First Mission 3 – Sacrifices

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The band of clergymen trekked on along the winding footpath. They were in the lands of Farron now, well beyond the sanctity of the Church's domain. The heralds cast wary glances at every strange sound, as if expecting an ambush at any moment. It occurred to Verna that most of them had never set foot past the cathedral grounds, and she suppressed a flicker of pride. In a sense, she was the best prepared of them all, due ironically to her disobedience.

The Matron, of course, was the exception. She led her charges resolutely, that stone-set smile fixed upon her fleshy cheeks. A spiked mace was slung over her broad shoulders, its handle nearly as long as the woman herself. Verna marveled that the evangelist could wield the hefty weapon at all. She had never seen Medeline in battle, but a part of her hoped she might get the chance.

A snapping twig caused Percelle to jump, and the herald snorted to hide his embarrassment. "These woods gives me the chills," he muttered. "It's like the trees are watching us."

"They're only trees," Calvert replied, "nothing more. I'm concerned with what lurks behind them."

"Who knows what manner of beasts call this wretched place home," Fordin spat disdainfully. The brawny warrior had his shield and spear at ready, gripped tight in tense fists.

"I heard there are creatures that can turn you to stone with a mere breath," Cliope said in a near whisper. The young cleric seemed uneasier than anyone, and welcomed the chance to talk her troubles away.

Percelle snorted. "Sounds like a tale to scare children at bedtime."

"They're called basilisks," Verna interjected, "and I assure you, they're quite real. Fortunately they stick to the swamps, so we shouldn't have to worry about them."

The wiry Percelle gave her a snide grin as they passed beneath a crumbling stone archway. "Well, you'd know best, Verna. Always running off to splash around in the muck."

"I never understood why anyone would willingly visit that disgusting cesspool," Lendrey chimed in.

"She's probably faced more dangers than either of you," Calvert admonished them. "Verna was out there with the monsters while you two were still clinging to your mothers' gowns."

Percelle looked sheepishly to the ground. "Easy, Cal. It was just a joke."

The Matron abruptly turned to them with a raised hand. "Hush now, children," she commanded. "We are in another's territory. Mind your manners, but stay on guard. You can never quite tell what this one will do."

Despite her grin, her ominous words hung over the party. They glanced anxiously around the ancient ruin with hands on their armaments. As Verna wondered just who Medeline spoke of, a dark shadow fell over her, and she spun in alarm as a looming apparition materialized out of nowhere.

A cackle arose from beneath the wispy figure's oversized hat. "Oh dear," he rasped. "Does the Church think so poorly of me? And here I was, ready to extend my hospitality."

Medeline stepped forward, welcoming the hideous specter with open arms. "No, great sage! My words were in jest, of course. I was merely giving these young ones a fright is all."

The sorcerer raised his head to reveal a macabre billed mask, eerily illuminated by the shimmering crystal ball in his clutches. His glass goggles scanned the pallid faces before him as he chortled again. "I dare say it worked, madam."

"We seek passage through these lands," the Matron continued. "I assume our agreement still stands?"

"But of course," the sage dipped his enormous hat. "And I do hope you'll give my regards to Archdeacon McDonnell. The contributions from Irithyll have proven invaluable to our research."

"He will be honored to hear it, I'm sure. The Old Gods still grant their blessings to the faithful, even after all these years. I pray you always find favor in them."

"Indeed." The sage lowered his brim cryptically. "Although, there are some who yearn for their favor a little too much. The moon's influence has caused some strange happenings in these lands."

Medeline tilted her head. "Is that so?"

The ghostly sorcerer floated around the gathered group, peering into his glistening orb. "An affliction has spread through the former acolytes of the Legion. Those who gorged themselves on wolfsblood have become beasts themselves, trapped in a horrid state between man and wolf. I suspect the moon's presence may be spurring their transformation, but fortunately, we live in a land where the sun always shines. I am loathed to think what they might become should they complete their metamorphosis."

The Matron stroked her hairy chin in thought. "Why does the Legion not cull these creatures? I thought they looked after their own flock."

"Ah, but the Watchers have been curiously absent for some time now. Last I heard, they had set off for Carthus in search of some self-proclaimed lord. Alas, that seemed ages ago, and we've not received word since. Who can say what fate befell them?"

"That is unfortunate news."

"Indeed. There are some acolytes who took it upon themselves to battle the lycanthropes, but their numbers are too few. Even an undead legionnaire can only die so many times before he forgets his duties."

The Matron nodded curtly. "We shall keep a sharp eye out for these fiends. I'm sure it's nothing the Church cannot handle."

That beakish face cocked sideways in a curious manner. "As you say, madam. I only thought it courteous to warn you. The lands of Farron are not what they used to be."

Medeline gave a half-bow. "Duly noted, good sage. We will be ready for whatever evil awaits. I thank you again for entertaining us, but we really must be on our way. Our own duties need tending to, you understand."

"Of course, Matron. May the sun shine upon your journey."

The evangelist turned to the others, who had barely moved a muscle during their entire conversation. "Come along now, children," she ordered, and led them off into the crumbling ruins. As they departed, Verna could not help but glance back at the creepy sorcerer, and though the mask concealed his face, she could have sworn he was watching her as well.

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The fortress was surprisingly inhabited despite its decrepit state. Throughout the halls, gaunt scholars hunched over tables strewn with books, looking up only briefly as the troupe passed by. The heralds were wholly unsettled by their sunken eyes and shriveled faces, recognizing the signs of the undead curse. However, the sages quickly lost interest in them and returned to their studies, allowing them to pass through unfettered.

The young warriors breathed easier once they were beyond the ruins. Percelle let out a low whistle, his confidence returning now that he was out of earshot of the hollows. "Damned undead every which way you look," he grumbled. "These are surely dark times we live in."

