Xanthus Creek - Irredeemable

[Space Cowboy]

And thus he came to look upon the fourth sign, darker and more terrifying than any that had preceded it. For the world was awash with the blood and screams of the heathen and Legion alike, with only the faithful knowing Ezra’s eternal salvation.

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The sickly sweet scent of fresh blood was overpowering and pervasive. That was the first thing the priest noticed as he collapsed to his knees. His head was ringing with the blow. Dull pain seared through his skull and reverberated into an unbearable crescendo. He felt like he was going to be sick.

The second thing he noticed was the mocking laughter.

When the priest's laboured words finally came, they sounded far away and distant like he was underwater. “This is no way to treat an anchorite of Ez-”
Hie words were answered by another swing of the youth's makeshift club, this time connecting with the side of his face in a vicious blow that sent him reeling.

“Give it up, old man! Pay up and you just might be able to walk again!” The youth called out between savage blows. He was young and inexperienced but had the fervor of youth on his side. The Warden was pretty certain he had broken a rib. It hardly bothered him. He had suffered worse.

He spat out a mouthful of blood. “I don’t carry any coin, boy.” The Warden managed to say between heaving lungfuls of air. The young man snarled as he lifted the Warden to his feet. "Everyone knows you zealots are hoarding money!" The priest was dimly aware that his once pristine emerald robes were slowly beginning to turn crimson with blood. The youth’s breath reeked of alcohol.

It was when the boy’s greedy fingers entered into his bag that the Warden acted. Seizing the boy’s hand, he brought his forehead forward in a vicious headbutt that shattered the young man’s nose. The young man could barely react before his crude wooden blackjack was in the Warden's hand. He swung it at the young man’s legs with unexpected force. A sickening crunching sound followed.

The young man clutched his leg as he moaned and writhed on the ground. He looked younger than the Warden had first assumed, dark hair framing a face smeared with the dirt of the streets. The Warden grasped the boy and thrust him up against the wall.

“What’s your name boy?” The Warden spat, a thick wad of blood hitting the wall beside the frightened boy. The young man's voice responded with barely a squeak.

“X-Xanthus.”

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Although far from being a metropolis that rivaled the once great city of Il Aluk, Karg was nevertheless a bustling thoroughfare of the Vallis Lacrimatum region. Located on a prominent trade route through the Vale of Tears, during the day it was as busy as any other moderately sized market town in Darkon. All that changed once night fell. The townsfolk had retreated behind locked doors, the city gates closed and barred shut. Even Xanthus and the other street rats of the town knew to find shelter by sundown. Only the foolish remained outside the town during the long hours of the night in recent years. The foolish, or those that were given no choice.

Xanthus pulled once more, heaving with all his might in a desperate attempt to force the shackles free that had him bound and chained to the palisade outside the city gates. The youth was weak and frail from his time on the streets, so such a task was akin to moving a mountain. It was no use.

“Help!” He yelled into the cold night, once again. His voice was hoarse from shouting. No one answered his plea. It didn’t surprise him.

Xanthus could feel fear beginning to close it’s icy grip on his heart. He had heard the stories since the Requiem claimed the city of Il Aluk. Things had begun to move upriver into the Vale of Tears. Terrible things. Things that hunted at night and preyed on lone travelers and isolated farmsteads. Things that were unliving, but still walked with malevolent purpose.
In recent years the villages and towns of the Vale had become fortified encampments when dusk fell. Slowly, the realisation of his situation began to dawn on him.

The old man had left him here to die. It was true what they said of the Ezrites. Fanatics and zealots, ruthless and without compassion. Intent only on spreading the influence of their church and dogma to ensnare more in the labrythine structure of their religion.

“Help!” He yelled again, desperation beginning to enter his voice. The moon disappeared for a moment behind a bank of grey clouds, and when it returned, the fields of crops all around were cast in an otherworldly pallid light. By the treeline beyond the road, Xanthus thought he could make out shapes moving unnaturally through the undergrowth. Moonlight reflected off cold, dead eyes.

“Oh gods…” Xanthus exclaimed quietly in fright, desperately yanking on the chain that had him secured in place. It showed no sign of ever relenting. It was the wrong decision to make - the creatures had noticed the movement, and now the dark shapes were moving in his direction.

The youth shuddered in fear. In his moment of terror he could suddenly see with perfect clarity the ashen, sunken skin of the things - mouths wide with long slavering tongue-like appendages that drooled with an unnatural hunger. Their eyes were hungry and filled with malicious intent as they lurched towards him. So this was it, he thought, the end. He closed his eyes and waited for darkness to take him.

Only it didn’t, because suddenly the old Warden was upon the beasts. Like a man possessed, the grizzled priest fought with a fury the youth had never before seen. The priest’s flail whirled through the air and slammed into the creature’s rotting flesh. One of the monsters took a bite out of the Warden’s arm, but it only spurred the old zealot on further. The man was chanting some kind of prayer, and Xanthus could notice the bright light that seemed to emanate from his person, casting away the darkness.

The last creature lay twitching on the ground. The Warden’s robe was soaked with blood splatter. He stepped over to where Xanthus was chained and, wordlessly, used a key to release the lock and chain.

“You - You!” Xanthus screamed at the old man. “You almost got me killed!”
“And you almost killed me, boy.” The man replied, calmly. “So now we’re even. And you'll address me as Warden Elben Tanner.”
Xanthus’ fear had given way to anger. “You have no right to judge me!”
“I have EVERY right!” Warden Tanner snarled, his face dangerously close to the youths’. His grey beard bristled with indignation. “You are a petty criminal, a pathetic waste of the sacrifice that Ezra made to save us all. You served a purpose luring these creatures here tonight. Count yourself fortunate, boy,  that you are going to live and learn from this experience.”
“The old priests in town are right.” Xanthus yelled angrily at the Ezrite. “You- you zealots are going to get us all killed. You’re nothing but trouble! I wish I had killed you!”
Tanner laughed. “You speak of the Eternal Order?” He spat in thinly veiled disgust. “All this mess is their fault, boy. They failed. Their Hour of Ascension has been and passed. The world is headed straight into darkness and it’s their fault and those of all the others with their delusional faiths.”

