The Faithful Duties of the Corpus Majoris

Polished — 50m46s — 2023/12/01

Most of the elder races tend to stick with their own type: humans among humans, elves among elves, naga among naga, and so forth. There is also great distance and geographical boundaries between many of these people, which is good, considering the suspicion and hostilities that often develop. Dwarves and elves are a classic example. Although its been a dozen years of peace between the Gundurmach dwarves and the elves of Telyet’s Hallow, their most recent conflicts continued for some two hundred years and claimed some three million lives. Considering such devastation, we can only hope that the current peace continues.

But I digress. And now I come to the crux of the problem. If we are all related, how is it that some of us take the form of a wyrm and others take the form of a man? How is there a mixing of such diverse bloods? The answer is simple. There is a magic that exists, the ability to shift into the form of another, or “skin-walk”, as they often say.

Though I cannot accomplish it myself, I have seen it done by a number of different individuals. One let me see the transformation many times as he appeared a normal man of average height, then a great darkness overcame him, and when he reappeared he was an elf of nine feet, and as thin as a sapling!

Some among us that look human were not born human—yet we all share carnal urges. Such couplings often result in viable offspring that always take the form of the mother. If she is the skin-walker, the form of the children is the one in which she produces them, be it her native form or not. Some of these children will never learn the skill. Born away from their mother’s tribe, they must exist among the father’s people.

Occasionally, our children are quite a bit more. From time to time, children are born exhibiting magics and abilities most rare, even if the parents are not of mixed races. These chimera tend to be quite gifted. It is hard to know how many become adept at skin-walking, but I imagine many—if not most of them—acquire this skill and use it to disguise themselves. Chimera tend to have very singular appearances and are quite noticeable when they choose to be. Among the most famous of these was the Ewile queen, Smixsmaxsmia, who famously stood over eight feet tall and had elegant wings—though she could not fly. A known skin-walker, Smixsmaxsmia often appeared in her native form, even in front of the common people of Ewile. Thanks to such famous cases, we know chimera exist, and thanks to chimera, we know that the elder races are in fact kissing cousins, despite our disparate appearances.

- The Elder Races of the World: Considerations, Arguments, and Refutations, by Aogostua Veribos, page 216

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Wenifas met with Fedring, Corpus Majoris of the Empress’ Own inside her tent. After some initial pleasantries, Fedring and Wenifas were quick to get down to business. Fedring had many other priestesses to visit, and Wenifas simply wanted to get it out of the way.

Wenifas allowed the man to check her book of absolution, in which she recorded who petitioned and for what rituals, along with any other notes she cared to make about the men—and the occasional women—that came to worship. Invariably, Fedring seemed most interested in her notes. Yes, the Majoris made a big deal about her accounting, especially where it should be inaccurate. But it seemed to the priestess that the notes provided the Corpus with the most value. She wondered why the high offices of the priesthood should care so much about the men’s thoughts and actions, and could only speculate.

Wenifas worked hard on her notes. She was very deliberate and careful in how she portrayed the various men that came to see her. She wrote long passages about their righteous devotion when she wished to protect them. She only wrote ill of those that mistreated her, of which there weren’t too many. She was not surprised that Fedring was quick to glance over the pages that detailed a man’s piety and worship of the true gods, yet he lingered as he read of ignominy or heresy.

After so many years, she expected this sort of scrutiny. What did Fedring hope to do with such information? Wenifas shuddered to think on it. Although she might elaborate and touch up an account of a man’s religious zeal with some length of exaggeration or poetry, she never fudged a word of controversy.

“My dear, you always keep such a clean book,” Fedring smiled as he tapped a particularly long entry concerned with a rather lewd fixation of one of the men that she did not care for. “I only wish you would choose smaller volumes to keep your notes. Is this book not cumbersome to you?”

She was quite sure he wanted her to use smaller books so he would have them from her that much faster. Yet, she had no interest in separating herself from her own intelligence—especially not for Fedring’s convenience. Why should he get to keep the book when it was filled? But then, there was no point in arguing against the law. At least she was allowed to keep whatever book she liked—so long as she turned it over once it was full. “I beg foregiveness,” Wenifas bowed, “but I fill the small books too fast, and I enjoy the heft of a bigger book. I can use it to hit the men, when they request, or simply if they deserve it,” she justified.

