Adella of Yulia's Story

Midgate - Aressan Wall Border

It had been raining for days. An intermittent southerly wind kept blasting through the tiny cell windows, gracing resourceful prisoners with an extra ration of water. By now the rain had soaked through their allotted rags and bedding for long enough that a heavy mustiness pervaded the cellblock. Once the rains left the cells would become sweatboxes, yet another way to punish their inhabitants, and give way to all the chittering, skittering bugs birthed by fetid pools of water stagnating in wagon ruts and cells with prisoners too fresh to understand or too worn to care about the rain.

Mojohra Jojuhrum was somewhere in-between these extremes. He loved the rain in all its tragic glory, keeping his face planted near his window to feel the wind whip and the water splash. He had always had a soft-spot for it, even as a boy he would stand outside in it, no matter how heavy the downpour, to feel the water cleansing all the anger and sorrow from the very depths of his soul. So engrossed was he with this feeling that he missed the first names being called thanks to a delightful thunderclap. The clattering of steel harmonized very well with the pattering of rain drops as heavily armored guards rushed to comply with barked orders.

A stream of light burst forth into the harlequin’s dark, dank cell, bringing with it a gust of just slightly fresher air. Mo’s head lolled backwards, his body still fixated towards the windowed wall, to gaze upon the guards waiting outside. Someone stopped outside his door wearing a black costume, tinged with silver, that threatened to merge with the shadows. An Inquisitor. As her hand rose to point at him, Mo lodged his feet firmly between chest and wall, kicking his feet up and towards his right shoulder to give a twist to his dismount. It was much less extraordinary than he would have liked, but neither the food nor facilities were capable of maintaining him at top-condition.

"Left and Right won’t miss the show will they? I can’t perform without them.”

His answer came in the form of cold steel biting into his shoulders, sending him near-tumbling out into the hallway and herded towards the stairs and outside. There were other prisoners emerging from their cells as well, some not so politely as he had been, each looking more ragged than the last. Amateurs. Alas, even a true showman such as he was hard-pressed to maintain appearances. He had fortunately prepared for such a momentous occasion, choosing to leave an entire change of brand new, festive garb in his bag of tricks.

A sack was thrust into his hands upon exiting the stairwell to the courtyard. He was curious what was inside, but the sensation of the rain overcame him, a calm expression donning his face as he was engulfed in water. It would last just a moment before a swift push guided him towards another prisoner, a man just slightly taller than he who seemed to be parroting the Inquisitors and their gibberish, standing in front of a most extraordinary sight. A mage. Shorter than he, miraculously, and standing in the rain with them with a rather ridiculous smile spread across her face. Mo’s own cavernous grin creeped slowly from ear to ear, his lips somehow still sealed together, as his eyes narrowed and head dropped slightly. His right hand lifted to just below his shoulder, fingers wiggling ever so slightly as a wave. This was going to be fun.

The dungeon cobbles reeked like the mange-covered arse of something that had been dead for days. Mold, sweat, blood, and and far less desirable fluids had amalgamated over years of use to form a slimy film that was tacky underfoot. It was far less pleasant for those without shoes.

As the storm raged outside, squalls of driving rain whipped down through the windows. Streams of water found purchase in the grout lines and mixed with the floor paste, jostling the more fresh layers of it loose to swirl about the ground in fetid soup. The water was cold, but it did little to mask the choking stench.

And in one cell toward the back of the hall, Maeve Byrne of Pradus sat kneeling in it. The woman had slumped into a crumpled position against the grated wall, ignoring the fact that her legs had long fallen asleep against the chill of the ground. Her fingers reached through the bars into the adjacent cell, clinging with white knuckles to the hand of a blonde woman in a similar position on the other side. Their faces were pressed close, pale lips separated from fully touching by a layer of rough iron. 



“Elaine,” Maeve said, stroking the woman’s hand as best as she could, “Lainey. Have faith, love.”



Elaine sniffled, shaking her head. She stiffed her hold on Maeve’s fingers as the dungeon door screeched open and the black-cloaked figure of an inquisitor appeared in the doorway. “You don’t have to go. We can find another way— work this out somehow. Maybe I can make a deal, or… Or—“



Maeve’s eyes clenched shut, leaning her forehead into Elaine’s so that the bars left an impression on her own face. “This is the deal, Lainey,” she replied, lowering her voice as the Inquisitor began her morbid roll call. “This is what I have to do.” 

Lainey shook her head again, and tears that she had long thought were dry began to fall. She opened her mouth to speak, only to be cut short by the Inquisitor’s demanding tone.

“Maeve Byrne of Pradus,” the robed figure said.