The old priest shook the gore off his flail onto the wet grass, taking a step towards the city gates. He lifted a hand, gesturing to the palisade and defenses that had been erected to protect from the monsters. “If you want to live in fear, huddled behind your stone wall like a coward, begging for scraps, with nothing to live for but the lies and deceit of the Eternal Order, cowering before the end of the world, then by all means boy - go back in there.”

“But.” Warden Tanner continued, his steely gaze locking with Xanthus’. “If you want to make something of your life, and give yourself to something greater… If you want to learn the truth...If you want to confront your fear… if you want to be saved, and find unconditional love in Her service…” The priest paused, allowing a moment for his words to sink in. “Then you can find me on the road to Nevuchar Springs.”

Xanthus did not have time to respond, for the old zealot was already walking away.

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Xanthus couldn’t sleep that night.

He tossed and turned, shivering alone in a forgotten part of the city. The coldness had seeped into his bones and made it hard to think. Not even the stars overhead held any comfort for him.

Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the horrific maw of that thing lunging for him. He could not forget the cold dark malevolence in the depths of it's eyes, nor the stench of death that it carried with it. In that moment, the young man had seen his short life flash before his eyes.

He had done many things he was not proud of. He had murdered and stolen, and found that both things had come remarkably easy to him. There was a certain joy to be had in taking the life of another, a thrill that made him feel alive. He was ashamed of that feeling, but it was a part of him. Once, he did not care. He was certain he was to die on the streets eventually.
 
Was it really possible to be saved? Even someone like him?

The old Warden had destroyed those monsters with ease, without hesitation. He did not know what to make of this Ezra, but that… that had been real power. That was something real. Something that he had never seen the old priests of the Eternal Order do.

He had never known his parents. He had grown up on the streets, keeping everyone at arm’s length, for to do otherwise was only going to get yourself shanked. He had never experienced love. All he had ever truly known was fear.

Could Ezra truly love him? Could he be as fearless as the Warden? And was the world really ending?
Down here in the gutters of Karg, it was easy to believe that was the case.

                           ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Warden!”
The voice rang out above the bustle of the market day crowd. Tanner turned to see the youth run up to him, panting for breath. “Warden!”
“So we meet again, boy.” Warden Tanner replied with but a little amusement in his voice.
“I want to… I want to learn more about Ezra!” Xanthus exclaimed excitedly. “I want to be saved. Please, Warden.”
“Only Our Guardian may reveal what is in store for you in Her grand scheme, boy.” The old Warden grunted. “But there may be hope for you yet.”
“I have nothing here.” Xanthus said. “Take me with you. I want to learn. I want to… know what it means to love someone, something. Something bigger than myself. I don't want to be scared anymore.”
The craggy expression of the older man softened somewhat, before quickly hardening again. “You can come with me and I can provide you a bed and a warm place to stay. I ask only one thing in return.”
Xanthus nodded eagerly. “Anything.”
Warden Tanner's expression became grim and resolute as he leaned closer, his face as hard as the craggy rock from which it appeared to be chiseled.
“Your obedience.”

[Space Cowboy]

The flickering orange hue of the candlelight bathed the room in otherworldly illumination. Shadows danced in the darkness at the edge of the light, but the silence was the first thing that Xanthus noticed. Elsewhere in the temple of the Last Redoubt, there was often an endless faint ringing of steel against steel as holy warriors trained day and night tirelessly, interspersed only with fervent and fanatical chanting of prayer. But here, in the catacombs beneath the Temple, there was nothing but silence and darkness in the endless cold tunnels. Sometimes, Creek had wondered how many other acolytes like himself had become lost in the subterranean maze, forever. It was a thought he did not care to dwell on.

He spared another apprehensive gaze around the large chamber that he had been instructed to arrive in. The candlelight revealed macabre and gruesome carvings upon the walls - grinning visages of skulls and human skeletons, carved into the dark granite. Creek had been told that the ornamentation was a remnant of the Eternal Order, who had constructed the Temple before Bastion Raines had seized control of it. Seeing it with his own eyes made him think of the Order in Karg. There, it was powerful, respected, and commanded authority from both the citizenry and law enforcement alike - out of fear of the dead, if nothing else. Here, it was nothing but remnants of a past age, who’s time had been and gone. It had been replaced. The world had changed.