“You hit the men with it?” Fedring set the book aside and wiped his hands on his shirt.

Wenifas nodded. “Most of them beg for it. Some of them deserve it. I have noted both in the book, of course.” She picked it up and began to rifle through its pages in search of such a passage, knowing that the longer they talked of her book, the less they talked of everything else.

“Of course,” Fedring gave her a long-suffering smile as he gently closed the book in her hands. “I wish the others kept such neat records—and always with the numbers at the front! You are very orderly. The gods appreciate such neatness.”

“The gods are too kind, your lordship.”

“Enough of the book! Your coin is in order! Let us see to the babe,” Fedring held his hands out for her child. With a weak smile, Wenifas lifted Evereste from a pile of blankets and handed the infant to the Corpus. Fedring undressed the child and took off her diaper as he examined the babe for any sign of physical disease, malformation, or trauma. “She seems in good health. Has she been any problem?”

“Oh no, your lordship. She has such a sweet temper. I had much more trouble with Claiten.”

“Boys are always more difficult,” Fedring nodded. “Do you ask the others to look after her?”

“Not often, though Delonias has watched her on a couple occasions,” Wenifas smiled. “I think I am quite blessed. So far, Evereste is mild and happy. She crawls. She can almost stand. Soon, she will walk, and then she will start speaking.”

“Yes, yes,” Fedring feigned a smile. “Once again, I am impressed with your capabilities.”

Wenifas bowed.

With his inspection of the babe complete, Fedring handed Evereste back to her mother. Wenifas took Evereste with a smile. She tried not to let her anxiety show as she dressed the child. She hoped to put on a great show of respect. She was good at hiding her true feelings and putting on a smile for her petitioners. The work of a priestess could be difficult and arduous in its own way, and often required a good deal of acting. But Fedring was not a guard. It was his job to discover any deception among the priestesses. Wenifas crossed her fingers. All she wanted was a smooth interview and to get Fedring out of her tent. Then, it would be another month before he returned—unless there was some scandal.

“Speaking of Delonias,” Fedring frowned. “I hear there is dispute between her and Sahna at the three mark well. I am told you were witness to this confrontation?” his brow arched.

“I was,” Wenifas confessed.

“And what would you say of it?”

Wenifas frowned. She preferred not to be involved. Still, he asked—and so she must answer. “I feel Delonias showed the proper respects. I feel Sahna should not have hit Delonias. She is senior—to me as well—but that does not give her the right to abuse us,” Wenifas said.

“Did she abuse you too?” Fedring asked with a raised brow.

Silently, Wenifas cursed herself. Why did she let that slip? Now that it was out, she would not lie about it. Getting caught in a lie always made matters worse. “She has hit me a few times,” Wenifas nodded her head. “But not in some time—and not on this occasion,” she admitted, and hoped it was enough.

It was not. With a tsk, Fedring asked, “What has she done to you?”

“It was a light cuffing and a few harsh words, your lordship. I do not hold it against her,” Wenifas confessed. “Indeed, I do not recall exactly what was said or why she felt she should hit me at all. Might I forget the squabble on purpose? Might it have been my fault to begin with? I do beg forgiveness—and I offer the same to my dear Sahna. May the gods forget this accusation.”

“My oh my,” Fedring frowned. “This is turning into quite a mess.”

Although it was an old and amorphous complaint, the priestess suspected a remedy would be demanded. She crumbled to her knees, and pressed her forehead to Fedring’s feet. “I beg mercy for Delonias, Sahna, and myself,” Wenifas stated as she kowtowed before the Corpus.

“Do you? Well, that is quite noble of you! And tell me, what punishment would you deliver if you were in my shoes?”

With wide eyes, Wenifas began her answer. “If Sahna demands punishment, then Delonias must suffer. I would give her two lashes, one for each insult, and demand she tithe two days of work, one day to the office of the Corpus, and the other to the Great Sisters of Charity. Then, I would demand a public apology from Sahna, and give her warning. She is not to inflict corporal punishment. That is the charge of the office of the Corpus, both Majoris and Minorus,” Wenifas hedged.

“Measured words, and they show your understanding of the law,” Fedring gave an approving smile. “I shall think on it. And for yourself? What of your own accusations? Or do you feel Sahna is in the wrong?”

