-- Beneath the bell tower. ---
On the fringes of the cheering denizens of Hyrnn, more and more people took notice of the royal guards at the front and back of the approaching weathered group, clearly distinguishing themselves from the rest with their armour but not their stride or posture. Five bodies in the middle of the group—one slender woman with blonde hair and four barely dressed blurs—moved on, huddled together, standing out from the rest just as the royal guards did.
For the two at the back quietly blending in, easily forgotten as extra men of the realm, Byrnn was stumbling to keep up, unlike Gonf who was following with ease with an empty expression, just looking on, ignoring the interested gawks from the living mass.
Brucknell: It seems like we have more than what we asked for... 'Disgruntled.'
As an entourage of three priests in training—one woman and two men in their youth—were holding onto the edges of a long white robe, keeping it afloat from the cobbles below, all of them were at Brucknell's back, shadowing the high priest and his movements perfectly and quietly hearing the words in front and ignoring them.
The small, round man who stood atop the podium was now in front of the coming group, halting his movements and waiting for them to move closer for the final stretch, calling them all with his presence. A strange feeling lingered in the back of Brucknell's mind; the source of his weariness was coming from his right; it was coming from somewhere deep within the crowd.
Before he could focus on it, the calls of the people swayed his thoughts, and the pleasure of his name rang true.
*SEVERAL SHOUTS, AIMED AT THE HIGH PRIEST.*
A villager with a swollen belly lurched forward, one hand on her stomach and another in the air, reaching high.
Pregnant Villager: Please... please bless my unborn child your holiness! 'Pleading.' Give me a healthy baby girl or boy! My husband passed in the stampede, let them grow strong and make him proud. (Hands together, praying.) "Luminarum."
A man in fine green silks called out from behind the bulging woman, shouting over her cries.
Merchant: Your Holiness... your Holiness. (Frantically waving.) Please grant us a full bounty on this blessed day for a bountiful trade; let the gold flow like the coming rains and golden harvest of wheat. 'Shouting.' "Luminarum."
Then a man adorning a darkened-scaled armour of a skinned wyvern, the dark points covering him from the neck down, all the way to his feet, the colour mixing from a reddish to orange hue in the light. The living lesser dragon began to push his way to the edge, past the enamoured crowd with his wide arms like wings, parting the people as he moved, some wilfully, others having to be forced to move.
*QUICK MOVEMENT OF FEET, ARMOUR, AND DISGRUNTED VOICES.*
A guard walked forward with an open hand, seeing the adventurer push his way ahead, parting the bodies as he moved on, his spear tilting at the ready. The sight of the guard forced the living wyvern to halt its wingless advance, acknowledging his presence only with a quick flick of his eyes.
Guard: That's close enough... 'Firm.' No one shall approach his holiness. (Hand up.)
The adventure slowed and spoke out, speaking past the guard like he wasn't there, aiming for the target he couldn't reach.
Wyvern-clad adventurer: 'Loud.' Will you give me enough strength to slay the mightiest of beasts? (Arm raised with a balled fist.) Come on! Let's kill those stupid dragons flying around all high and mighty. 'Joking.' COME ON! I shall be the Lord's vessel to smite them all. 'Calling out.' "LUMINARUM, LUMINARUM!"
The high priest smirked at the remarks of the adventurer; even the guards themselves smiled at the show and the lone spearman slunk back to his post, muttering to himself.
Guard: If he wears anymore scales, he might just have to kill himself one day. 'Muttering.'
The prayers from before undoubtably took hold of their minds and the show of divinity cemented it all together, as were the demands of miracles, all of them trying to grab the old priest's gaze. Brucknell revelled in the words as they grew, like a maestro listening to the echoes of his melody and seeing the people dance to his tune, clapping for an encore. The uncomfortable feeling was fading from the back of his mind, ignorantly in bliss, now waving to the people calling out to him.
*MIXED CHEERING AND SHOUTS GROWING AND FADING.*
The people, still rumbling with praise for the high priest and their God, began to talk amongst themselves, except for the buttercup-eyed woman who never took her attention from the high priest, not from the podium or even now, not swayed by the empty words of a God or fool she had no love for, still staring, not even blinking in the darkness of the moving tower's shadow that creeped to her foot, the sun not far behind.
The cloak shuffled and so did the foot from the coming light.
The lone soul in the purple suede cloak, still keeping her distance from the people around her, was watching from afar. The cloak ruffled from the slow clapping of hands, blending into the commotion all around, watching on as the plump little priest reached for his hand.
Dwinnerva: Foolish prattling of empty words... (Staring at the high priest's ring.) My, my, what a lovely little trinket. 'Unimpressed.' It would look nice in my collection. (Reaching to ring on her neck.) And here you are after all these years. Look how the fallen have grown mighty. 'Grinning.'
The villagers, shopkeepers, and adventurers shuffled around the cloaked figure, trying to get a better look of the priest still waving to them. Unaware that their own movements and conversations were suffocating the mysterious woman's words, the cold, lifeless eyes of the jeweller focused, clearly seeing the ring she coveted and the contempt she festered in her mind.
