First Mission 2 – Memories

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Steel flashed in the morning sun as the heralds did battle. Calvert thrust out with his spear, forcing Verna back, but he did not press the offensive. With shield raised, the young man circled the red-head cautiously, keeping a wary eye on the three-pronged dagger in her left hand. It had been over a dozen days since she had beaten Oberthen, but the victory remained fresh in everyone's mind.

Since then, Verna had continued to push herself, proving to her fellow trainees that she would no longer be easy prey. She still lost on occasion, but never made it easy for her opponent. The other heralds were quickly learning not to underestimate her, especially Calvert. He was still considered the best of their outfit, and would not relent to the woman's rapidly growing talent without a fight.

The spear jabbed again, nearly slicing Verna's wool cloak, and she countered with a sword strike. The blade clanged off her opponent's shield, then the wooden pole swept around in an arc. She rolled beneath it and stabbed upward, nearly gouging Calvert's midsection. The male herald leapt away, sweat glistening off his boyish face, which was unusually scrunched with exertion.

Verna approached slowly, anticipating his next attack. The spear lashed out, but only once, and Verna easily dodged. Neither warrior wanted to overplay their hand, both aware that a single mistake would be the end. They traded blows, the man blocking, the woman evading, never gaining any ground. Finally, Verna swung high towards his neck, and Calvert crouched low to avoid it. There was a resounding ring as his shield swung to the side, and Verna gasped as her blade was deflected. Calvert had used her own parrying technique against her, yet he was too far away to take advantage of the opening. By the time his spear rushed in, she was already rolling away.

Infuriated by his hesitation, the man took a mighty leap and closed the distance. The spear came down, but suddenly, Verna was facing him. Her sword flew straight as he neared, and it took all his strength to pull back and avoid being impaled. The tip of the blade rested just below his ribs, while his spearhead prodded against her collarbone.

An audible gasp rippled through the crowd. It was a draw.

"Halt," Captain Brommand commanded, and the combatants lowered their arms. They rejoined their fellow heralds, both panting from exhaustion, though neither had managed to wound the other. Verna's bony face broke into a grin, and reluctantly, Calvert returned it.

"A tie?" he whispered in disbelief. "What did you do with the real Verna?"

She chuckled despite herself. "Don't worry, Calvert. Technically you're still the best. You can cast miracles, after all."

His smile genuinely softened. "Have faith, you'll get it someday."

"Marth, Oberthen," their captain called the next pair, "Come forward."

Verna glanced over as the heralds brushed past, and caught Oberthen's eye. He looked her over with a hint of apprehension, but offered a courteous nod, which she graciously returned. It had taken six days for his wounds to heal, and even then, he had trouble standing straight. Despite this, he had offered Verna an apology on his first day back, which had taken her completely by surprise.

For a brief moment, Verna wondered if Calvert's words held some truth to them. In such a short amount of time, she had become an entirely new woman, one who actually garnered the respect of her peers. She found it ironic, actually; she may not be able to cast miracles, yet one had surely been bestowed upon her.

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"We have a problem, brothers."

The Archdeacons sat cloistered within the inner chamber, seated around a wide table of oak. Klimt and Royce shared concerned glances as McDonnell announced their predicament, his stubby fingers steepled above his enormous bulk.

"I'm sure you've noticed that our converts have been dwindling as of late. Recently, the settlement of New Arston has ceased sending them altogether. We've also received no word from our evangelists. I fear the worst has happened."

Royce's wrinkled face was creased with worry. "You think the town has gone hollow?"

McDonnell shrugged. "What else could it be?"

"It's possible," Klimt nodded in agreement, "but surely our evangelists would have warned us? For the town to go completely silent is strange indeed. Perhaps... perhaps the Legion is involved?"

"The Legion has not been seen for quite some time," McDonnell reminded him. "We don't even know if they're still active. The truth is that we have no idea what has occurred in New Arston, and it's in our best interest to find out immediately. I propose we send a mission to investigate."

Royce bobbed his head eagerly. "Yes, yes. We need our converts. Our Saint needs his souls. If we falter now, everything we've worked towards will be for naught."