Elaine let out a wailing, unintelligible sob and Maeve leaned forward to try and catch some semblance of an embrace from her spouse. Her hands stretched forward to brush Elaine’s bloodless cheek. Her mouth parted to try and steal a final kiss.



The guards were quicker.

They seized the called prisoner and yanked her to her feet before she could take her closure, and she brought back her head of fiery hair to knock one in the chin. “I just want to say goodbye!” she yelled, but the two men dragged her toward the door, “Lemme say my goodbyes, you bloody sacks of taint grease!” 

They slammed her shoulders against the wall on the way out, all the while ignoring Elaine’s increasingly louder pleas. 



Maeve spat as the wind was knocked out of her.



“Mite jealous of my wife, are you? Ugly bruiser.”

Maeve was dragged forward with such force that her feet lifted off of the ground, and she gave a kick at someone’s passing ankle. “I love you, Lainey girl!” she hollered back down the hall, even as the door was slammed shut behind her. 

She was dragged in a similarly degrading fashion all the way down to the courtyard, though her struggles ebbed the further she was led from the dungeon. By the time the guards left her to stand in the pouring rain within view of the Mid Gate, Maeve offered no more resistance than a high-held chin and a look like murder in her eyes.



“Maeve Byrne of Pradus,” said the guard dispensing equipment, and Maeve nodded. He handed her a thin, light pack of prisoner’s rations and then, with a look of disgust, a saber and belted sheath.



She took the latter with an obvious look of pride, and promptly fastened it about her waist. Her gaze skimmed over the party around her, noting several other prisoners of various nationalities before settling on a short Mage in a pretentious cloak. “Can you appreciate a good bit of equipment, Mage?” Maeve shouted over the rain, taking a long moment to look the shorter woman up and down with a hungry stare. From what Maeve understood about such expeditions, the girl was likely to be the Yulian scum coming with the party to keep the lot of them in line.



If Maeve had to be afraid of what lie behind the walls, she was going to make sure their new “supervisor” was doubly worried for her own bodily safety.

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The rain splashed against the cells of the window, slowly gathering into a small bowl that was placed very carefully on the ledge to gather as much water as it could. A man sat in the corner of the cell, his head resting against the wall and his one knee raised and his right arm placed on top of it. His head listed lazily upwards, staring at the bowl as water started to flow overtop of it. With an almost sloth like mentality, he slid his way up the wall and walked over to it. Grabbing the bowl carefully, he gulped down the liquid as best he could. This would be the most hydration he would get in days, followed quickly by a steam box that would threaten to dry him out completely. Normally the rich paid a ton of money to get the spa treatment, and if they wandered into a cell after a fresh rain, they could get the same result.

There was a sharp rap against the bars to his cell, and the man turned around. “Varin Zeracuse.” The guard stated, followed quickly by another guard carrying a set of armor. “Today’s your not so lucky day. You’re going beyond the wall.” The other guard unceremoniously dumped Varin’s armor on the ground before walking out of the cell. “We’ll be back in a few minutes to take you down to the courtyard.” Varin stared at the armor, then back at the guard who locked him back in without another word and walked off down the hall. Varin looked back at his armor, something he had worked on for countless years to get it right, and now currently laying on the ground and about to be donned by an accused murderer. Not exactly how he would have liked to have worn the suit for battle, but as the circumstances were, he was just glad they were allowing him to wear it at all.

Varin placed the bowl back up by the window, letting the rain wash over his hands for a moment, basking in the calm and refreshing feeling that came with it before turning back to the armor. With practiced ease, Varin took the pieces off the armor one by one and attached them to himself. The entire suit took a few minutes to adorn, and it fit as snug as a glove, perfectly crafted to fit his body. He had spent the better part of 5 years crafting it to where it was today, so anything less would have upset him greatly. Once that was all done, the only thing left was his helmet, which he tucked under his arm and made his way back to his window once again. He grabbed the bowl and sipped at what little water had managed to make its way into the container. He managed to steal a glance outside into the courtyard below and witnessed several people already gathering in the rain. Unlucky bastards, being called first into the downpour and being forced to wait the longest with drenched clothes and fever inducing conditions. He couldn’t make out who the leader of the small group was, but he knew it was an Inquisitor for sure. They wouldn’t entrust this to anyone else, there had to be at least one person whose entire goal was to succeed at conquering the Lost Lands instead of maybe just surviving and escaping Yulia’s law.

