The city of Oberden, or Holy Oberden as the people call it, was the center of trade and commerce of the Vorhan Empire. Many people come and go there. No one walked leisurely, everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere. Sure, there was the apparent aroma of spices in the air, but of ale? Wine? Gin?
None.
The strange letters and writings on the signages slowly transformed into something that he could recognize. It is as if something has given him instant linguistic knowledge. It swirled his mind a bit, but the lack of taverns took him back to the reality that he was now living.
The people around that saw him in the carriage of the holy men, tied and gagged, looked at him with fear. His lips quivered a smirk at them. Henry was not one to shy away from people thinking that he's a vile person.
I mean, he knows he is one.
His occupation is literally feeding people's vices, and he's aware of that.
Though, he reasoned to himself, it's no better than other occupations. Authors, poets, and all them feed people's spirit and alter their mind to someplace they've never been. He does the same.
But through alcohol.
Both intoxicates, he thought.
Soon, the carriage stopped in front of a building made out of marble. Most of the buildings in Oberden were made out of it. They seem to have an obsession with it. And on the rims of the building were red banners. On it was a white circle inside a golden sun, like an eclipse. Henry was led out of the wagon, and he moved reluctantly.
As they passed through the silver-gilded doors, Henry noticed something odd. Everyone they passed stared at him. Not just a casual glance, but a wide-eyed, slack-jawed kind of stare, like they were seeing a ghost. Or worse, an avatar of a god.
"Is that him?" whispered a woman, clutching a basket of fruit to her chest as if it might shield her from whatever fate Henry represented.
"The Chosen One," muttered another, an older man with a scarred face. He bowed his head slightly as Henry walked by, like he was offering a silent prayer.
Henry clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to tell them all how ridiculous this was.
He wasn't their savior.
Least of all his own.
No man or woman, he believes, could truly bring such a change that will save everyone from catastrophe. The stupidity that is inherent in all of the living, and that of the dead, is so severe that the act of saving ourselves does not prevent disaster, only hinders it.
So to speak, no matter how great he thought himself, he was a speck.
And there, he was a speck that was bound and gagged, hauled through the halls like some holy artifact. They flanked on all sides, like Grecian phalanxes, as they drifted towards a room they'd soon reach.
The ceilings, they soared—like the sky got bored of being the sky and thought, "Hey, let's go infinite." Murals painted all over, gods or saints or some celestial carnival was happening up there. And the light—oh, it streamed through stained glass, reds and blues and golds, tinting the floors, trying to turn everything hallowed and kaleidoscopic.
All to make a guy feel small, insignificant, and, yeah, obedient—at least, that's how Henry Savoy thought of the whole scene.
Obedience, though, he was not. He felt like it, sure, but just because you feel love you will confess to someone.
You need booze for that sometimes.
Numb yourself to your own stupidity.
They reached a set of stone stairs, leading up to some kind of holy stage with a big altar perched on top.
And behind that?
A lady, robes even fancier, and an air about her like she knew the meaning of life and wasn't impressed. She locked eyes with Henry, staring him down like she could see every shitty things Henry ever made—and then some.
The Saint of Oberin, as they call her.
The lady raised her hand—silent command—and the air just sucked in, the room got quiet.
"Ourus Dei," the Saint of Oberin said, calm, soft, like the whole world would jump at her word.
That untied Henry's wrists, the gag breaking off from his mouth. Henry, well, he stretched his arms wide, cracked his neck like he'd just gotten out of bed, that smirk curling up on one side. That was the same magick he'd seen from the young holy man that was with him.
"Ah, there we go! Much better," he said, voice dripping venomously. "Now, what's the big deal? You guys don't get a lot of guests, huh? You bastards treat VIPs like this? Can't imagine what you'll do to your enemies."
The Saint didn't take the bait. She barely understood some of what he spoke—especially the VIP part. She just stared, that 'I've seen it all' look boring into Henry like she was sizing up a bug.
Then, finally, she spoke.
"You are The One Prophesied By the Stars. You are the Chosen One, the one who will bring about the Restoration."
Her voice became more vivid each syllable she spoke. To Henry Savoy's ear, it made sense why she was on her seat. People, no matter who they are, as long as they have a certain thing in their voice—beauty and other of the kind—they could command people. Much like a singer could make people sway and bask in the temporary insanity of their music, and dance like the world is meant to be a dance floor and nothing much. Nothing more.
Henry blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then he exploded with laughter, a loud, obnoxious belly laugh that bounced around the room like a bad joke.
"You serious? Me? The Chosen One? Oh, you're killing me! I'm a mixer, honey. I make drinks and occasionally flirt with lonely, drunk women. Saving the universe, son? Yeah, fuck that, that's not on my resume."
The Saint didn't even flinch.
"You underestimate your significance. The spirits of this world have long foretold your arrival. You have been marked by destiny. And, what did you speak of? Bar-what?"
A dumbfounded look came upon Henry Savoy. This place was getting to him. Sure, he expected that it would be different, but a world without his occupation? What kind of miserable existence did these people live? But, for now, he thought of shoving this question of hers away.
At least, now, he thought, he had an idea that his kind doesn't exist here.
He only threw up his hands and rolled his eyes, playing the part.
"Yeah, yeah, destiny, spirits, prophecies—let me guess, there's some big bad I'm supposed to take down, and everyone's gonna be super grateful? I've heard this one before, babe, and I'm telling you, you got the wrong guy. The only thing I've been 'marked' by is a couple of bad decisions and one or two questionable tattoos."
A heavy chime rang out, cutting through his words, and Henry clapped his hands to his ears with a wince. The Saint of Oberin raised his hand again, all calm and serene. And though she was not close to Henry Savoy, her voice was so loud and clear that he felt that she was speaking beside him.
"In time, you will understand. Tearh is not like your world. Here, the gods choose, and their will is final."
"Oh, sure, the gods. They always have something to say, don't they? Well, guess what—I don't care about your gods, your prophecies, or whatever cosmic soap opera you've got going on here. I'm not playing along. I'm nobody's puppet, especially not yours."
The Saint of Oberin smiled, this quiet, almost pitying smile that screamed 'you poor, dumb fool.'
"That is what they all say at first."
Before Henry could unleash another sarcastic comeback, the room got cold.
Not the kind of cold where you shiver a little—no, this was bone-deep, primal, like the room itself had decided to stop caring about the laws of nature.
Henry's breath fogged up in front of him, and the hues of tinted light began to crawl.
Something real bad.
The Saint of Oberin started to pulse in color. Everything became blurred while she became wildly detailed, and she was everything that Henry Savoy could seem to focus on. The colors shifted around the room, and the people around him cleared themselves in the open space and went to the sides of that gigantic room so they wouldn't be in the thick of it.
Henry's cocky grin slipped a little. He'd seen a lot of weird in his time, but this? This was new. And of course, what did he expect? Everything will be new in this unfamiliar world. The figure of the lady glided over to him, stopping just a few feet away. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper, cold and sharp like broken glass that you keep trying to pick up.
"Do you deny your fate, Chosen One?"
Henry opened his mouth, ready to throw out some snark, but the words got stuck. For the first time since this crazy ride started, he hesitated.
Glancing between the floating lady, really down where some of her legs were exposed, she finally muttered, "Fate? Yeah, nah, I'm not really into that. I think I'll pass, thanks."
The lady leaned in, closer than Henry liked, and he could feel it—those eyes burning into him, like twin lasers cutting through all the jokes and swagger. The fact that her lips were close to him got him all kinds of wants, though.
That bit made a smirk easier to pull.
It waned after she hovered back, still facing him.
"You have no choice."