“I beg my words be forgotten by all concerned. May the wind take them,” she hung her head.

“They weigh little enough I think,” Fedring offered a reassuring smile. “The gods may erase them for a pittance—but a diem should be sufficient.”

“Thank you,” Wenifas bowed deep, her forehead at Fedring’s legs. He was certainly in a good mood!

“I do not see your boy about,” Fedring stated. “How is the lad?”

“Claiten,” Wenifas breathed the name of her son, only too happy to speak of anything else. “Shall I send for him that you might see?”

Fedring shook his head. “Though I should like to take his measure, my questions do not require that the child be present. Is he well?”

“He is strong and happy. He practices with the dagger you gave him. He loves it very much.”

“And his schooling?”

“He has learned his letters and can make them all. Now I teach him spelling. He can count. He can add and subtract. Multiplication evades him still. He does not see the point of it,” Wenifas admitted. “He likes the songs and knows a dozen. His favorite is The Charge of Ooroiyuo.”

“That is always popular among the boys,” Fedring smiled. “I see the boy about camp with the other children. He is full of energy and guile. He is a good size for his age. He will be of great service to the true gods.”

“Do you think so?”

“Very much,” Fedring nodded. With a cough, he cleared his throat. “And now, if I can see after you.”

With a sigh, Wenifas set Evereste among her blankets. She stood and slipped out of her dress. She stepped out of her panties and pulled off her half shirt. She dropped her soft fabrics to her feet and stared at Fedring as if this didn’t bother her at all.

Blinking and squinting, Fedring crouched and stuck his face in her crotch. “Do you have any complaints?”

“No sir. The Gods have blessed me with good health,” Wenifas stated.

“Mmmm...” He said, and stabbed a cold fat finger at her flower. Wenifas bit her tongue and tried not to shiver. “You appear clean,” Fedring noted. “Lay down.”

Wenifas felt her heart sink. Such physical interrogation was not always warranted—but it was never denied. She sat down and gently rested on her back. “Any particular ritual you should like?” she asked, and hoped for something common.

“The Rape of Leticia,” Fedring said.

A shiver ran up her spine and the hairs on her neck stood on end. Wenifas hated the Rape of Leticia. She refused the ritual for most men and would not even sing the songs—but there was no denying Fedring. Slowly, she laid on her side. She closed her eyes and smiled, that it might discourage her from crying, and pretended to slumber. For this ritual, she was not to react until he touched her. Then, she should fight him. She did not think she could fight him off—though she would try. For a normal petitioner the bruising and hostility of the ritual cost four to five times the price of a simple melding.

The Rape of Leticia had certain rules. A man could do nothing but force himself upon her. There’d be little excessive violence. To hit a priestess cost a good deal, and the church was very good about getting its tithe. But the Majoris would pay for none of it. He could do anything with the body of the church. As a priestess, Wenifas was considered his jurisdiction. He could do as he wished, even unto death. He could hit, bite, scratch, even flay a priestess if he deemed it necessary, such was his position.

Fedring loosed his belt and dropped his pants. He rubbed his cock as he stood over Wenifas. Despite the beauty at his feet, he had trouble getting the old soldier to stand.

Wenifas could not handle the silence. She wondered if it was folly to speak—then thought it might be folly to remain silent. “Have you performed many visits today, my lord?”

“This is my fifth,” he spit in his hand and continued to rub at his little man. Having suffered so much work for one day, the old boy refused to stand at attention. With a frown, Fedring slapped it around, as he might punish a petulant guard.

“Five?!” Wenifas frowned. “Even for a man of your potency, that is too many. Will there soon be a new Minorus soon to help you in your office?”

“I should hope!” Fedring huffed. “The church officials seem to think I can handle this camp alone! Although I appreciate their faith in me, it is a daunting task. It does not help that I have been under the weather these last few days. I am just barely recovered!”

“The gods try the best of us. I shall have less complaint the next time I am sick,” Wenifas noted.

“It is draining to see after so many capable and loyal priestesses. Do you have any sanguine stimulata?” Fedring asked.

“I do not,” Wenifas admitted. “I currently have conicle, blue tips, and a bottle of fine Kelmish red at my disposal.”

“No, none of that,” Fedring frowned. “I suppose just the look of you is enough for most men. You are still young and quite comely,” he added.