Ever since Il Aluk. Creek reflected. Everything has changed. Not for the first time, in his mind’s eye he once again saw the monstrous figure leaping at him with fangs bared and bloody claws ready to strike. He once again saw the dark void in it’s eyes, a creature that was driven to exist entirely by hate and unnatural hunger. He shuddered involuntarily.
“Blessings of Our Guardian be upon you, Acolyte Creek.”
Xanthus had not heard the figure approach. He spun around startled, his eyes adjusting to the dim light as the shape of a slim figure came into view. The slender figure was dressed in ceremonial wrappings, a tunic depicting the holy symbol of Ezra and a long flowing cloak that fell from his shoulders that seemed to flicker with the shadows. His face was obscured by a heavy hood that hung low over his face. Two slender hands pressed themselves together as he bowed gracefully.
“My apologies.” Xanthus caught himself after a moment. “I… was instructed to attend here at this hour.”
The man slid down the hood, revealing the strikingly angular features of an elf. His skin was pale, his hair a golden blonde that was tied back in a ponytail. Across his face was a vicious scar, the only mark on otherwise handsome features.
“I am Toret Fenmarel.” The elf’s voice commanded - no, demanded - respect. “I am to be your martial instructor. You shall listen, you shall obey, and you shall learn.” The toret paused for a moment, his gaze seeming to fix upon Creek with a focused intensity. Creek had the definite impression that he was not the elf’s first student. “If you fail to do any of those things, you shall be punished. Do you understand, acolyte?”
“I understand, Toret.” Creek replied, attempting to hide the apprehension in his voice. He did not think he succeeded.
“Very well.” Toret Fenmarel reached for the hilts of two swords that he drew from his back in a swift, elegant motion. The candlelight reflected off the finely crafted steel. “Let us begin.”
Creek reached for his own blade far, far too late. Fenmarel’s twin silver swords had swept around in a wide arc, ceasing their arc immediately against the young human’s flesh. A trickle of blood ran down Creek’s neck.
“Lesson one.” The elf admonished him. “You are to be vigilant.”
As he felt the warm sting in his neck, Creek realised he was unprepared for this. He was a homeless boy from Karg, a young thug and thief. It suddenly felt a world away. He had never even wielded a sword before. He awkwardly swung the sword in a weak attempt to strike the elf, but the toret was too agile, too swift. He was suddenly where the blade was not. Before Creek could react, he felt the elf ram the pommel of one of the swords into his ribs. He gasped for breath, falling to a knee as pain coursed through him. He only looked up when the toret gripped his chin and lifted his head.
“Pathetic.” Fenmarel grunted. There was a clear look of disdain and disappointment in his bright blue eyes.  “Lesson two. Our Guardian does not tolerate weakness. Again.”
Creek grunted as he rose from his knee, clutching his sword tightly in both hands. He circled Fenmarel, narrowing his eyes as he studied the movement of the elf’s swords intently. He chose his moment, leaping forward with an overhead lunge. The elf easily read the movement. Fenmarel stepped to one side and swiftly delivered a well placed kick to the back of the young man’s legs. Creek let out a shout of pain and fell once again to his knees.
“Lesson three. Let pain be a teacher, Acolyte Creek.” Fenmarel’s voice rang out in the dim chamber. “Again.”
Once again Creek lashed out wildly with his blade. Once again he missed. Once again Fenmarel rewarded his efforts with a painful blow to the sternum. “Again.”
“Again.”
“Again.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The scars were painful but it was the burning humiliation that lingered longer.
The prayer room was illuminated only by the shaft of light that was cast through the stained glass window that dominated one wall. It depicted Ezra, Her bloodied hands outstretched while looking down mournfully. Creek had been told that it represented Ezra’s disdain and sorrow for the people that she had sacrificed Herself to protect. People like himself.
Pathetic. He heard Fenmarel’s disdainful voice in his head. I was told you had promise. How disappointing.
He had failed himself, he had failed the toret, but most importantly he had failed Her.
His legs felt on fire as he lowered himself to his knees. He bowed his head in supplication. He prayed for forgiveness.
 “Are you well, brother?”
The voice brought his thoughts back to the present. He opened his eyes. Beside him was knelt a young woman, roughly his age, dressed like him in acolyte’s robes. She was looking at him with concern.
“Yes.” Creek replied. “I am fine.”
“You are bleeding.” She frowned, reaching out a hand to his arm. A dirty crimson patch was immediately noticeable on the sleeve of his forearm.
He grunted, but did not say anything further. The girl sighed. “Toret Fenmarel, right?”
“I was weak.” Creek said. “I am not good enough.”
“Is that not the purpose of training?” The girl made a wan smile towards him. “To improve?”
“I do not know if I am capable.”
“They told me I was not capable.” The girl added. “They were wrong. Prove them wrong.”
Creek nodded. He lowered his head in a gesture of thanks. “My name is Xanthus Creek.”
“Lynei Rosini.” The girl replied. “Well met, acolyte Creek.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Irredeemable.”
The footsteps of the elf’s boots upon the cold flagstone floor echoed throughout the antechamber. Despite the elf’s short stature, every pair of eyes of the assembled acolytes were upon him. The slim figure commanded respect and awe, not the least for the reputation that preceded him.  The elf took his time, patiently biding his time as he sought the correct words. He paused and turned to face the gathered acolytes.
“Irredeemable,” He repeated in a soft, yet authoriative voice that nonetheless was heard by all in the chamber, “beyond any hope of saving. Beyond any hope of changing. This is what you all must understand."
Even in the dim light Xanthus could make out the scars that criss crossed Toret Fenmarel’s face. Since his training session, he had heard varying rumours from fellow acolytes concerning the origin of those scars. Some said the elf had obtained them from vengeful Eternal Order priests. Others had said he had gained them from battling half-man, half-bat creatures high in the Mountains of Misery. The scars did little to lessen the strikingly handsome features of the elf.
“The Stealer of Breaths, the Beast that Rends, the Drinker of Blood - all are beyond saving, beyond redemption. Compassion is a weakness that they will use against you.”  The elf clasped his hands behind his back. “Evil should be granted no mercy. So Ezra decrees.”
The toret’s words swallowed up the silence that followed. The toret took a breath to continue speaking, before he was interrupted by a soft voice from behind Xanthus.
“But how are we to know who is evil, Toret? Who is of the Legion of the Night and who is innocent?”
Xanthus glanced back, his eyes falling upon the speaker. Acolyte Rosini watched the toret with a questioning gaze.
Toret Fenmarel’s gaze was intense as he placed it upon the young female acolyte, taking a few steps closer. “No one is innocent, acolyte. There are only degrees of guilt.”
The toret’s gaze appeared to burn itself into the young acolyte’s, before he turned away. “You are dismissed, acolytes. Acolyte Rosini, remain behind.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Xanthus was knelt in solitary silent reflection in the prayer room when he heard the door open behind him. He turned to see the slim form of Acolyte Rosini slide in quietly in an attempt to not draw any attention to herself. Her eyes were rimmed with red, the long hair that Xanthus had noted before now haphazardly strewn untidily around her face.
 “Acolyte Rosini.” Xanthus said quietly, after a moment’s silence.
The girl avoided his gaze. She ran a hand through her messy hair as she turned to face him. “Acolyte Creek… I did not expect anyone to still be here…”
Xanthus cast an appraising glance over her. “Are you well?”
The girl dropped down onto a prayer mat that was lay upon the floor, her head in her hands. “Not really. Toret Fenmarel, he… he punished me for speaking out of turn and interrupting the lesson.”
Xanthus nodded, averting his gaze from her. He looked to the ground instead. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
In the dim candlelight, Xanthus thought he could see the sheen of tears on the girl’s face. She remained silent for a while, perhaps struggling for something to say. Eventually she nodded slowly. “You are right, I should not have.” She paused. “Xanthus, do you ever wonder why you are here?”
Xanthus was momentarily taken aback by the question. “Because I want to serve Ezra. She saved me, so serving Her is the only way I could ever repay Her. Is that not why we are all here?” He turned his gaze back to her. “You are one of the finest acolytes here, Lynei. They all speak highly of your combat ability and theological knowledge…”
She nodded. “Thank you, Xanthus.” He thought he saw a brief glimmer of a smile in the dim light. “Let us pray.”

