At the Cabal’s desire, the prophet had been torn from his serene town on the island of Corone and thrust into the world of mystery that was the lands of Kebiras. The gods of Althanas that the drow followed, the Thayne in all their wisdom and glory, would not speak in the wild world that he had been forced to. He had only been granted word from one of the Thayne. The god of strength, retribution, and wrath demanded of him a simple task, and that was for him to prove himself in battle. Hromagh the Strong he was known as, and in order to be accepted by the god the prophet needed to complete the trials of the deity. For the god of strengths trial, he demanded the drow prove himself worthy not only in the eyes of those not from Althanas, but to the dark Cabal that willed bloodshed for their mere amusement.
“To fight unarmed is to know your true gifts. No weapon can be wielded against a foe in battle to prove that you have faith in the blessing the Thayne have provided and not in your materialistic necessity for weapons.”
The words still rung in the drow’s head, reminding him of his purpose for battle, the only reason he would battle others one on one. Trite battles for the drow had long since passed; his days of youthful fury and headstrong actions had led him into countless conflicts with numerous types of opponents. That which the Thayne willed, however, lent to the necessity of battle and in turn removed the status of ‘trite’ in his eyes so long as the graces of the god Hromagh would be bestowed with the conclusion of the bitter trials.
The next performance to be held, as if a bloody play for the attentive audience, was within a temple of ice. The walls were as solid as stone, but shimmered and glinted the drows lackluster appearance in a bluish tint as he passed by them. He noted his homely appearance, the unbefitting clothes that he wore simply for the sake of their loose fit. Many would say the worn black pants, boots, long sleeve shirt, and cracked jerking were unfitting for a man that professed to be the prophet of the Thayne. He looked beyond physical allure and ignored the naysayer’s need for outward glorification. In his reflection he saw his gray skin that once was without a single fold, age having taken over his youthful visage, wrinkles followed the high cheek bones. His once magnificent platinum hair had faded to a bland hoary tone; his eyes no longer held the vivid silver having dulled to a stone gray shade.
Columns warped the mirror image of his body, giving him a moment of amusement despite the circumstances he found himself in. A worn, rough hand stroked softly across the ice, small streams of water dripping from where he touched. Enough contact with the walls, or enough heat, and the entire cathedral would be brought down around him and his opponent. The thought made him avert his eyes from the ice pillar and to the walls and roof. Around him he saw a wall without crack or blemish, frost coating it in certain places like unkempt paint waiting for its turn to flake away. No banners covered the walls, no symbols of to whom or what the temple was dedicated. Over head the very center rose a hundred feet, ending at the point of a dome that was at the very least twenty feet from beginning to apex.
“No symbols champion the name of the one this place was resurrected for. No isles line the open ante-chamber for the followers to come and listen to their chosen leader. No dais or podium created for a prophet to speak from.” Ranger’s words were solemn, stoic. He had never seen a place so obviously related to the dedication of a deity that was so bare and empty. Despite the missing elements that would otherwise create a perfect frozen cathedral, the prophet cast his eyes to the floor beneath him and closed his eyes. “Why have I been put in this place to battle? Why have you willed for me to desecrate hallowed ground with bloodshed and war?”
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