Stories/DarkTale
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The Tale of the Dark Wanderer
The Village of Lyre, on the outskirts of the Hundred Kingdom in the Scavenger Lands, was in all ways a forgettable and unimportant place. The Lord of the City of Velen claimed ownership of it, but other than visits from the Tax Collector this did not affect the folk at all. They elected a small town council by lots, who made most of the important decisions that affected the town-folk. They had arranged the deal with the Fair Folk from the Depths of the Eastern Forests, that they would simply take some of the youths of the village that pleased them instead of raiding at will. A small militia had been raised and trained to fend off small bands of bandits, and shrines had been raised to honor the Gods of the River and the Field to ward off famine and flood.
When the stranger arrived, it had been far into the Night during one of the coldest days of Ascending Water. He had quietly approached the house of the Villages Hetman, knocking upon the door with a loud but polite rap. The Town of Lyre had never had much trouble with the restless dead or night monsters, but it was still not entirely safe in the darkest hours of the night and something in the sound of the knocking upon the door had put a perverse fear into the bones of the Hetman. He lay awake in his bed, alone in his house, listening to the pounding upon the door for several minutes and hoping it would go away. Then, without a word, the Hetman got up and fetched upon himself his robe and went to his front door. In the dim light of the Moon and the Stars, he saw the visitor quite clearly.
The visitor was tall, muscular and fit, with pale skin of an almost milky complexion. Shock white hair rolled down his back, and he was dressed in wisps of funerary linens and grave charms. Yet, with words that clouded up the cold of the night, he requested entrance with a polite and almost musical voice that spoke unaccented Riverspeak. The Hetman, unthinking, nodded and allowed the stranger entrance.
"I thank you for your hospitality, leader of men," the stranger said, "Please, share with me your name."
"Oswald," the Hetman replied, still somewhat off-guard from the strangers presence. "Balsand, that is my fathers name."
The stranger just smiled, and nodded. "Oswald, son of Balsand, then. I am the Twice Kissed Prophet. Pardon me for my rudeness, but I must inquire where I might rest this weary flesh."
The Hetmen, wondering at the name and what manner of God or Demon stood before him (for he was now sure that this was no man), simply nodded and showed the Twice Kissed Prohpet up to the room that had belonged to his Son before Isilo had gone off to Nexus to 'make his fortune'.
The next morning, all talk in the village of Lyre was about the stranger who had arrived in the night. Some said he was a God, others that he was one of the Anathema, and few even whispered of the stories of Deathlords they had learned -- mayhap this stranger served the Mask of Winters. All agreed that, whatever his nature, he seemed to have a taste of the afterlife with him. Many worried at what his presence would portend, why he walked through the village and talked briefly or at length to its various inhabitants. Toward the afternoon, the Town Councilors were called to discuss the matter of his presence and what should be done.
The discussion lasted for nearly an hour, with the Hetmen and his supporters in favor of offering the God some manner of tribute as was done with the Fae, while others were in favor of sending off to the nearby Immaculate Temple in Velen. The gathered Elders were in the middle of deciding to undertake both actions when the doors of the town hall were opened wide. All fell silent, turning toward the opened door, waves of fear washing down their spines to the core. Yet, all looked upon the Twice Kissed Profit with respect -- even when the black mark upon his forehead, a solid bleeding circle of black light, was first noticed. None spoke up, none said a thing; all waited to see what would come next, and could do none else.
"Oh duplicitous men," the Prophet said first, looking from face to face and frowning with disapproval as he walked to the forefront of the table where the gathered elders were seated. "Hiding away your confrontations; you wish to know why I came here, what fate the Prophet foretells? You had naught to do but ask, oh untrusting disciples of this age."
The Hetmen, respectfully, inquired, "Please, your Grace, forgive us. What, then, do you intend?"
The Twice Kissed Prophet looked at the Hetmen with such a gaze that the older man flinched and looked away. "I came here not of my own will, but following the path laid out before me by my Gods. It is not my intentions you should concern yourself with, but the glorious coming of whatever they have foreseen for you. No, if anything, I have come to prepare you."
"For what, I see you ready to ask. You already know the answer, I suspect, but I will tell you in any case. Death, the Passing into the Dark, the Final Journey, Rejoining your Ancestors..." The Twice Kissed Prophet walked, slowly, around the table as he talked on this, looking from face to face to see the reactions of the old men in this room. "I claim no prescience in this matter; I do not know why my Masters brought me here, but rest assured, Death will come for you. It comes to all, by the glorious will of my patrons. All have need to hear my words."
One of the youngest of the councilors, a farmer known as Riverwander, simply asked, "Then you mean us no harm?"
The Twice Kissed Prophet laughed, his hand coming down on the shoulder of one of the men at the table. "Quite the contrary, my fearful friend. I come here with the greatest of gifts. The gift of knowledge, and worship of the Rightful Gods of Creation. I put an oath before these Gods that no harm will come to you by my hands, while I remain in your village."
The Hetmen looked at that, as if he was about to question or debate the issue, but the Twice Kissed Prophet just shook his head. Eye caught eye, and the Hetman's words died on his tongue. "I can promise no more than that, and you have no right to ask of me more. I know not what my Gods, or my Master, will demand of me in the future. Listen to my words, oh untrusting souls, and you will be safer than if you ignore them."
The agreement was reached, then, that the Twice Kissed Prophet would speak to the elders of the village of his 'gifts' that night -- he refused to elaborate that afternoon, and many wished time to absorb what he had said so far in any event. That night, in the Hetman's house, more were gathered than had been present in the town hall; some of the older women had been invited, and some of the respected shopkeepers, so that all might have ears for what was to transpire that night.
On the midnight hour, the sound was heard of steps coming down from the stairs above where the Twice Kissed Prophet was staying. All eyes turned, full of dread and perhaps some hint of curiosity, toward the stairs as the Prophet walked down. He was dressed in long black robes, stitched with strange red sigils that hurt the eyes with their disturbing unfamiliarity.
"You have come," he said, nodding softly, seeming pleased.
The Hetman stood, at that. "Indeed, we have come, as you ask. We hold you to your word, that no harm will come to us should we listen to your words. We can promise no more than that we will listen, however, just as you can promise no more than that no harm will come to us while you stay."
The Twice Kissed Prophet smiled then, and nodded. "You are very brave, Oswald, son of Balsand. I assure you, I will honor my word. Sit, I shall tell you a tale of the beginning of Creation,"
(to be continued inStories/DarkTale2)