[Space Cowboy]

Toret Fenmarel descended the slick stone steps of the spiral staircase that descended into the dark depths. The flickering light of his torch caused shadows to cavort and writhe across the walls. The air was cool and damp here and carried with it the weight of years.
The toret had not spoken a word since he had woken Xanthus and had ordered him to follow. The elf’s face was set in grim resolution, which spoke more to Xanthus than words ever could.
 As they descended into the bowels of the Last Redoubt, Creek cast a glance over at Acolyte Rosini who wore a pensive expression on her face. Her eyes met Creek’s with an apprehensive look in them.
 It was not long after they had began their descent that they heard the first faint chorus of groaning that ascended from the depths to meet them. The noise rose from the darkness, amplified by the stone around them. Voices of men and women, some clearly in agony, and others begging. Occasionally an inhuman scream would ring out.
 Still the toret said nothing.
The staircase ended at an imposing heavy iron door. The toret spoke something through the bars, something Xanthus was not able to make out. There was the sound of a complicated series of locks being unlocked. The door creaked open.
A dwarf stood there, bearing the robes and regalia of a toret. His face was ugly and cragged. He grinned in the torchlight, a grin devoid of any humour whatsoever. Light reflected off several gold teeth.
 “Toret Fenmarel. Ezra bless ye. These are the next of Ezra’s chosen, eh?” The dwarf turned a critical glare to Creek and Rosini, examining the two young acolytes. He seemed unimpressed.
“Yes.” Toret Fenmarel replied simply. “It is time.”
The dwarf nodded grimly. “As ye say, brother.” He opened the door wider and stepped to one side. Fenmarel glided through into the passageway beyond.
Creek spared another glance to Rosini before following.
The dwarf locked the door shut before following them. “These youngsters could be among the last of Ezra’s warriors.” He grunted. “Ezra save us.”
The passageway continued into the darkness. Torches on brackets lined the walls, illuminating the heavy doors set at regular intervals along the length of each wall. Fenmarel stopped and turned to address the two acolytes. His face wore a grim and resolute expression.
“This is Toret Havous. You shall treat him with the same respect and obedience you show me.”
“Yes Toret.” Creek responded. His throat was dry. Rosini nodded.
Fenmarel looked to Havous and issued a subtle nod of confirmation. Havous stepped forward, a large heavy keyring held in his hand. Like a jailor, Creek thought. The dwarf brushed past them and approached one of the doors set in the wall.
“What you are about to see was barred from you until we considered you ready.” Fenmarel explained. “You should both consider yourselves honoured to be here tonight.”
The interior of the cell was cloaked in impenetrable darkness. The door swinging open brought with it the arc of the light cast into the room. A man was sat in a corner, reflexively shielding his eyes from the light. His hair was long and stringy, his clothing little but rags. He was so malnourished that Creek could easily make out the bones of his ribcage. The man’s thin arms and legs were shackled to to the wall by long chains. As the man grew accustomed to the light, he lowered his arms. The look in the man’s eyes was a look that Creek knew well.
Fear.
After a moment of silence, Creek heard Rosini’s voice from beside him. “What is his crime?”
The elf’s voice spoke softly behind them. “Existence.” There was a moment’s pause before the elf continued speaking. “Toret Havous, show them.”
“Aye.” The dwarf replied. His face looked grim and resolute as he inserted a key into the lock and opened the prisoner’s cell. Immediately the man reacted, trying to press his back up against the wall in a futile effort to keep away from the dwarf who entered his cell.
Havous produced a gleaming knife from his vestments. The torchlight glimmered off it’s smooth flat surface.
“Some people reckon you can test ‘em by just pressing it against the skin. That ‘ardly ever works. The trick is getting ‘em so angry or fearful  that they lose control.” The dwarf explained, matter of factly. He turned the knife over in his hands as he approached.
“Like beasts.” Fenmarel said “Fight or flight.”
“Aye.” Havous said. “The silver ain’t doing no good until it’s in the flesh.”
The prisoner found his voice. It was faint, and weak. “Please - no… I’ve told you everything… what more do you want from me…”
Havous answered by inserting the knife slowly into the man's sternum. The prisoner screamed out, futilely thrashing against the chains that held him place but to no avail. Havous' expression did not waver as he slowly drew the knife down the man's body with a practiced hand, cutting the man deeper and deeper into his flesh as he went. Xanthus was surprised to find a hand discretely slide into his and grip it tightly. Beside him, Rosini looked on with a concerned expression upon her face.
The prisoner's cries of pain became louder and louder. "That's the thing 'bout it," Havous explained, having to shout over the noise. "Because it'll all 'eal itself, there's no limit to 'ow much damage ye can do."
The man was violently shaking now. His screams had become snarls, his cries had become growls of anguish. The man shuddered in a mad frenzy. Creek could make out the transformation coming over him. The prisoner's arm grew in size, digging in even tighter against the huge shackles. His face had grown elongated into a feral snout, and his eyes had taken on a gleam of malevolent primal cunning. The beast let out a howl as it's blood dripped onto the cold floor of the cell.
 Toret Havous seemed satisfied by his work. "Like I said, ye get the silver deep in it's flesh an' it's instincts take over."
"By Ezra..." Rosini whispered.
“This is no creature of Ezra.” Toret Fernmarel  spoke darkly. The elf took a step into the room. His eyes were locked with the creatures’ in a hateful gaze. “This is the spawn of the Mists of Death. This is our enemy.”
“Why is it still alive, Toret?” Creek asked. He was unable to tear his gaze away from the werewolf.
“Because sometimes, acolyte, there is a course for actions to serve the greater good.” Toret Fenmarel turned his gaze to Xanthus. “Exitus acta probat. The end justifies the means.”
“And what is the end here?”
“We found this accursed beast roaming the forests near here. We believe there are more of them in the depths of the woods. So far we have yet to uncover them, but it is only a matter of time before this one talks.”
“Aye.” Toret Havous agreed. “It’s almost there.”
“Then do not allow us to distract you from your good work any longer, toret Havous.” Fenmarel bowed to Havous respectfully before leading the two acolytes away from the creature and it’s cell.
They walked slowly along the corridor, surrounded by the sounds of moans and screams muffled by the thick stone walls. As they passed another cell, Xanthus risked a glance inside. A pale woman was strapped horizontally to a bench, and water slowly dripped from a container above her onto her face. Where the water made contact with her pallid flesh it would steam and hiss. With every drop, the woman screamed in pain, sharpened fangs extended and gleaming in the dim torchlight.
 “In time, Toret Havous shall teach you the intricacies of this most holy of duties.” Fenmarel continued, “But for now, we are done.”

