problems, a guild comprised of adventurers.

Over the years, the guild separated into two different sects. One was for mages, and one for fighters, they became rivals. Not enemies for if a crisis were to suddenly arise from nowhere, both had agreements to help one another. The only thing the fighter’s guild hated about the mage’s guild was how the Order operated. They were completely mysterious and moved in the shadows. This didn’t bother people, as different as they may appear to be, the guild is still ruled by a single master. One of the strongest mages as well as current holder of the divine-blade title. The royal family’s personal bodyguard, Raulf Serlo. Being employed by the king and queen, Raulf was very busy. Attending parties and banquets to other kingdoms was a must for him, maintaining relations with others was their responsibilities. As a result, his often out of the island. Thus the reason why the guild separated and now had their own liberty and freedom. Raulf did work for the guild, he stepped in only when disparities between guildmembers grew out of control, he’s the one who controlled all.

The rumors of people disappearing reached Raulf’s ears. It was a matter of time until he returned and fixed all the conundrums. In the meantime, kill-quests were being given out left-right and center, both guilds paid large amounts of money for anyone or any other independent guilds to find out and fix whatever was happening. In one of the taverns situated in the capital, there was a man who speaks day and night. He recounted tales about fighting a monster twice his size and winning. Normally, bolstering like this was commonplace, but there was something new to this fantasy, he adamantly says that the beast vanished into dust and dropped some copper coins. Many other fellow adventurers just scowl at that tale and dismiss it as the dreams and rambling of a drunken fighter. None believed him, but every day, at exactly the same time, he would tell the same story over and over again, the look in his eyes was one of a man who spoke the truth, but people shrugged it off as nothing but a mere gesture of attention-seeking.

“You all will see my words aren’t a word of fantasy, I’ve never lied in my life. For as long as this broken-down body of mine lives, I will tell this story over and over again. Adventurers, you’ve yet to see the face of true despair, the beast will swallow you all. Something grows inside our planet, something vile and something divine, change is here, change has come – you all will regret not heeding my words.”

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