For once, no one berated the pessimistic soldier.

The company continued their march along the edge of Farron woods, weaving carefully between the makeshift wooden idols that cluttered the area. Although the others loathed these cursed lands, Verna still found it beautiful in its own way. The towering trees created a canopy that blotted out the sky, with rays of sunlight piercing its lush foliage like brilliant spears. She could only imagine what it must have been like before the poison tainted its waters and plagued its inhabitants with disease.

"Matron?" Cliope eventually spoke up. "Who... or what... was that thing?"

"That thing is the Crystal Sage," Medeline replied scoldingly, "an esteemed scholar and valued ally of the deacons. He has spent centuries studying the soul arts, and accomplished more than most people could in several lifetimes. You would do well to give him your respect."

"I don't mean to offend," Calvert interrupted, "but why in the world does he wear that ghastly mask?"

"With all due respect, his appearance offended me!" Percelle quipped. "I couldn't even tell if he had legs underneath that robe. Not that I'd care to look..."

"Silly children," the Matron sighed, "you are overlooking the silver lining here. If what he says is true, and the Legion is no longer active, then our task will be considerably easier. A handful of hollows are no match for the might of the Church. I imagine we'll be returning home in no time at all."

"Sure, as long as you discount all this walking," Percelle grumbled.

"Oh, ye of little faith!" Medeline chuckled. "I wouldn't make you travel by foot all the way to New Arston. Our ride should be just up the road."

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Klimt's knuckles were white beneath his lengthy sleeves. "Stop skirting the question, McDonnell. Did you know she would be among those chosen?"

The obese Archdeacon spread his hands in a show of innocence. "I truly don't understand your concern, dear brother. What's the point in training our heralds if they are to never serve their duties?"

"But why now? Why this mission? There are countless other ways she could aid in the Church's work. Why would you send her blind into what could very well be a catastrophe? She's never even seen a real battle!"

"You must trust in Captain Brommand's decision, Klimt. I ordered him to pick six of our best warriors, and that is exactly what he did. If anything, you should be overjoyed that Verna was granted such an opportunity."

Klimt turned away, not wanting his fellow Archdeacon to see his quivering lip. He knew that McDonnell's response was perfectly reasonable, but he did not care. He knew that he was being emotional, irrational even, but that did not sate the discomforting lump that sat within his stomach.

"Brother," McDonnell took on an appeasing tone, "forgive me for speaking bluntly, but your concern for your daughter has always been overbearing. Verna is no longer a petulant child, but a capable herald. It is due time she proved her worth to our Church. Don't you agree?"

After a moment, Klimt forced himself to nod.

"Excellent," the Archdeacon clasped his hands in approval. "At the very least, I can promise that you will be alerted the instant we hear word from Matron Medeline. And don't forget our adage, brother — the most terrifying things in the Dark are the ones we imagine. Trust in our own. Verna is in good hands."

Klimt nodded again, then exited the chamber without another word. As he departed, he passed a pair of deacons whose girth had begun to challenge that of McDonnell's. They both smiled broadly in passing, but he could not return the gesture in his distraught state. He was well aware that his concern for his only child could border on the unreasonable, but this was different. This was not the vice-like anxiety that gripped his temples whenever she disobeyed him, whenever she deliberately placed herself in harm's way just to spite him. This was a cold, primal, inexplicable dread that welled within his breast like a torrential flood. This was something he had never experienced before in all his long years.

There was only one thing that could possibly assuage his fears now. With a shivering breath, he headed for the upper level of the cathedral.

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There was a knock at the door. "Enter."

The deacons slipped quietly into the room and bowed graciously to their leader. "You wished to see us, Archdeacon?"

McDonnell nodded, his pudgy fingers steepled before him in deep thought. "It seems our time has come sooner than expected, and in such unfortunate circumstances, no less. With our sacrifices growing scarcer by the day, Saint Aldrich believes that the ritual must be carried out immediately, before the opportunity passes. I assume you understand what this means?"

The deacons bowed again. "Of course, your holiness. Our Lord must have his fill of souls, one way or another."

"Good. Begin preparations at once, and remember, discretion is of utmost importance. Spread the word to our brethren, but do not let the others catch wind of our intent. It would be quite unfortunate if they were to flee. We may preach the same faith, but not all of us are ready to make the ultimate sacrifice."

The deacons gave one final bow, then left McDonnell alone with his musings in the damp chamber. "The fire fades, and a Lord must sit the throne," he whispered to no one. "So it is written, and so it shall be. The new age is finally at hand..."

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Klimt cast a furtive glance over his shoulder as he approached the iron-wrought gate. Though only a chosen few were allowed access to this part of the cathedral, he nevertheless felt a creeping suspicion following close behind. However, there was naught but shadows at his back, so he produced his key and unlocked the outer cage.

The heavy golden doors creaked open as the Archdeacon entered the chamber. His presence was greeted by the gentle giggling of infants, all resting soundly in their cradles. He stepped past softly, so as not to disturb the heavenly children, and gave each a tender smile as he approached the canopied bed at the other end of the room.

The sight of her never ceased to fill him with reverence. Eyes wide, he knelt at the feet of the radiant goddess and beseeched her.

"Divine Mother, forgive me. I come before you seeking guidance once again. You have already done so much for us... for me... but still my dreams are filled with dread. I try to keep the faith, to follow the path of our Lord, but... Oh, dear goddess, something is horribly wrong. I know not what it is, but I can feel it in my bones. I fear for our Church, for all of us. I believe something terrible is about to begin."

With eyes shut tight, Klimt grasped the holy symbol that hung around his neck for strength. "I am ashamed to ask any more of you. You've already given me the greatest gift I could ever hope for, but it is because of her that I stand here now. Please, I beg of you... keep Verna safe..."