                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, Xanthus dreamt of the beast.
Curfew had long passed when Xanthus awoke. He was drenched in a cold sweat, the single bedsheet wrapped around him in disarray. Once again, the beast from the cell had haunted his dreams. The malevolent red eyes of the creature staring into his soul. Judging him. It was not the appearance of the creature that scared him, but something on a far deeper level. Something that he could not articulate into words.
It was as if the beast knew him. Perhaps better than he even knew himself.
Xanthus peered across the room at the other acolytes’ cots in the darkness. He made a decision. He quietly stood up and made his way to the door, aware that to be outside of his dormitory after curfew would incur a harsh beating.
It was not far to the kitchens. He crept along the dark and silent halls of the Last Redoubt. He came to a halt outside one of the meeting halls, voices raised in discussion within. They were muffled and unclear. He pressed his ear closer to the door.
"The boy is weak, Warden.” It was Toret Lucan Fenmarel’s voice. “He is struggling with the combat classes, and lacks the conviction in other areas of study.”
“He was not much of a fighter when he discovered Ezra, toret. Give the boy a chance.” It took a moment for Creek to identify the other voice as Warden Tanner, the warden who had brought him to the Last Redoubt. It seemed like it was lifetime ago now. Perhaps it was.
“How many chances must we grant? Will he be able to do what is necessary when the time comes? Will he be able to do what is asked of him? To be an anchorite of Ezra is a great burden upon anyone’s shoulders, Warden.”
Xanthus frowned. He glanced nervously up and down the hallway, his heart beating anxiously within his chest. He placed his ear against the door again as he heard Warden Tanner reply. “I found the boy living on the streets, doing whatever it takes to survive. That instinct to do what he must, It is in him. He just needs to use it.”
"Then let us give him the opportunity. Along with acolyte Rosini. Under duress, our prisoner has revealed information as to where to find more of his kind. You are to take them both and purge the Legion from it's nest."
"As you say, Toret. It shall be an honour."
By the time the door had opened, Xanthus was gone.

