pilgrim_
now a major motion picture
A corruption is being sought out in the growing Kacharn Principality, a warrior's land led by a line descended from the prophet Charssus himself- and now, by Prince-Priest Mahuten. It is the Dusk of the Sixth Year, with the possibility of a long, harsh winter ahead for the people.
The Kacharni have, since their unification, worshipped the changes of time, as the power of the sun and moon were believed to hold the very idea of existence. Night sapped the prosperous day of any darkness, allowing the pious to live in peace as long as the night brought great violence, from beasts and men alike.
There is an issue, of course. Some claim to worship the moon and the night, and carry it to unwilling subjects, using what the peasants describe as rapture to empty small settlements of people and cattle.
Therefore, the long-reigning Mahuten has decided to make contact, preferably hostile, with the sources of this destruction, but has not called upon any banners or cries of war to do so.
Instead he has taken two particulars, and eliminated them from the sight of the populace, to send them whether they wished or not towards the wilds, in the knowledge they may be utterly lost if the stories are true.
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Empty black fields lay beyond the gentle rise of smoke, all the while carts took the goods away, heading out on dirt roads to a distant venture of possible wealth, protected by the faith of the town in their ability to bring success out of the long toil.
Some ways away, a large, slightly uneven structure towers over a meeting of three. A wood bastion fixed to a small attachment, sloping downwards to deflect rain. A patch of sticks and twigs in the spire lets out a song of short whistles. Upon the building is numerous black suns and white moons, some fallen, some scraped away and moss-eaten.
"I've heard it's good luck if there's new hatchlings living in the cold," remarked a figure clearly ill-clothed for the overcast chill. His dark robes, though tightly bound, do little to repel the winds.
"Anyway, you can stay in here for a short time before you head out. No talking to the locals, and I can't answer any questions. You've been told everything you're supposed to. I'll give you a piece of advice, though," he shivers slightly, looking toward the sky.
"Pray. If your arms fall, your faith will be the last thing to protect you. Hope this is the last we see of this blasted weather."
Aged by discomfort, the priest trudges through the wet field to his village. The doors lay closed, and there is no clear path into the treeline, only wild plantlife.
The Kacharni have, since their unification, worshipped the changes of time, as the power of the sun and moon were believed to hold the very idea of existence. Night sapped the prosperous day of any darkness, allowing the pious to live in peace as long as the night brought great violence, from beasts and men alike.
There is an issue, of course. Some claim to worship the moon and the night, and carry it to unwilling subjects, using what the peasants describe as rapture to empty small settlements of people and cattle.
Therefore, the long-reigning Mahuten has decided to make contact, preferably hostile, with the sources of this destruction, but has not called upon any banners or cries of war to do so.
Instead he has taken two particulars, and eliminated them from the sight of the populace, to send them whether they wished or not towards the wilds, in the knowledge they may be utterly lost if the stories are true.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Empty black fields lay beyond the gentle rise of smoke, all the while carts took the goods away, heading out on dirt roads to a distant venture of possible wealth, protected by the faith of the town in their ability to bring success out of the long toil.
Some ways away, a large, slightly uneven structure towers over a meeting of three. A wood bastion fixed to a small attachment, sloping downwards to deflect rain. A patch of sticks and twigs in the spire lets out a song of short whistles. Upon the building is numerous black suns and white moons, some fallen, some scraped away and moss-eaten.
"I've heard it's good luck if there's new hatchlings living in the cold," remarked a figure clearly ill-clothed for the overcast chill. His dark robes, though tightly bound, do little to repel the winds.
"Anyway, you can stay in here for a short time before you head out. No talking to the locals, and I can't answer any questions. You've been told everything you're supposed to. I'll give you a piece of advice, though," he shivers slightly, looking toward the sky.
"Pray. If your arms fall, your faith will be the last thing to protect you. Hope this is the last we see of this blasted weather."
Aged by discomfort, the priest trudges through the wet field to his village. The doors lay closed, and there is no clear path into the treeline, only wild plantlife.