He held the helmet in his hands, flipping it over so it was staring at him and cursing his current existence. Damn it Oscar, you fucking kid… Varin thought to himself as he flipped the helmet around and placed it on his head, feeling it slide on into a tight fit that suited him perfectly. He made sure the clasps were tight and that the helmet didn’t move when he shook his head. He slapped the side of it slightly just to give himself a physical reassurance that it wouldn’t fall off. With that, he went through the process of double and triple checking everything on his person. A few minutes later and a trio of guards showed up at the door to his cell.

“Hands on the wall.” The first guard stated, which Varin complied. He heard the gate open, followed by the sound of swords leaving their sheathes and the clank of armored boots on stone. Within moments, his arms were being yanked behind him and shackled. At the very least they had allowed him to get suited up before they decided to throw him to the wolves. He had tried to be the model prisoner to avoid any unnecessary punishment from overzealous and sadistic guardsman. For the most part he had been successful, hence why he felt the guards weren’t being as brutal as they were no doubt used to being, preferring to simply shove him towards the door without a further word. Varin complied silently, letting the guards guide him through the hall, down a set of stairs and stopping just short of a door leading to the courtyard. One guard stepped in front of him and opened the door, revealing another set of guards who were outside and holding equipment that was undoubtedly meant for Varin. His weapons were among the things being held by one of the guards, along with a sack that probably held the bare minimum of survival gear. All Varin could think about was the shitty job these guys had to stand out here all day.

“Varin Zeracuse.” One guard stated. “You have been accused of murdering a guard of the Yulian Military and have been found guilty of your crime. You have petitioned the crown for the right to participate in an expedition to Elidia in exchange for your freedom. Your success will be judged by the Inquisition should you return.” The guard nodded to the guards behind Varin, who unshackled him. Varin brought his hands forward and flicked them slightly to get the aching sensation of the cuffs off of them. The other guard holding the equipment handed Varin his weapons, of which he quickly went about attaching the sheathes to his person. His twin blades were adorned his back, and his warhammer was strapped to his side. With that, a sack was thrust into his hands. “Continue forward and gather with the remaining convicts.” The guard stated, stepping aside to let Varin pass towards the group that had already assembled. There was a slight shove from behind to get him going, but nothing more. He continued walking forward, slinging the sack over his shoulder and fixing it to work much like a backpack, sitting on top of his sword sheathes.

The rest of the group that was already outside was a motley assortment of people that Varin wasn’t sure he wanted to get a read on. One looked ready to simply collapse if someone breathed on her, another was glaring daggers into their supposed leader of the expedition, another looked way too happy to be here and the last of the group so far seemed to be nearly as defiant as the woman was. Varin should have been worried, even slightly, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to care enough about these people at the moment. He knew that the main motivation with this group would be to simply do the job and get back home, wherever home was for them. He didn’t care about their well being, only making sure he managed to get back in one piece. Varin didn’t say a word as he took up a spot beside the angry woman, adjusting his pauldron to make sure it sit just right. He lifted his face plate up, allowing his face to be shown and stared into the sky holding his mouth open. There would be no telling when he would get a decent drink of water after they left the prison, so he wanted to make sure he got his fill first.

Naturally nothing was ever calm or normal as a commotion from some guards caught his attention. With a slight snap of his head, his face plate fell down and with a satisfying click, locked into place. Off to the side was some scrawny looking man running through the Yulian guards. The direction he was sprinting towards seemed to indicate that he was trying to get to the gates to Elidia. Varin couldn't think of any reason why someone would go there willingly aside from blind patriotism such as the Inquisitor standing before them, but shrugged and actually ignored everything that was going on off to the side. He could care less if the man succeeded in whatever he was trying to do as Varin found his hands to be much more interesting, flicking his fingers against each other in an effort to pass the time.

“Esra! Please… please just look at me. Esra! Turn around!” Ima’s voice called out, shrill with worry. Her palm slammed repeatedly against the wood of the heavy door, her face against the cold bars. She looked into the scantly furnished, cell-like room, but her eyes were fixed only on the huddled form sitting on a rickety chair. A ragged blanket covered the thin female, a blonde head visibly hunched over defeated shoulders. As Ima watched, a dark, pernicious mist descended, obscuring the sallow figure, but Ima would not be denied. She continued to bluster at the unmoving girl, even as cruel fingers pulled back at her hair and scrabbled at her arms. Ima’s breath caught as the still darkening form finally began to turn.

A gaunt, hallow-eyed face glared back at her, hardly recognizable and wasting away as she looked on in horror. “Too late,” it rasped. “Why were you too late? Didn’t you care, Ima?” Its tone was mocking, spitting her name out like a curse. The skull-like face slumped and stilled.

Ima felt herself torn back, everything fading to darkness as she screeched a final, “Esra!”