              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Xanthus gripped his sword tightly as he swung it again and again at the training dummy. The sack of straw that passed for a head barely flinched against his swings. His sword arm was still weak, but it was becoming stronger. He could feel the muscle memory developing, the innate awareness that connected a warrior with his weapon. Soon he would be able to hold his own. He would be worthy...
 A voice came from behind him. “You know boy, it ain’t all about how hard you can swing ya sword, or hit someone.” It was Warden Tanner's voice. Creek ceased his practiced thrusts and turned to face the man. He took a moment to catch his breath. Tanner stared at him with an expression that was hard to read upon his grizzled hard face.
"Warden Tanner. How long have you been -"
 Tanner took some steps closer, bringing himself alongside the acolyte. He ignored the question. “Those things ain't what makes a warrior of the Fourth what he is. It ain’t just about how many undead he kills, or how many foes he can best in combat.”
Xanthus looked down at the sword in his grip, then back into Tanner's face. He did not say anything, but he hoped his expression would will the Warden to continue.
 Tanner leaned closer. “It’s about having the determination. The conviction. The sheer bloody willpower to see through what must be done. To do what others will fear to do. They call us zealot, but that is because they simply do not understand.”
"I do not know if I am strong enough." Xanthus replied. "I do not know if - if I can do what will be asked of me. Demanded of me." He thought of the werewolf. He thought of the screams.
The old Warden placed a heavy hand upon Creek's shoulder.  His voice took on a firm, yet not altogether unkindly tone. “Our choices are not easy. You will sacrifice much before all is done. You will confront the darkness within yourself. As long as you stand with Ezra, you need not fear it. But that’s what its all about, boy. That’s why Ezra has blessed the Fourth revelation. They will hate us, they will revile us but that is our burden. That is our role. Never compromise. Always see it through. No matter what.”
Creek nodded. Tanner's calloused hand on his shoulder remained in place as the older man studied the acolyte's gaze, perhaps searching for words. Then he removed the hand slowly.
"Don your armour, boy. Tonight we hunt."

[Space Cowboy]

Darkness had fallen unceremoniously across Nevuchar Springs by the time the three Ezrites made their way into the dark forest. In the deepening twilight, gnarled trees cast sinister shadows that seemed to flee from the flickering torchlight.
 Warden Tanner bore the torch like it was a weapon in it's own right, flicking it to the left and right, casting it's light deeper into the woods as they walked.
When Xanthus spoke, he could not help but keep his voice lowered. "Where is our destination, Warden?"
Tanner grunted a reply over his shoulder. "A cottage, not far from here. A nest of the bloody things."
"Wolf-men?"
"Yes, boy. Both of you, get ya silver ready. Remain vigilant."
Lynei Rosini nodded, her hand resting on the hilt of her scabbard in anticipation. She spared a glance at Creek, who gave a nod back to her in a subtle gesture of encouragement. She wet her lips.
There was a faint trail that wound it's way through the undergrowth. From the looks of it, it had been traveled recently. Creek felt the sensation of anticipation of battle - the nervous excitement that roiled in his chest, and the heightening of all his senses. It was then that he noticed the nocturnal sounds of the night had fallen quiet, without even an owl's hoot to pierce the silence. From the look on Tanner's face, he had noticed it too.
The Warden grunted. There was sudden concern in the old Ezrite's tone. "Something's not right. Extinguish ya torches -"
And then the forest erupted.

The thing was a mass of fur and teeth, it's inhuman howl announcing it's presence as it pounced out of the darkness. Before he could react, Tanner went down beneath the writhing beast. There was a spray of blood, and chaos.
Beside him, Creek heard Rosini yell in alarm. He willed his body to react faster. Time seemed to slow to a crawl.
Tanner, on the ground, pinned by the werewolf, as it savagely ripped at him with it's blood-soaked maw.
Rosini, running forward with her longsword drawn, ready to swing at the monster.
Creek allowed his instincts to take over. He charged the werewolf with his shield, using all the strength he had to knock it off the fallen Warden. It turned it's gleaming red eyes of deep hatred towards him. Rosini's blade connected with the flank of the beast in the same moment. The sword cut deep. It reacted to the burning silver with a yowl of pain.
 "Warden Tanner!" Xanthus yelled out as he stepped over the Warden's fallen form protectively. The werewolf had fallen back into a haunched position as if readying to pounce again. Creek locked his gaze with the creature, and for a moment he saw something in the depths of it's eyes, somewhere deep beyond the primal hatred. Another instinct, equally as strong.
"It's protecting something." He murmured to Rosini breathlessly. He did not take his eyes off it.
"Which means it won't be fleeing." Lynei replied. She took a step forward, her sword raised and ready.
The wolf growled and then leaped, claws outstretched. This time it's pounce was not as successful. Both Creek and Rosini were there to meet it, and both plunged their swords deep into the body of the thing. It let out a small guttural growl in it's dying throes as it fell to the ground.
The two young acolytes spent a moment catching their breath. Then they came quickly to the old Warden's side.
It was clear to Creek that the Warden was gravely injured. Half of his side was a bloody mess. Tanner coughed up blood and stared into Creek's eyes as a crimson stream trailed from the corner of his mouth.
 "Boy..." He managed to form the words. His eyes were glassy, and distant. The once hard and indomitable Warden was gone, and in Creek's arms all that remained was a weak and dying old man. "Boy... Always see it through... no matter what..."
The last stubborn vestige of life left the old Warden's face.
"Go with Ezra, Warden Tanner." Creek's voice was tinged with sadness as he solemnly lay the Warden down and closed his eyes. Rain had begun to fall from the dark skies above. The water pooled with the blood that lay on the ground.
Rosini looked on sorrowfully. "I'm sorry, Xanthus. I know you were close -"
"It doesn't matter." Creek got back to his feet. "We have to finish it."
They watched in silence as the corpse of the werewolf shifted and twisted into the form of a woman.

