Sanctity

[Kedeshah]

Open to 2. Warning: Adult content

Spring did as spring always did. It sprung. From the Coronian winter, the flowers began to bloom and snowdrifts receded from the shadows beneath the trees. The rivers and streams were quick and deep as the rains began to come and green once more overtook the fields outside of Radasanth. The winter, however, was not without it's vengeance. It left a mark in the city and with her people, coughs that wouldn't quite go away, pallid fevers, and in some a lingering sense of darkened rooms filled with cobwebs and cold drafts around the windows. The last kisses of cold resonated with sickness and death.

As with every spring, the Temple of Sancta Terra was busy. More than usual, both strangers and the devout milled through the temple. They gathered around the columns, prayers and complaints lifting up to the high arching ceiling. The marble floor was filthy with the muck the patrons brought in from rainy roads, but beyond the curtains that separated the lobby where sick, dying and desperate all waited, the scene was much different. The walls were still studded with relief sculptures of goddesses in nude giving a healing touch, and the swirls of grey in the white marble still meandered across the floor. But in here there was a cleanness that spoke of the purity of the priestesses that worked their healing magic. The chaste of the Nameless Goddess milled about the healing spring that bubbled and swirled in the middle of this chamber. The steam floated around the priestesses as they baptized patrons in muffled prayers and the splash and ripple of the sacred waters. Yet further back, in the darker reaches of the temple, where the the lines in the marble turned from modest grey to a striking ruby, there were other rooms cordoned off with thick ebony doors. It was here that the most powerful of the healing spells took place, enshrouded in the dim light of crimson cloaked lamps and scented with sweat and sacrifice.

Beyond the serene temple, shining as a beacon deep within the dark heart of the city, clouds were amassing on the Coronian horizon. They were tinged with green as if they were jealous of the new season and growth. Here the storm came, winter's last knight to take vengeance on the city that dared to throw open shutters to the first warm morning in many months. The wind howled over the plains, rolling through fields - a pack of hunting dogs on the trail of wounded prey. The priestesses and prostitutes at work in their temple were oblivious to the coming storm even as the winds began to pick up and twist outside of the city. The cloud that loomed black and large at the fore of the demented gale began to curve with the winds, a funnel shifting downwards.

In the coming hours there would be much work to do.

[Otto]

"This is not looking good".

Orlannes was staring out one of the forge's little square windows, and the half-elf's voice was nearly lost on the shrieking wind outside. Within the forge, things were a little calmer; a few oil lamps threw out yellow tones to supplement the feeble light which managed the penetrate the clouds and weasel in through the building's apertures. Metal glinted warmly all around, from bench tops to weapon racks and stands. It was warm in here, too, but the heat's edge had been dulled over the last hour. A few flaps of fabric and pinned-up work orders flapped tellingly as the tumultuous wind seeped insiduously into the long room.

Otto laid down a file and half-worked bassinet, stood up from his work at a bench and joined Orlannes at the window. The orc's fledgling sea holly seedlings quivered in their clay pot upon the sill.

"There", said Orlannes, pointing at the horizon on his left. Otto focused on a distant, descending column of cloud.

"What is it?", he asked. The orc was not particularly well-read, and the coming storm was something beyond his experience.

"It's the worst possible scenario", Orlannes replied. His peaked ears suddenly perked up, a moment before a defiant, high-pitched clarion sounded from the fortress' centre. "There's our summons", he finished.

They bolted shut the shutters, damped the hearth and blew out the lamps before they departed, and locked the door behind them. The air was cool, but it was the relentless, whistling wind which cut through the flesh and seemed to chill from the inside out. Otto didn't mind it so much, but the somewhat slimmer and thinner-skinned half elf at his side didn't seem to be enjoying himself so much. As they ran over the dew-slick lawn, other soldiers trickled out from various buildings to join their side. A smattering of guardsmen turned into a river, all flowing to the large central yard. As they pulled up, they saw that the garrison was being divided into its respective companies which were being addressed by their respective captains; what with the wind, there wasn't a chance in hell that a single officer could be heard by every man and woman amassed there. Orlannes and Otto fell into rank, the orc beside an old comrade-in-arms by the name of William Tallow, and Orlannes next to the shaven-headed Fadime. She met Otto's gaze with her own inky black eyes, gave him a nod, and returned her attention to the captain before them.

When the entire company had assembled a minute later, captain Reinhardt - a steely-eyed eyed man with the posture of someone who'd had an unfortunate fall onto an iron post - began his speech.

"As you can see", he yelled, "we have something of an impending disaster. You have twenty minutes to secure everything at you previous station, and another ten in which to transfer your personal belongings to the dungeons. After that, we will rendezvous here, and head out into the city. Each company has been designated sections in which to focus preparation efforts - we will assist civilians in finding shelter and securing any necessary supplies, such as food and water. Two hours from now, I expect you to have returned to the garrison dungeons to wait out the storm, or if you cannot make it, seek the closest shelter you can find. Dismissed!".

There was no milling around; each soldier had seen the hardness in Reinhardt's eyes, and could tell that he would not suffer any laxity in his inferiors' execution of their duties. Otto and Orlannes jogged back to the forge, where they tied down as much as they possibly could, and made doubly sure that all the embers in the hearth had been quenched. By the end, there were several large canvas-wrapped bundles on the ground, each crisscrossed with thick cords of rope. The forge was a particularly stout stone structure, but Orlannes was insistent that they take every precaution they could given just one score of minutes in which to work. Last of all, Otto ran over to the window and grabbed his pot, before the two of them locked up shop and made for the barracks.

The building was a mess of activity, even as each company's turn to take care of their belongings had been staggered. Otto spent the first eight minutes helping his comrades haul their footlockers downstairs to the safety of the dungeons, securely below ground, then was assisted in taking moving his own personal effects by William. Once again, the muted cry of a bugle resonated through the building, and as one, the soldiers bustled towards the yard. They formed up companies in neat squares, each one taking turns to march out towards the gate.

The bugle barked out, and a nearby voice shouted, "Logistics Battalion Fourteen, First Company! Move out!".

With practiced cohesion, Otto's company faced the gate, and marched towards the city.