“I thank you,” she said, though the compliment made her skin crawl. She wanted this man to think her very plain and ordinary.

“I do not flatter you. It is only my honest assessment,” Fedring noted. For a moment, he let his limp dog hang between his legs.

Wenifas wondered if she should volunteer assistance, but was repulsed by the thought. Instead, she kept her eyes closed and pretended to sleep—as Leticia must do. It seemed like an eternity before Fedring finally spoke again.

“My dear, have you taken shade?”

“No, my lord. I am a desert flower,” she informed—though lately she skipped her doses. Indeed, she’d forgotten she was overdue. How long had it been? Still, the flower would dislodge a child up to a month out. She had time before her rebellion became problematic.

Not that it mattered. Even after a month, there were ways to keep from conceiving—though they became increasingly complex and messy the longer a woman carried. She told herself she’d take the flower as soon as the Corpus left. She would not allow Fedring to seed her under any circumstance. Not even for a day. Not even for an hour.

“A desert flower...” Fedring mulled over her words. He flicked and poked at his limp wand once more before he finally thought better of it. “A pity,” he noted, and picked his pants off the ground.

“Am I to take the shade now?” Wenifas asked. Shade was not a substitute for the desert flower. One dose of shade made a lady barren now and forever. Although some among the priesthood longed to join the Order of the Shade, Wenifas was not among them. She thought shade was tragic, especially since the choice was made by the church fathers, and not given to the priestess. A part of her hoped Fedring would order the shade. Her defiant side relished the idea of secretly ignoring such an order.

Would she defy him, she wondered? For how long? She had enough of the desert flower to last another year—maybe two, or even three if she stretched her doses and took risks. After that, would she still refuse to take the shade? Once her supply of desert flower ran out, it’d be difficult to secure any more. A priestess of the shade purchasing desert flower... If she was caught defying the orders of the Corpus Majoris her punishment could be anything including banishment from the empire! Certainly, she would be stripped of her priesthood, and stripped of her children too!

“No, no shade. That day has not yet come,” Fedring smiled. “In fact, I ask you not to take the desert flower for the time being. I ask that you return to the Order of the Red Crescent.”

“Yes my lord,” she smiled. “I thank you.”

“It is not me you should thank, it is the gods,” Fedring said with little real humility. “They would bless you with another child—or at least the possibility of another—they do tease from time to time.”

Excitement overcame the priestess—and with it came a spark of resentment. She was to have another child! Yet, Wenifas felt that she alone should decide if she would take the desert flower, or the shade, or have a thousand more children! She hated that such things were within Fedring’s power to grant. Just to spite him, she considered taking the flower until commanded to do so. And then, she would not!

Or so insisted her rebellious thoughts... Such thoughts were easy. It was action that was forever difficult. Besides, such action would see her without compromise, without employment, without a people. Consistent and open rebellion would see her stripped of everything. Indeed, her inability to submit to authority was why she was out here on the fringe of civilization to begin with!

“Quite right,” Fedring looked about the tent, somewhat distracted. “Now, have any petitioners mentioned a great serpent?”

“A serpent, my lord?” Her mind turned to Derris and his wild tails of Meu. She could feel the hairs stand on the back of her neck. Was he caught? Did he confess? Did he tell another priestess after all?! Blinding rage erupted behind her eyes. Men were so stupid and simply refused to think with the right head! Fedring stared at her. Did he want her to admit it? Was he giving her a chance to confess before he leveled his accusations and final punishment? Wenifas cursed Derris for a fool!

Still, she couldn’t be sure. A stupid look of confusion stretched across her face—the one Wenifas preferred when she wished to deceive. She’d used it often with the Majoris. “My lord, such talk is rampant among the men. Indeed, they all speak of their great serpents,” she blinked.

Fedring frowned. “I make no joke. I’ve heard rumor of a creature about the camp: a beast of great length, with green eyes, and mighty wings.”

“Oh my!” Wenifas stared in shock. “I suspect I would know if I’d seen such a thing,” she hedged.

“Oh yes. I understand it is quite ferocious,” Fedring said as he continued to stare. “Have any petitioners spoke of such a beast? Or perhaps your son?”

Her son?!