Ima jerked awake, trembling as she pulled herself up with a muttered curse. She panted harshly, trying to still her nerves. It had only been a nightmare. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. But the fear was real enough. The Yulian bastards had Esra, but Ima had seen her only a couple days prior. She was still fine, and Ima tried hard to reassure herself that her sister would be alright. That was why she was doing this, after all. It was a crazy task, but she had to do something or be executed, leaving Esra to fend for herself. One thing those dark-cloaked Inquisitors did well was exploiting weakness, and they had Ima neatly pinned. She would do what they wanted. There was no other choice.

Ima shivered, starting to realize how cold she was. The floor was damp, rain still pouring through the narrow, barred opening that counted as a window. The grey, gloomy light revealed little of her surroundings. Still, she knew them well enough by feel. The cell was hardly three paces wide, and narrow enough that she could stretch her arms out to touch either side from where she was seated against the wall. The roughhewn stone floor was covered in the sort of detritus that one was better off not considering too closely. Now that the rain was coming in, the muck was beginning to soak through the worn piece of blanket on which Ima sat. She pulled herself up to a crouch, crossing her arms over her chest to conserve a bit of warmth. At least they had given back her normal clothing after she agreed to their blasted quest.

She clasped her hands together, her thumb slipping under her left sleeve to skim over the marking hidden on the inside of her wrist. The eye of the Lady, meant to bring luck. It had once given her a measure of comfort, but now she felt uncertain. What had Ima done to bring down such misfortune? Where had she gone wrong?

Her eyes stared at the bit of sky visible through the bars, searching the misting clouds as though they had the answers. From this angle, she could not see the wall, but it was never far from her thoughts. She wondered how long the bloody sods would take to send her off. They acted like it was going to be soon, but seemed to get a kick out of leaving her in the dark. Literally, in this case. Noise began to emanate from the hall, a loud-mouthed Inquisitor shouting out names. Each name was accompanied by the unmistakable clamor of armored guards and various amounts of fuss. Ima wearily raised to her feet, stepping over to the door to see if she could catch a glimpse of what was happening.

Looking through a narrow slit in the door, Ima could only see flickering shadows in the bright hall. After a moment, she was able to make out the form of the Inquisitor. She got a scant impression of a woman being dragged away between guards as she shouted back at another prisoner. Ima quickly lost interest and stepped back. Perhaps they would be calling her soon. She took a moment to prepare herself, to stuff down the loathing that had been growing against these cursed Yulians ever since she had been captured. It was always better to present a cool façade, hiding her true feelings. Then they could not be used against her. She took several long slow breaths, gradually relaxing her muscles until she could school her face to blankness.

Finally, she heard her name called out by that malevolent voice. She straightened as the door was thrown open. The torchlight was far too bright and she lifted a hand to shield her eyes. The guard roughly clamped a gauntleted hand around her upper arm and jerked her forward. The second guard quickly followed suit as they pulled her from the cell.

She tried to wrench away from their cruel grasp, protesting with a cold, venomous tone. “Oy, get your filthy wigglers offa me! I can walk on my own two gams, you know.”

The iron grips on her arm only grew more painful as they bodily yanked her down the hall. She desperately scrambled to regain her footing and regained her balance before they could drag her down the stairs as well, glaring daggers at the pair. They hardly seemed to notice. The group stopped long enough for an official to read off her supposed crimes and the terms of her release into Elidia before she was pushed out into a rainy courtyard. The Midgate loomed, threatening, off to one side. Her head swiveled as she was released, instinctively seeking out possible routes of escape. There were none.

She mindlessly rubbed a hand over the bruised skin of her arm, gazing upward at the wall of Elidia. Her musing was disrupted by a gruff voice. Ima Creslade?” Her eyes flickered toward the man as he thrust a sack into her arms. Apparently the glance had been enough confirmation and he strode away without another word. Ima heard the subtle rattle that indicated her blades and picks were inside, even as she noted the hilt of her dirk sticking out of the sack.

Her eyes swept over the courtyards other occupants, noting them for the first time. None of them seemed to be especially paying attention to the small, dark-clad figure. She backed off from the group a little, crouching as if merely to adjust her boot and easing the sack to the ground under her legs. She donned a faintly mottled grey cloak onto her back first, pulling up the hood against the rain, followed by her dirk. Her attentions swept the courtyard as she flitted small throwing blades into their concealed places about her person. She felt a small measure of relief that the familiar items had been returned. Soon, various pouches and a couple sturdy daggers were joined to the belt at her waist.