A frown darkened Klimt's demeanor. "True, but we should proceed with caution. Whatever fate has befallen the settlement may very well claim our mission. We could be sending them into a trap. Our numbers are fewer than ever, if we lose any more..."

"Brother," McDonnell interrupted, "if we do not resolve this mystery, we will lose much more than a few clergymen. Aldrich must become a Lord, no matter the cost. He is the only one who can save us now."

"And how fares our Saint, McDonnell? He has been unusually reclusive as of late." Klimt caught the wary look shared between his fellow Archdeacons, but kept his suspicions to himself.

"He is quite well," the hefty cleric reassured him. "He is simply preparing for the ritual, safe from any distractions. Surely you can understand that."

"Of course," Klimt played along. "It just seems odd that he has not communicated with us for some time. I would hardly consider us a distraction, after all."

"He still speaks to me," McDonnell said, "and will continue to do so until he is prepared to link the fire. I shall serve as his voice, and you two as his hands and eyes. We must all play our part, brothers."

A shadow passed over Klimt's expression. "Why only you? We have all sworn our service to Saint Aldrich. Have we done something to cause doubt?"

"Not at all," the cleric's plump cheeks spread into a smile. "He is confident in your faith, and knows that you will continue to have faith, regardless of his presence. Isn't that right, Royce?"

The Archdeacon had remained silent for some time, and seemed withdrawn in thought. "Oh, uh, yes. Of course. We mustn't question our Saint. His great vision shall guide us towards salvation. We need only follow."

"Quite right." McDonnell shifted in his seat, his growing obesity causing discomfort. "So, back to the matter at hand. Are we all agreed on the best course of action?"

"Indeed," Royce readily consented.

Klimt paused a moment before giving a slight nod. "Of course. But we must choose our missionaries carefully. We cannot afford any more losses."

McDonnell smiled warmly. "Certainly, brother. The safety of our Church is of utmost importance. We will make absolutely sure they are prepared for whatever awaits them. And, I know just the woman to lead them..."

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The heralds gathered in the courtyard, same as every morning, but Verna could tell something was different. She watched as Captain Brommand conversed with the evangelist, Matron Medeline, under the shadow of a pillar, and wondered what they spoke of. In a moment, Brommand strode before his trainees to deliver the news.

"Heralds," he began boldly, "I am proud to announce that some of you will not be joining us for training today. The deacons have declared your first mission."

The crowd remained silent, though Verna could feel their elation thicken in the air around her. "Those of you who are chosen will set out for the town of New Arston," the captain continued. "Our Matron Medeline will be leading the expedition, and you are to obey her commands as if they were my own. The purpose of this mission is surveillance and information gathering. We know that something has gone wrong with the undead, but we don't know what. That will be for you to uncover."

He noticed the reserved glances between his trainees. "I know what you must be thinking. The town has most likely gone hollow, that much we can assume, but we also had fellow clerics among them who we've lost touch with. This may very well become a rescue mission, people. Root out the problem, help any survivors, and dispatch anything that threatens your team. Those are your orders.

"The following trainees will take the day to prepare. You will be departing first thing tomorrow morning. Now, listen up... Calvert. Lendrey. Verna."

Upon hearing her name, her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. At last, she would have the chance to truly prove her worth. She couldn't resist stealing a glance at Calvert beside her, and saw the same eagerness glinting in his eyes. They shared a quick smile before returning to attention.

"Marth. Fordin. Percelle. You six will accompany the mission, and protect them at all cost. You will be their sword and shield against any and all dangers. Understood?"

"Sir, yes sir!" the chosen heralds chanted in union.

Captain Brommand nodded contently. "Then you are dismissed. May Gwyn watch over you, and godspeed."

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Verna sat at her bedside, drawing a whetstone across her Astora blade in anticipation. She felt that today might be the longest day of her life. Tomorrow, her training would finally pay off. She tried to remind herself that this was a serious and potentially perilous mission, but still, she could not rid herself of excitement.

"Verna?"

