Mercenaries tended, by definition, to be a motley crew. People who fought for money generally fell into the category of "unsavory", "suspicious", or at the very least "dubious". To be fair, most of the population of Cygnus could be defined that way. While they were a rough bunch, most were good people at heart. Still, why there was a MONK traveling with the band she'd signed to was beyond her. Sellswords weren't generally the religious type. Superstitious, sure. Religious? Not so much. Most of them either believed there was no higher power, or that said higher power was out to get them. For some reason, they'd made an exception for Brother Fulton.

Maybe having a cleric along was useful? Raynie couldn't imagine that he saved many souls, but perhaps they wanted him for funerals? Being a mercenary was a high-risk job and as such, it might be useful to have a priest around to perform last rights or whatever it was that mercenaries did when laying one of their own to rest.

"I'm not a priest," he'd told her with a smile when she'd addressed him as 'Father'. "Just a minister. 'Brother' is fine."

His smile had been kind, or she got the impression that it was supposed to be. It was hard to tell. The deep hood left most of his face in shadow, only his chin, mouth, and the tip of his nose visible to anyone who bothered to peer into its depths. Even in the desert heat, he never seemed to push it back. Maybe it was a monk thing, Raynie wasn't sure.

Usually he hung back, keeping to the corners of the room, the edge of the action, never saying very much. Although he carried a quarterstaff, he always stayed at the rear of the group, which she found odd. Wouldn't a short-range weapon like a staff be better served closer to the action? She carried a spear, and Marco a sword, and therefore they often took point on any mission despite their newness to the group. Curious, she let herself drift to the rear while they marched, falling into step with him and one of the marksmen. Sand made for awkward travel at the best of times, but it seemed strange that the monk would need to keep hold of the bowman's arm, as if he were a lady being escorted to a ball. Equally strange was the way he used his staff. Rather than lift and drop the walking stick with each step, he swept it side to side in front of him. Not until she saw this did it click. She'd seen blind beggars use staffs the same way. Couldn't he see where he was going?

No, apparently he couldn't.

She caught him only once with his hood pushed back. It had been late, so late that it was almost early, and they'd had a long, hot day's march behind them. Even after the sun had vanished the heat lingered, radiating up and into the cool night sky. It had been a moonless night, and even the stars had seemed exhausted by the heat, so faint was their light. Perhaps because he'd been too hot, because it had been so dark, he'd dared to throw off his hood. Raynie hadn't gotten a good look- it was too hot to even light a fire- only enough to discern a bandage wound around his head, covering his eyes.

Why the hell would the commander hire a blind monk?


Of course Raynie didn't dare ask him outright. She and Marco discussed it when they had a moment to themselves. Of course monks were educated, many of them could read and write, and were trained in the healing arts. Brother Fulton carried a bag of herbs with him at all times, so it made sense for him to act as the apothecary for the group. Raynie supposed it didn't take eyesight to brew tea or wrap a bandage over a cut.

Something else he carried in his shoulder bag was a small, fat book no longer than his hand. Several times a day he would rifle through its pages, muttering to himself.

"What is he mumbling about?" she whispered to Marco.

"Prayers, I think," the smaller man replied. "That's what monks do. They pray."

"But why? What's he praying for?"

Marco shrugged. "How should I know? I'm a swordsman, not a priest. Why don't you ask him yourself?"

"Okay, I will!" At once she trotted off to do just that, leaving Marco staring after her in bewilderment.

"What are you praying for?" Raynie asked, running up to Brother Fulton and presenting her question forthrightly. If he had eyes, she was sure he would have blinked.

"Right now? The peace of the nation in general, and the memory of those who have striven to ease tensions and strife between neighbors."

It was Raynie's turn to blink. "Really? Wouldn't that put us out of a job?"

"I hope so. No one's ever retired from a career as a hired sword, anyway. Wouldn't you rather live safe, knowing that you don't have to keep your spear close by because there is no need?"

"I guess," Rayne had to agree. "Has anybody made a career out of...what was it? Trying to get people to be friends?"

Brother Fulton smiled. "Well, I have, my brothers, Grandfather, and of course the Prophet Noah."

"Isn't he dead too?"

"Last I heard, he was very much alive. Advanced in years, but alive."