Wenifas realized Fedring knew nothing of Derris and his contact with the creature after all! He was simply fishing for information! She realized if the beast had to bite Derris in order to share his thoughts, then it must have bit Fedring in order to share his thoughts too! No wonder he complained of feeling ill! A jolt of elation surged through her: Derris spoke the truth! Meu must be real! The accusations against the Corpus Majoris were accurate after all!

And to have him standing over her as she lay naked in the shape of Leticia—Wenifas wanted to cry! Instead, she kept her emotions from her face and locked eyes with Fedring. “No, my lord,” she lied. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. Shall I ask?”

Fedring stared at the priestess with disappointment and suspicion on his face. Wenifas wondered if she was caught. She kept her stare blank, as if she wanted nothing but his opinion.

Fedring’s face relaxed and the Corpus shook his head. “Don’t bother the men with such fanciful tales. They have important work to do, but if one should mention it...” he finished. “Now, I have but one more question, the strictest of formalities, I assure you. Is there anything you need to confess? Before the gods?”

Wenifas sat up. This was indeed the strictest of formalities. As such, it was not to be taken lightly—though he made it appear just so. To say ‘no’ was a dangerous thing, for any small infraction could come back at her seven fold. That was the law. She knew it well as she had suffered it often.

But there were ways to dodge such formalities. A confession—any confession was all she needed to make. It was always best to confess some small sin, that a light punishment would be the price. “Forgive me, my lord. I am thinking mean thoughts during the rituals. Not always, but during the visits of one man in particular. Yet, he is worthy in all the ways I am asked to measure. I ask that my heart be softened and that I might accept his seed and metal with grace and humility.”

“What man is this?” Fedring asked.

“I should not like to name him, my lord. I feel the fault is all mine and do not want to slander him, even before the gods,” she hedged.

“Ahh, but the gods already know, and so do I,” Fedring stated. “Yet, the confession is yours to make. I would hear the name from your lips, and thus the penalty will be less.”

She meant to complain about one of the prison guards that served in the stone tower—yet, for a split second, she thought to name Derris instead. A flash of blind intuition told her it was the right play. After all, there was no reason to be honest with this vile man. As she paused, she almost said his name—but at the last second she changed her mind and decided to speak the truth. Wasn’t it always best to speak the truth? “It is Cairn, my lord. I do not like him.” She did not tell him why; that he was rough, uncaring, and tended to stink. It would not hurt her feelings if such a thing got back him. If he should stop visiting altogether, that would be even better.

Fedring stared at Wenifas with a critical eye. “Be glad for his patronage,” he said in a chiding tone. “There are many priestesses about the camp. What if he and all the others should stop petitioning?”

“Yes, my lord,” Wenifas hung her head. She realized Fedring must know the man and probably held him in high regard. She should have guessed as much. They were both awful men.

“What more is there to confess?” Fedring asked. There was an edge to the question.

Wenifas realized her confession angered him. Yet, since she had made a confession, Fedring could not say she had defied his call to repentance. So said the law. If anything else should come up, she simply had to say she was distraught over her first revelation, and the seven fold increase could not be applied. Wenifas shook her head. “Nothing comes to mind, my lord.”

“Very well. Your penance is ten percent for a month,” Fedring began. “If Cairn should visit, you shall donate his entire tithe, that you may remember the favor he grants you.”

“Yes, Corpus. I will make note of it,” Wenifas promised. She hid her astonishment. Cairn’s entire tithe—in the unfortunate event that he should petition—and an additional ten percent from everyone else!? It was an inordinate punishment! Indeed, she had never suffered so much! Fedring must be close to the guard. Wenifas cursed her luck. If only she’d named Derris instead, her sin might have cost her two diems max!

Fedring hefted a purse of coin—tithes, taxes, fees, and donations levied against the office of priestess for the previous month—nearly thirty percent of her earnings in all. He stuffed the pouch in his pocket. “All seems in order; your monies, your children, yourself... May the gods continue to smile on you,” Fedring said—though his demeanor was now crusty. He already signed her book acknowledging receipt of the funds, and so their business was finished.

“And you, my lord,” Wenifas said as she stood and pulled on her small clothes. She gathered Evereste in her arms and tried to look contrite.

“Yes... Just so,” Fedring said with a huff as he left her tent.