Unbeknownst to the person watching him, the golden ring adorned with the orange crystal slipped from the large plump finger of the high priest, now finding its way gracefully into one of the hands of a fellow follower who had moved into view, their hands not bound to the cloak.
Brucknell: Here, please take care of her, will you? 'Soft.' Make sure you tend to it properly later when we return. 'Nodding.'
The hooded white-robed follower, with only her curved figure and small breasts giving her features away from the thick material she wore, took the ring and quickly squirrelled it away into a small wooden brown box at the behest of the high priest's orders.
A wafting hand gesture swam in the air in the female priest's direction to signal her return from whence she came, taking the upmost care of the treasure bestowed upon her, clutching the open box to her chest and sinking it into her small breasts in a motherly embrace, clearly hiding the glee in her dropped head.
*CLACK OF A LID.*
As the small lid closed, the hooded figure fell back behind the ones holding the high priest's robe high above, taking a place next to the small child, hidden out of view.
The still-staring eyes of the jeweller in the crowd moved from the elated priest, no longer following the ring or the hand that returned to wave at the people; she was looking at the small, mysterious child, their features hidden under the black robe, out of sight of human eyes, the clapping of hidden hands coming to an end.
Dwinnerva: (Squinting eyes.) Hmm... why is that one here? 'Contempt.' It looks like I will have to wait just a little while longer. 'Grumbling.' How bothersome, when I was so close as well... (Looking up at the sun.) Still, it isn't a complete loss. (Hand moving under the cloak.) What's another day... or a hundred more. 'Glee.'
An opaque-looking thin vial appeared from under the now-ruffling cloak, making its way to the woman's youthful, smooth lips. The glass prison was filled with a thick, dark liquid that stuck to the walls of its confines. A gentle twist of the glass with no lid freed it with a crack, and the faint aroma of metal lingered in the air, quickly being downed in one go, enjoying the much-needed refreshment.
Dwinnerva: Ah, a pleasant taste; better to be safe than sorry. 'Content.'
A swivelling motion of a head looked around, no longer looking at the high priest, quickly glancing past the gaps of the crowd that opened and closed.
Dwinnerva: I guess Kohl isn't here after all? (Looking around, not seeing what she desired.) Just where is he? 'Concerned.' If it wasn't for all these people... (Something crumpling in her hand.)
*SPRINKLING OF GLASS ON STONE.*
A muffled crunching of glass seeped out from the woman's palm, then trickled to the floor like snowflakes, glistening as it fell from the woman's right hand as she turned her shoulder and bumped into the man to her side, now wanting to leave the farce in front of her.
The villager turned around, feeling an odd sensation run down his spine from the soft tap of something bumping into him. A disturbed complexion looked around to find no one standing in the spot where he had heard the voice just moments ago, then hands moved to his person, checking for his belongings.
He shrugged, finding nothing amiss and shivering his back muscles to remove the odd feeling. The small waistcoat of the shopkeeper moved up and then down, wriggling with his weight as she shook, quickly returning to the sight of the high priest. The sun now moved the shadow of the tower, and the warmth of the light embraced his worn face as he looked on, washing away the cold sensation, just barely seeing the small bur in the distance from the blinding light.
Shopkeeper: I really should have gotten closer... He looks like an ant from here. (Hand above his brow, shielding his eyes from the sun.) Maybe next time, I guess. (Raising his hand.) Hail the "Luminarum." (Calling to the man on the move.)
Brucknell came face-to-face with the royal guard leading the group, still hearing the cheers from the people; a forced smile widened on the high priest's face, which faded upon seeing the men in thick armour clutching their bodies in discomfort, in front and behind.
A confused, wrinkled expression scanned over the four young adventurers he called for, clearly not bound in chains or donned in their armour, their weapons of trade no longer casually being held by the two royal guards in the back in two piles as glorified royal baggage men.
An old gaze then moved to the woman standing in front of the cowering four, who was wielding a scolding look.
Brucknell wilfully ignored the extra two men to the rear, one more worse than the other with a wadded nose. No longer pondering the thoughts in his head, the high priest spoke on the situation at hand, not impressed with the fulfilment of the Lord's wishes or his own.
Brucknell: (Hand to his forehead.) I take it that these are the four the Lord and I requested; why aren't they in chains? 'Questioning look.' And who is this... "woman?" (Hand sliding down to his chin in thought.) She does look familiar. (Inspecting the woman up and down.) Well then, what have you to say? (Facing the royal guard closest to him.) Speak, or does a grover have your tongue?
Before the man in front could speak, the priest laid on to him.
Brucknell: Or do you wish to be admonished for your simple failings... I doubt these four gave you trouble that put you in this sorry state. (Eyeing the blonde-haired woman.)
The royal captain of the guard, the man who had been in charge of his men at the inn, edged forward, moving his steel hand from his waist and arching down in a grovelling respect in a failed bow, noticing the high priest taking note of the slight hesitation, and he began to reply in a weak manner, almost sputtering his words as he began to think of something to say.
A silver helm lifted up slightly, just enough to see the old face of the high priest no longer paying him any attention from the slits in the round steel dome.
The High priest was interested in the woman glaring back at him, as he was doing to her.