Tobias Stalt
01-09-15, 09:51 PM
Harsh winds periodically broke through the powerful spells that blanketed Knife's Edge; on those rare occasions, the people were reminded of just how fortunate they were to have the protection of the Church. One or two perhaps a day, and less on and particularly good day. On the worst of days, the cold became so ferocious that no one braved the cobbled streets at all. Pools of stagnant water frozen over by Winter's eternal touch whispered the tale of a million year imprisonment. The gray and black sky was bereft of light save for what the clouds themselves refracted.
The quiet storm of voices that rumbled ahead of him warned Tobias that he was not the only man to take leave of his sanity today. He rounded the corner ahead of him in the twisting maze that was the Capital city of Salvar and was bombarded by a less than pleasant sight. The Cathedral of Saint Denebriel leered down at him with pious contempt, and all color left in his cheeks drained away.
"Fuck me with a stake," he cursed, reminiscent of the Sway's most common answer to the prospective threat of wytches and vampires. Here sat the most ancient and holy seat of the one cult in the world Tobias wanted nothing to do with, and yet he seemed to have such a fervent obsession with crossing their path.
He knew that to tarry too long would attract attention from the mass of religious fanatics, gathered in the sight of their most blessed saint to commemorate gods only knew what sacred event. Instead, he became one with the crowd, and in silence he tapped their knowledge. Head bowed, Tobias looked no different from any other reveler.
"Did you hear?" the hushed, excited cry stole his attention, then, "is it true?"
Whispers and a whirlwind of questions vexed the rogue as he slithered through a sea of low chanting men as they offered up prayers to their gods. His amber gaze caught the soft flame in the distance as it burned and moved closer, so close he could have reached out to touch it. The others did, and instead of reeling back, they drank in heat gluttonously. "The flame of our most loved Saint," intoned a mighty baritone, "lit from the brazier deep within her inner sanctum. It is her gift to the people in these heat less days."
"Give me a break," Tobias groaned in a quiet whisper. The eyes of children and adult alike were no different as they gazed upon the nubile ember, purportedly stoked by some ancient pyre. "It's a gods damned candle." Tobias hugged himself as arctic air blasted him once again, but everyone around him seemed unaffected. Transfixed by the "holy flame," it seemed to fill them all with warmth.
"It is the warmth of their faith," came a creaky voice from beside him. Tobias glanced over at the haggard, ancient man swathed in tattered robes who offered him a toothless smile. "When you open your heart to something, and you truly believe it is real, other things cease to afflict you. You can become so filled up with your faith that nothing else matters."
"I'll bet a blade in the back would matter all the same," Tobias mused humorlessly. The smile bled away between white whiskers as the man shook his head sadly. "All the same, old timer," the Tactician said somberly, "ain't no gods done right by me, so I'm not like to offer them any of my devotion."
"You must give to receive," came a practiced reply. Tobias cocked his head and shot the geezer a wry grin.
"Ah," Stalt chuckled, "the age old politics of religion." In response, the man of small stature raised a wrinkled finger and pointed toward the flame. Around the heat, men and women fell to their knees and gave thanks. Shreds of clothes fell away as one woman tore off her garment and relished the flame as it bathed her body. Naked feet crunched in the snow, and Tobias shivered at the sight. "I'm not big on buying into suicide pacts," he told the old man with a sneer.
He turned to glance at the small man. "Hey, what's it to you anywa-" When he noticed that the old timer had dissolved into the crowd, he blinked. "Gods below," he murmured, "I need to get out of here."
The quiet storm of voices that rumbled ahead of him warned Tobias that he was not the only man to take leave of his sanity today. He rounded the corner ahead of him in the twisting maze that was the Capital city of Salvar and was bombarded by a less than pleasant sight. The Cathedral of Saint Denebriel leered down at him with pious contempt, and all color left in his cheeks drained away.
"Fuck me with a stake," he cursed, reminiscent of the Sway's most common answer to the prospective threat of wytches and vampires. Here sat the most ancient and holy seat of the one cult in the world Tobias wanted nothing to do with, and yet he seemed to have such a fervent obsession with crossing their path.
He knew that to tarry too long would attract attention from the mass of religious fanatics, gathered in the sight of their most blessed saint to commemorate gods only knew what sacred event. Instead, he became one with the crowd, and in silence he tapped their knowledge. Head bowed, Tobias looked no different from any other reveler.
"Did you hear?" the hushed, excited cry stole his attention, then, "is it true?"
Whispers and a whirlwind of questions vexed the rogue as he slithered through a sea of low chanting men as they offered up prayers to their gods. His amber gaze caught the soft flame in the distance as it burned and moved closer, so close he could have reached out to touch it. The others did, and instead of reeling back, they drank in heat gluttonously. "The flame of our most loved Saint," intoned a mighty baritone, "lit from the brazier deep within her inner sanctum. It is her gift to the people in these heat less days."
"Give me a break," Tobias groaned in a quiet whisper. The eyes of children and adult alike were no different as they gazed upon the nubile ember, purportedly stoked by some ancient pyre. "It's a gods damned candle." Tobias hugged himself as arctic air blasted him once again, but everyone around him seemed unaffected. Transfixed by the "holy flame," it seemed to fill them all with warmth.
"It is the warmth of their faith," came a creaky voice from beside him. Tobias glanced over at the haggard, ancient man swathed in tattered robes who offered him a toothless smile. "When you open your heart to something, and you truly believe it is real, other things cease to afflict you. You can become so filled up with your faith that nothing else matters."
"I'll bet a blade in the back would matter all the same," Tobias mused humorlessly. The smile bled away between white whiskers as the man shook his head sadly. "All the same, old timer," the Tactician said somberly, "ain't no gods done right by me, so I'm not like to offer them any of my devotion."
"You must give to receive," came a practiced reply. Tobias cocked his head and shot the geezer a wry grin.
"Ah," Stalt chuckled, "the age old politics of religion." In response, the man of small stature raised a wrinkled finger and pointed toward the flame. Around the heat, men and women fell to their knees and gave thanks. Shreds of clothes fell away as one woman tore off her garment and relished the flame as it bathed her body. Naked feet crunched in the snow, and Tobias shivered at the sight. "I'm not big on buying into suicide pacts," he told the old man with a sneer.
He turned to glance at the small man. "Hey, what's it to you anywa-" When he noticed that the old timer had dissolved into the crowd, he blinked. "Gods below," he murmured, "I need to get out of here."