Wenifas stood and followed Fedring to the entrance of her tent—mostly to be sure he was leaving. He came to her in such a good mood, and only her words about Cairn had upset him. Fedring stepped down the long row of tents and stopped in front of the one belonging to Delonias. He rang the bell as he glared forward. With a frown, Wenifas let her tent fall closed, and hoped her friend had no stimulata on hand.

For a time, Wenifas played with Evereste, but the young girl was tired, and wanted to resume her nap. Wenifas took Evereste into the other room and set her down to sleep. For a time, she sat and watched as her babe gave in to slumber. She might have told Fedring the child caused her no great concern, but that was simply one more lie she told the terrible man. How long had it been since she’d discovered the child with wax all over her fingers? Like most children, she was drawn to fire. Twice, she’d noticed bee’s wax coating her hand, and just last week Evereste had managed to tip over a candle and light one of her blankets on fire. How was it possible that she hadn’t yet burned herself, that she hadn’t yet tempered her fascination with fear?

With her child down for a nap, Wenifas changed her pin to that of the Red Crescent, and wondered if she should take the desert flower—just to spite Fedring’s orders. She unlocked her jewelry box and pulled out a slight jar of the flower. She measured a dose of the weak poison and stared at the orange and red bits of petal. She did not mind the bitter taste. Indeed, after some men, she relished it. Many of the priesthood said the taste of desert flower could wash away the worst of men. Wenifas agreed. It was pungent and overwhelming to the point that it frequently caused vomiting.

But Fedring had not violated her, not in the physical sense, and so she decided against a dose. Her defiance continued, and now none could fault her! She swept the crushed petals back into their vial and returned it to her jewelry box. With that finished, she laid down next to her babe and closed her eyes.

She did not sleep for long. She woke to the screams of Delonias as her friend begged for mercy. Sweet loving gods, have mercy! Wenifas felt she would not get it. Tears came to her eyes. She pulled her covers and pillows over her head that she might not hear any more of it.

Between the screams of Delonias—between Fedring yelling incoherently, and slapping her about—Wenifas heard the light chime of her bell. She huffed. Of all the times to come calling! But she’d take no petitioners. It was her right to refuse. She thought to let them ring to their heart’s content, but after the third ring came in quick succession, Wenifas stood in a rage and stomped through her tent, that she might scold the petitioner.

“I am not...!” Wenifas began as she pulled aside the curtain of her tent. She meant to say she was not seeing anyone, but she was halted in her fury. Confusion overtook her. “Are you okay?” She began, not knowing what else to ask.

Before her stood an older woman, rail thin, with fire red hair, and eyes the color of grass. The woman was completely naked, injured, and looked as if she’d been run ragged the last few days. Strangest of all, she smiled as if the world were her oyster.

“Sweet Naharahna, what happened to your arm?!” Wenifas whispered as she grabbed the woman’s hand and pulled her into the tent. She glanced among the other nearby tents to see if anyone else witnessed this woman’s impropriety. After all, one could not go about the camp in the nude! What if Fedring should hear of this woman, naked in the noon day sun?! And at the very door of her tent!? She shuddered to think of it.

With the tent closed, Wenifas turned to the naked stranger. The woman sat and ran her fingers along the faded pattern of the carpet as she looked about the room, seemingly unconcerned with her nakedness, or the injury to her arm—which, on closer examination, did seem to be healing quite nicely.

“Well?” Wenifas shrugged. “You gonna say anything?”

The older woman shrugged and shook her head as if she didn’t understand.

Wenifas wondered if she was escaped from the prison, but didn’t think she looked like a Trohl. Even if she was, it’d sure be nice to get caught with a little something to wear—or so Wenifas thought. There was nothing better than a little cloth between a woman and the lusting public! She turned to the other room in order to retrieve something for the stranger to wear.

“...and I should have something we can turn into a bandage,” Wenifas said to herself as she stepped away. She glanced among her clothing, though she knew all of her garments would hang off the slight woman. “As good as any...” she said as she pulled one of the worst pinchers from her collection, and grabbed a clean rag.

The stranger took the dress and put it on with a gracious bow. She then allowed Wenifas to wash the wound and dress it.

“That does it,” Wenifas gave a shrug as she stepped away from the woman and her injury. “How’s it feel?”

The lady stepped forward. With bright emerald eyes, she wrapped Wenifas in a hug, then kissed the priestess on the lips.