Her father's voice broke her reverie. She turned to face the Archdeacon, who stood within the doorway of the barracks. It was an odd sight. She could remember a time when he had seemed imposing, regal, larger than life itself. Now, the old man barely filled the wooden frame, hunched over from age. Even with his tall conical mitre, he was nearly a full head shorter than his daughter.

"Hello, father," she greeted him blankly.

"I heard you were chosen for tomorrow's mission. I came to wish you farewell."

Verna returned to sharpening her sword. "My thanks. I'm sure we will return soon enough with an answer for the deacons."

Klimt wrung his hands behind his back, out of sight. "It could be dangerous. We have heard nothing from the village in quite some time. I... I wanted to make sure you were adequately prepared."

"I am. I have faith in my fellow heralds, and in myself. We'll be fine."

Klimt nodded hesitantly. "Yes, of course. You have trained well." As the silence stretched on, he reached into his robes and withdrew a small object. "I have something for you, in case you encounter resistance. It will aid you on your journey."

Verna looked back with a skeptical frown. "The Church has already provided us with equipment."

"Yes, I know, but... Well, it couldn't hurt to take along. Consider it a parting gift from your old man."

He approached quietly and placed the item upon her bedsheets. It was a small golden ring, with a model of a sword stretching from its engraved circlet. Verna only stared at it dubiously.

"It is one of Lloyd's blessed rings," Klimt explained.

"Lloyd?" Verna asked incredulously. "None even speak his name anymore. What good will this do?"

Klimt waved her doubts aside. "The Allfather was once a great man, one of the founders of our faith. The Way of White would be nothing without him, no matter what those fools from Carim might think. This token holds great power, Verna. It will bolster the tenacity of your own strikes, make them stronger than they already are. Please, accept it?"

She stared a moment longer, then returned to her blade without touching the ring. "Very well."

Klimt hovered over her, the ghost of a smile touching his aged features. "Thank you. I... I'll see you when you return."

With that, he departed, and Verna finally lowered her whetstone. She gave the ring another glance, then snorted in disdain and began packing.

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The heralds gathered in the foyer of the cathedral with the rest of their mission. As Verna joined their numbers, she was surprised to see that Cliope was among those chosen. The priestess avoided the red-head's gaze, apparently still uncomfortable with their troubled history. Verna recalled the night where she had split the young girl's head open, but quickly banished the thought from her mind. They were part of the same team now, and she would be sure to treat the cleric with due respect, regardless of how obnoxious she had been in her early years.

Matron Medeline stood before them, surveying her charges with a toothy smile — six heralds, three clerics, and herself to lead them. "Well, children," the evangelist began, "I trust that you have prepared yourselves for the journey ahead? Splendid! Let us be off, then. No reason to dilly-dally."

They promptly filed into rank and headed to the entrance. As they went, Verna caught sight of the Drang mercenary again, still driving the giants into action. Their eyes met for a brief moment, then he turned away and continued his thankless work. A twinge of regret stung her breast, and she faced forward before it could spread. The two had not shared a single word since that night they met on the crossroads. She realized she had never even learned the man's name.

Forcing her feelings aside, Verna stared around at the grand cathedral, bidding it a silent farewell. It would be many days until any of them would see it again. Despite the harsh memories she had formed within these cold walls, it was still her home, and she would miss it.

Then, something far above drew her attention, a familiar figure standing on one of the upper balconies. It was Kirk, the Church's faithful knight. She studied the ominous warrior without emotion, remembering all the times she had hid from him in her younger years. He had been such an enigma back then, a focus for her childish fantasies. She had spent many nights dreaming of becoming a maiden, with her valiant knight of thorns fighting by her side. Now, she was older, and wiser. She knew better than to entertain such foolish notions. He was a wretched undead, a soulless shell that followed naught but the will of the deacons. They had never shared anything beyond their solemn duty to the Church.

Facing ahead, Verna returned her thoughts to the mission before them. She was not a child anymore. Now was the time to prove that, and her worth as a herald. She swore she would make the Church proud, no matter the cost. As one, the party marched through the cathedral doors and into the shining dawn.