                                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lynei Rosini’s dark hair was strewn around her as she peered into the darkness. Tears had streaked down her face, now mingling with the rain that cascaded from the night sky.
“Xanthus. Do not do this. Please. You’re better than this.”
The sound of wailing pierced the silence of the night. Creek emerged from the from tiny cottage, a small bundle of cloth in one arm and his drawn sword in the other.
“This is what it is all about. Lynei.” Xanthus replied. His voice was distant and mournful. “All of our training. All of the lessons, the sermons, the prayers. It comes down to this moment. The three of us and Ezra.”
“I can take the baby.” Lynei interjected. There was desperation in her voice. “I can take her and find someone who can care for her-”
Creek’s reply was sorrowful. He gently lay the infant down on a nearby tree stump. “You know that isn’t possible.”
“It can be! Please Xanthus!” She pleaded. Her tears fell away into the wind. “The church doesn’t need to know-”
“Ezra will know.” Xanthus replied with a frown.
“It’s just a baby, Xanthus! It can’t do any harm! We can care for it, we can ensure it doesn’t become wicked -”
Creek stared down at the wailing child through the tears forming in his eyes. She - it, he corrected himself- was small and defenseless as it flailed in the rain, tiny arms and legs scratching at the wood beneath it for some kind of purchase. He steeled himself and lifted the point of his sword to it. It began to cry louder.
“No. I won’t let you do this.” Lynei interrupted, her own sword drawn and pointed at him. Her whole body was shaking with grief.  “I won’t let you murder a child. A -child-, Xanthus!”
“It is not a child. It is a monster.” Creek replied. “It is not murder.”
“The only monster I see is a man about to kill her.”
“It is Legion. It is Ezra’s Will.”
“To hell with Ezra’s will.” The woman's face became grimly determined. “My will says different.”
Will he be able to do what is necessary when the time comes? Will he be able to do what is asked of him?
“You were never committed to Ezra’s will, Lynei. You are staring into the abyss and know the action you need to take but are too terrified to make it.”
“No. I just do not kill helpless children.”
It ain’t just about how hard you swing a sword, boy.
Xanthus slowly raised the blade.
Our choices are hard. You will sacrifice much. You will confront the darkness within yourself.
He brought it down.
Never compromise. No matter what.
In the morning they dug a tiny grave.

                                  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They stood in silence by the small mound of earth as the first rays of light broke over the tops of the trees. Crimson light spilled through the gaps in the branches, casting a blood red hue across the damp grass.
It seemed like an age had passed before Lynei spoke in a quiet voice. Her face appeared to be struggling to retain her emotion. Her eyes were red rimmed. "Sometimes I wonder if that damn werewolf is the real monster, or Raines is -”
“Don’t speak like that.” Xanthus interjected, but his voice sounded far away and distant, even to him. “It is heretical.”
“Damn it Xanthus!” She cried, “Don’t you see what all this is? They’re brainwashing us into their perfect little soldiers to wage their holy war. This - this can’t be what salvation is. This is not Ezra’s love. This is not what Warden Tanner died for.”
“Then they’re right. You lack the conviction.” Xanthus said sadly. “You lack the courage to truly see it through, to do what must be done.”
“Do you not see it, Xanthus! Look upon those monsters, and then look upon us! Look upon the blood on your hands!"  Lynei took a deep breath. Xanthus did not look at her. A resolute, determined look came upon her face. "No, I can’t abide by this. I am going to Borca to report what’s going on here.”
“We have nothing to hide.”
“Oh yeah? Say that to the poor tortured man down there." Lynei's voice cracked. "Say that to - to the child we just buried.”
Creek turned his gaze to her, sudden anger rising. “The man was a beast! The child was Legion! It is unworthy of the sympathy you give it! Do you not remember toret Fenmarel’s words? The Legion is irredeemable!”
“God, Xanthus.” She wiped tears from her eyes as she spoke sadly. “You see things in the simplest terms, don’t you? Sometimes I wonder what’s wrong with you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me.” Xanthus replied evenly. “There’s something wrong with this world.”
“Unlike you Xanthus, I want to be a person with emotions and feelings.” She added softly, in a pained tone of voice. “For a while I thought we shared those feelings. I guess I was wrong. About many things.”
And then she was gone.
He returned to the Last Redoubt alone.

                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Much later.
Xanthus stared at his face in the mirror, his face a storm of emotions.
He did not like the face that stared back at him. The grey-blue eyes were cold. The face was hard, but even through that, there was a glimmer of something, of a sadness.
 He knew what he had to do. The lessons finally all made sense. Mortals were flawed and sinful. People were weak and fallible, with emotions and vulnerabilities that could be preyed upon. Rosini was weak. And he was weak for seeing her weakness as something other than a liability. All that mattered was to serve Ezra.
Ezra looked down upon Her people, and found none worthy.
An instrument of Her will. Duty was all that mattered.
The voice came from outside the small chamber. “Acolyte Creek, we are ready to begin your trial.”
Xanthus Creek reached for his helm and placed it upon his head. The expressionless cold steel visage that met his gaze in the mirror appeared more comforting than the face of the man, weak and vulnerable.
They shall revile us and resent us. But we shall accept that burden.
As he stepped into the mist, he now understood the final sacrifice.
There shall be no compromise.

[Space Cowboy]

Mist swirled around the bleak landscape, shrouding everything in gossamer tendrils. Gnarled trees rose up into the darkness of the night, twisted branches extending as if trying in vain to reach the stars above. The forest was as silent and as still as a grave.
 Creek took one wary step, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword in an attempt to reassure himself. He recalled the words of the torets.
Be prepared for anything. Ezra shall reveal the challenge you must overcome to pass your trial.
He recalled the words of Warden Drake, who told him of his own trial where he did battle with the forces of the Legion in numbers too numerous to count. Or of Toret Krask, who told him of her own experiences in her trial where she almost fell in battle against a bloodthirsty vampire.
Ezra shall reveal Herself to you.
Creek was unsure how Ezra would show Herself. Perhaps there would be a sign. Perhaps there would be a heavenly voice, or illuminous figure that would appear through the mist. Without such intervention how was he to know what his trial was to be?
He grunted. Perhaps that was the point. He lowered himself onto his knees on the muddy soil. He recited a prayer, hoping against hope that Ezra would answer.
There was nothing.
Xanthus waved the crackling flames of his torch in one direction, and then the other. It all looked the same. The shadows of the forest disappeared into the darkness in every direction. The mist was thick and disorienting in this otherworldly landscape. He was hopelessly lost. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps he was not worthy after all, a moment of doubt that cut deep into his soul. Ezra had judged him and found him wanting. He was suddenly acutely aware of all of his flaws and guilt. Rosini had called him a monster. Perhaps Ezra agreed.