Wenifas pushed her away. “You are too forward!” she scolded. She was about to demand the proper tithe—or simply refuse the woman outright—when she realized she was poisoned. What was on this stranger’s lips?!

Was this the doing of one of the other priestesses? Did Sahna, or one of her court put her up to this? She had done nothing to upset the woman of late—but she could think of no alternatives.

The venom infected Wenifas. A confusion roiled through the priestess. In a fog, she sat down as fantastic and impossible thoughts inserted themselves in her head.

Several tents away, Delonias began to scream once more. Wenifas frowned as she slumped to the floor and faded further and further away. She wanted to scream—to add her voice to that of her good friend—but was talked down by a sweet calm voice in her mind, things are not as they seem.

The stranger smiled and stared at the priestess knowingly.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 13.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

As expected, Scurra’s petition to go west was denied. Not that she would be deterred by a mere formality.

The plan was simple. Scurra and Andrus were going over a wall, through a side garden, then over a another wall. After all that, they’d be in woods, all on their own, with the west stretching out before them.

The property was owned by a high cleric of the wrong faction, so getting caught on his property would be an issue. He also had several guards—but it was a large garden, thick with foliage, so they believed their chances were good. On top of that, it drizzled. Scurra thought the light rain was perfect for their purpose. It allowed them to wear thicker clothing, to obscure some of their more irregular equipment, and it’d also keep the crowds down, giving them a better chance to get over the wall unobserved.

Aim walked with them, just to see them on their path. The mountainous man kept watch as Andrus threw the grappling hook over the high brick wall. Scurra made her way over without any issue—but as soon as she was on the other side, she was accosted by several of the high cleric’s guards, as if they knew she was coming. “Hey!” she huffed, when they started getting handsy.

Andrus was about to go over and give them a piece of his mind, when he heard a scuffle eruping behind him. He turned to see several men jumping on Aim, while another half dozen cornered him. Having nowhere to go, he lifted his arms and surrendered.

Not Aim. He punched, kicked, and quickly found himself free of his attackers. He glanced an apology at Andrus and bolted down an alley. as several men gave chase. Andrus didn’t blame him. They were heavily outnumbered. Fleeing was the wisest course.

Not wanting to get caught himself, Andrus fought. He threw several smart punches and landed a couple good kicks—but there were simply too many. It wasn’t long before they’d knocked him down and then unconscious.

As for Aim, well, he might be a giant and seemingly easy to track—but he was fast, and once he made it to a crowd of pedestrians, he proved to be quite a sneak. So it was that only Scurra and Andrus were caught.

The nest day, Traust came by the jail for a visit. He was well dressed, a man of obvious wealth.

“Hello, cousin. How bad is it?” Scurra asked.

Traust shrugged. “They’re insisting you see a judge, since you had weapons upon you.”

“I was heading out west. It’s supposed to be a war zone! What kind of an idiot would I be if I didn’t take weapons?!” Scurra stated.

“You were on the grounds of a high cleric, a rather suspicious and jittery man, if I do say so myself. He’s afraid you were after him,” Traust explained.

“That’s rubbish,” Scurra frowned. “How’s Andrus? They won’t let me see him.”

“He’s banged and bruised,” Traust noted. “I’d say its his confidence that probably suffered the most.”

“So how long are we stuck in here?”

Traust shook his head. “At least a week.”

“A week!?” Scurra huffed. “And all the time my brother’s rotting in a cell!”

Traust held out his hands. “One cell at a time, cousin. Even greasing a number of palms, I’ll be happy to have you out so quick. These prisons are chalk full, and since most these people are innocent, they’re all trying to see a judge. But you don’t get to see any ol’ judge. Since they think you might have been after a high cleric, they’re making you see the Muaha himself.”

Scurra shook her head. “This is ridiculous.”

“I’m not the one to convince,” Traust stated. “Listen, these people love dishing out punishment. So keep your head down, and button your lips. I know its a whole goddamn week—but it is just a week.”

“If i’s only just a week,” Scurra noted.

Traust shook his head. “I don’t mind your sass. We’ve known each other far too long to be worried about a little bit of attitude between you and me,” he began. “But when it comes time to see Kezodel, just remember he has a bit of a temper himself. I’d dial back the fire if I were you.”

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