Raynie leaned sideways to peer at his prayer book. Overtop the beautifully colored and illuminated illustrations someone had drizzled a pattern in wax. Belatedly, it occurred to her:

"Wait, if you're blind, how can you read?"

"I can't," he grinned. "Grandfather drew these symbols on the pages so I can tell by touch what day it is, and what prayers to say."

The book was small, yet fat, each page made slightly thicker by their wax designs.

"There's got to be a hundred pages in that thing!" she exclaimed. "How can you memorize all that?"

"Three hundred sixty-five, to be exact," Brother Fulton explained. "One for every day of the year. Well, it's more like three-seventy. There's a couple of extra pages for feast days and solstice."

Raynie's head ached just thinking about it. "I still don't know how you can keep all that in your head."

The monk shrugged. "I haven't anywhere else to keep it."


A queue of sorts had formed in Brother Fulton's general vicinity. Skalla had a handful of religious professionals in residence, but none of them followed the teachings of the Prophet Noah. Apparently there were quite a few misplaced souls who followed the Alstelian school of thought. Stocke watched, silent, as the cluster of faithful ebbed and flowed.

Once Raynie and Marco had withdrawn, he edged closer. He still wasn't near enough to make out the actual conversation, but better able to observe facial expression and gesture. It wouldn't do to have past versions of Raynie and Marco notice him. He didn't want to edit the timeline just yet, only get a sense of the character of the former owner of the prayer book. Brother Fulton didn't seem to be one to lecture his scattered sheep. Instead, he listened thoughtfully, nodding occasionally as confession was made or questions asked. As the last petitioner concluded his interview, Stocke retrieved a full mug and went to take his place.

"Brother," Stocke said by way of announcing himself. He set the mug down with an intentional thud near the monk's hand.

"Thank you, brother," Fulton replied, taking a cautious sip. Stocke smiled a little to himself. Brother Fulton had lived outside the monastery a long enough for testing his food for poison- or at the very least mold- to become habit.

"Tell me your troubles," Fulton asked, prompting with the traditional opening for confession.

"Actually, I was hoping you might tell me yours," Stocked countered. The monk smiled, amused, and took a more generous swallow of ale.

"That's kind of you," he replied, "but I have no complaints."

"Everyone has complaints," Stocke argued. "Not everyone gives voice to them.

That made Fulton chuckle. "True enough."

Now that he sat in front of him, Stocke had gone slightly blank. It wasn't as if he could interrogate Fulton about his relationship with Raynie, not without sounding like a creep, anyway. How best to gauge the character of a man now dead? Did he even deserve to be dead? And if not, was there a way to save his life?

Well. Why not start with the obvious?

"What's a monk doing with a band of mercenaries?"

Fulton did not, as Stocke had worried, snort his ale. Instead, he swallowed and smiled. "I get that a lot," he said calmly. In answer, he thumbed the device on his cowl. Stocke leaned forward and squinted at it, unfamiliar with the little bit of heraldry.

"I'm not familiar with this sigil," Stocke told him. "What is it?"

"It means I obey the teachings of the Prophet Noah- to a point," Brother Fulton explained. "I'm one of the so-called 'Blood Brothers'."

Now that Stocke was familiar with. "A follower of Noah who has shed blood, and therefore outcast from the order." Stocke confirmed. "On crusade, are you?"

Brother Fulton shook his head. "Not as such. Not too many people want to hear a sermon, but I've had plenty who want to confess their sins, or ask a blessing. It doesn't occur to most people that mercenaries, thieves, and miscreants have hearts and souls that might need tending to. I'm needed and wanted here."

Stocke nodded, adding an "I see," since Brother Fulton couldn't hear his head rattle.

Normally, people went out of their way to avoid those with disabilities; or at least those without thaumatech to augment them. People like Brother Fulton who had only bandages to hide their injuries usually had to resort to begging since they couldn't do standard work. However, people seemed to seek Brother Fulton out wherever the band went. As he'd said himself, he was performing a necessary service to those who otherwise would not receive it.

"And what about you," Stocked asked. "Who ministers to you?"

Fulton shrugged. "I may not be allowed into the rectory with the rest of my brothers, but they still pray for me, and I for them. We watch out for each other."

Stocke nodded, but couldn't help wondering if that was really true?