There was a dark shadow approaching through the trees.

Creek hesitated for barely a moment, before his searching hand closed around the hilt of his bastard sword. The human sized figure did not stop moving. It came ever closer, moving through the trees as if they posed no barrier. The mists seemed to part in it’s wake.

As it stepped into the circle cast by Creek’s torchlight, details finally became visible upon the armoured figure. It cast an imposing, intimidating presence - a shield worn on one arm and a bastard sword gripped firmly in the other. It’s face was obscured by a helm. An palpable aura of evil emanated from the being that chilled Xanthus to the bone. In a sudden moment of shock, it dawned upon the young Ezrite what he was looking at.
 It was himself.
Creek yelled out in a mixture of confusion and rising panic. “You.. you are the Legion! A trick of the Mists of Death!”
The shadow of himself did not answer. Instead it charged forward, swinging it’s sword in a heavy arc towards his face….



...Xanthus awoke with a start. He was breathing heavily, his body trembling as he sat up in the darkness. The tent around him seemed darker than ever, the shadows seeming more oppressive than usual. He shook his head to rid himself of the dream.
 That was then. This is now.

The snow was falling in scattered drifts across the bleak landscape of the mountain. It was easy to picture the jagged peaks as the teeth of an enormous, otherworldly creature. Xanthus Creek had spent many years in Barovia now, but he was still not used to the cold. It was a bitter, biting cold that penetrated deep to the bone. Yet another of the trials that Ezra presented to her faithful to overcome.
 Creek swung again at the pile of wood, splintering it down the centre with a strong clean cut. Tossing the axe to one side, he held up the two halves and inspected them. Creek had never worked wood before. He had never seen the importance of it. But now, suddenly everything seemed more important.

The mountain path was treacherous. With each step, the harsh wind pushed him back. The chill air was like knives slashing at every exposed area of skin. The wind howled like a tormented spirit bent on vengeance. Still Creek continued up the mountain, until finally reaching the forgiving shelter of a rocky outcropping. He dropped the pile of wood he had been carrying with a grunt, taking a moment to rest against the rock wall. Below him, somewhere beyond the veil of sleet and snow, was the tiny village of Krofburg and the camp that he and the others of the Fourth revelation had established there. But he had something else to do today.

Xanthus turned his attention to the rocky cliff face, and swept his gauntleted hand across the snow. It fell away into the wind, revealing a simple grave marker made of crossed pieces of wood, weathered by the exposure to the elements. There was a simple initial ‘L.V’ carved into the oak. He crouched before it, remaining silent for a long time. The only noise was the incessant droning of the wind. Creek grunted.
I know this isn’t how you would want to be remembered. A hidden memorial halfway up a mountain. You know I would not be welcomed where others pay their respects.
Creek placed his hand against the crude grave marker. He was far from a master carpenter, but he had become proficient at the very least.
You always told me there was hope. Hope for this world. And hope for me.
Xanthus closed his eyes. Thoughts and feelings arose unbidden in his mind, a swirling confusing mess that he struggled to make sense of. Memories of the last few months came into crystal clear focus.
Ezra has revealed to me the truth, Loredana. There is no hope for those without Ezra. Raines has been vindicated. The time of darkness is upon us.
Creek’s fingers tightened their grasp on the wood.
I should feel triumphant. Justified. Yet why do I feel this hollowness inside?
There was no answer. Creek had not expected there to be.
When the Mists of Death sweep this world clean - whether the catalyst is the evil that sleeps below this mountain or something else  - I shall become one with Ezra in the Mists. So why then do I feel more alone now than ever?
Xanthus knew that he should feel triumphant, or justified. Yet he felt neither of those things. When he thought about the inevitable time of darkness that was coming and the suffering that would come with it, he felt a deep sadness.
None of them would listen of course. None of them understood the inevitability of fate. Some things could not be prevented. Harding thought she could save everyone through sheer stubborn idealism. Hypatia Winters thought she could fight back at the End with sword and steel. They did not understand the certainty of the vision Ezra had bestowed upon Bastion Raines.  Zilvra never understood what it meant - for him or for her. Even his brothers and sisters of the faith never took the prophecy seriously. Luca and Teresca never truly acknowledged it. The urgency of the cause had always been a barrier between himself and the Barbarigos. He was certain Garrett would never allow himself to contemplate the possibility.
Yet could he blame them? What was the alternative? To lay down their arms? No, Creek knew the alternative. It was to help those who were lost find Ezra.
Without Ezra, they were damned. All of them. But they would not listen.
Creek closed his eyes and rested his head against the wooden cross. Harding, Loredana, Zilvra. All those that he cared about.
The Time of Unparalleled Darkness was inevitable. He knew this in his heart. He knew it was a fact as certain as the setting of the sun. The true Fifth Revelation would soon reveal itself. The prophecy would be fulfilled. 
Never compromise. Perhaps he was asking them to compromise by choosing Ezra. Perhaps there was something noble to be said for taking a stand on their own terms.
And what did that make him? A coward?
Creek had spent his life pushing people away from him. He knew now it was because of fear. Fear that he knew he would feel at this moment, at the end of everything. Fear of the decision that he would have to make.

For the first time in his life, Xanthus Creek desperately hoped that Bastion Teodorus Raines was wrong.