Chapter 2
The cluster of squat buildings which comprised the barracks sat to the west of the cathedral, shouldering the full brunt of the merciless afternoon sun. Sweat formed on Alva's brow as he approached, and the thought of donning his mail in such heat did little to lighten his mood, already cast into shadow by his conversation with the Saint.
He passed the statue of Morne, the legendary knight of Carim, whose helmet mirrored the gargoyles that watched over the entrances to the cathedral. Alva passed through the long shadow cast by Carim's greatest knight, thankful for the brief respite from the oppressive sunlight.
Alva's veteran status and reputation had earned him his own private living quarters, separate from the shared housing of the infantry. Although far from luxurious, they offered privacy for which Alva was appreciative. His cramped wooden cot occupied one corner while a simple desk stood in another. An armour stand at the far side of the room displayed his standard-issue hauberk, plate, surcoat and helmet. His broadsword, immaculately polished, hung from the wall above.
Alva sat on the corner of his bed and produced the scroll Serreta had handed to him. He broke the seal, and warily examined the contents.
Declaration that ALVA of CARIM has been appointed by
the ARCHBISHOP to seek a remedy for the AFFLICTION of the UNDEAD.
It is decreed that whomsoever is presented this letter shall aid sir ALVA however
the honourable knight sees fit, or else incur the wrath of the cathedral of CARIM
and the goddess CAITHA herself.
Archbishop of Carim, Deacon of the Way of White
He scanned the impeccable hand of the Archbishop thrice before carefully rolling the parchment and placing it on the bed beside him. The Archbishop, nearly seventy years of age, was an ineffectual, bloated fool to Alva's mind. He seldom left his personal complex within the cathedral, citing poor health, substituting himself for his apostles during services. During his incumbency the influence of Lindelt had spread to Carim, and the cathedral had regressed to little more than a branch of the Way of White. No doubt the Archbishop dreaded incurring the ire of Lindelt should it become known that Caitha's dear maiden was displaying the brand of the Curse.
Alva's thoughts turned to his imminent journey. Were he to stand a chance at uncovering a cure for the Curse he would first need to amass knowledge on the terrible affliction. Of course, it was base knowledge that the burning ring of the Darksign appeared upon the flesh of man as the First Flame waned, devouring the Soul and humanity of its bearer until they were no more than a mindless, rotting Hollow, but Alva would need an understanding deeper than that. It was rumoured that the scholars of Melfia had studied the nature of the Curse, and the library of the academy must surely hide a tome or two on the subject. There could be no better location for intelligence gathering. Yet Serreta's words rang in Alva's ears: We have many denigrators, amongst the scholars in particular. It was well-known that Melfia's wise men had little patience for the faith- the chances of them willingly aiding his plight were slim.
Nevertheless, Alva thought, no other nation in the world could offer the depth of knowledge held by Melfia. If I can appeal to their sense of rationality I may persuade them to assist me in my search.
With that, Alva's mind was made up. He would find a ship in Carim's port and travel south to Melfia.
Hours later, clad in his armour, broadsword at his hip, Alva left the barracks. A small pouch swung at his hip, inside of which were kept one hundred silver coins, thirty-eight gold coins, a flask of water and the Archbishop's letter. A cleric's chime, dull and rusted, hung from his belt. A cathedral attendant escorted him to the great gate, where a horse-drawn wagon awaited. An aged wagoner grinned at him from the seat of the vehicle as he climbed in- he had been informed in advance to take his passenger to the port, and his fee was already paid. Alva perched on the narrow bench of the wagon and gazed back at the sandstone spires, domes, and flying buttresses of Carim's ancient cathedral. He spied a slight figure clad in white, face obscured by a hood, standing on a balcony. The figure waved mournfully at Alva before disappearing back into the darkness of the cathedral.
The wagon lurched into motion, Alva watched as the magnificent structure which had been his home for so many years became a speck on the horizon.