Ima remained crouching, taking time to observe the others in the courtyard with a wary eye. So far, there were a couple men. One was being roughed up after mouthing off to a guard while the other, heavily armored, stood by a fiery headed woman with a sword at her waist. There was also an odd looking man in some manner of performer’s garb. Ima found something unsettling about his manner, but she was not sure exactly why. There was another woman, standing blankly off to the side, looking as thin as death. She seemed… empty somehow. Ima’s gaze moved on to the one who was, perhaps, the most interesting of the gathered group. A Yulian mage, by the markings on her attire. From the horse and bags sitting nearby, it was clear the woman would be travelling into Elidia with them. A babysitter of sorts, then? Ima looked on with a measure of contempt, wondering how long the diminutive mage could hope to last. She was the only one present with a similar stature to Ima, but her arrogant bearing made it clear she feared no threat, for now.

Ima did not waste her time glaring, instead turning her focus to counting out the rations in her bag. It was a pitiful amount, but Ima hoped she could soon supplement it. She swung the sack onto her back, out of the way of the hilt of her dirk. She remained squatting, perched lightly on the balls of her feet, content to observe. She had no desire to draw attention to herself for now. Her cloaked, still figure blended well into the bleak shadow cast by the wall of the fort at her back.

Secrecy wasn’t his preferred method of doing anything. He recognized Athira’s power and importance in the pantheon, but she wasn’t his official patron. He did find peace in her time of power though and she had protected him and other refugees of the Great Church, for none of the Witches of Yulia had sought them after the Pillaging. Perhaps they assumed everyone died, which suited the young cleric well. It gave him the chance to protect all the poor orphans, most victims of the Old War, until they were grown. Entering towns for supplies were tricky, but Sairen never feared. He trusted his life completely at the hands of Tinon.

On such a supply run, he paused before the ruins of the Great Church and straightened his back. Nothing had grown on the site in the last eight years, which to him proved the blight that these Witches and Deceivers were to this land. He snarled under his breath and then immediately, closed his eyes and silenced, pushed back the fierce anger that had become his constant companion. He was not of those chosen to fight the battles of vengeance. That task fell to the warriors of Ahl and Oros. But where are they? The thought came unbidden.

Ignoring the possible consequences, he knelt down at the site to pray, pray for all the gods’ protection for his charges, and pray for guidance on what he should do now. Since it’s been eight years, more than half of those orphans left at the time of the Pillaging would be coming to age soon and it would be time for them to choose their own paths. Again anger burned in his breast. The Deceivers had taken away several of those options. No. We can rebuild. As long as there are willing hands and hearts. A peaceful smile split the thin cleric’s face and he had his answer. He stood again and looked toward Aressa and beyond that the supposedly cursed Elidia. There… There is where he must go.

That supply run was several weeks ago now. The next supply run he took for himself. The eldest three of his charges have taken up the mantle he bore for the last eight years. They would take care of their younger kin and gather supplies when necessary. The Deceivers have taken away several trade options for the youth of Miriand, but he realized that it also opened up other opportunities. Still it wasn’t enough to change his opinion of them.

Now he entered one of their strongholds in secret and pouring rain. He had to contain his rage again at the sight of at least two Yulian Witches and a criminal Inquisitor. He bit his pale lower lip and tightened his grip on the ash staff he bore. To avoid unnecessary trouble on the way, he wore a medic's coat over his normal cleric robes, because clerics were not welcome under the Deceivers’ rule.

Since he came as a medic, he would be just as responsible for the health of Witches and Deceivers as those from the other enslaved kingdoms. Witches had notorious ill health, because they tried to claim power that did not rightfully belong to them. His task seemed so much simpler when he knelt at the site of the Great Church.

Tinon and Athira. Day and Night. Sairen needed the strength of both.

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"Tho I treadeth upon shadows, I beg Ahl beith mine torch. Companion to me past such darkness. Tho I stumble from thine road, I beg Ahl beith mine sun. May light shineth upon thy path. Tho I walk solus and with fear, I beg Ahl beith mine friend. I shant be lost to wander alone. Tho I harbor sins upon mine soul, I beg Ahl beith thine mercy. In calm waters shall the blood.... .... Shall the blood leaveth thy hands. Ahmen."

It had been.... some time since the transfer. Days? Weeks? Counting the hours lost it's importance. Garrim remembered the harsh familiarity of being once more binded with iron and fastened against stone. How foolish to think the sun would last. Perhaps this would be it. This place serving as a ground of summary execution, and this promise of freedom merely another ruse from the mouth of the Deceiver. Had the Gods led him here solely for the demand of blood? Perhaps they had lost faith in him as well.... It mattered little. His fate has and always will lie in their hands. He swore oath to be their vassal, a weapon to be used and dispensed as they desired. For now, he could do naught but wait and give thanks for what few blessings had shown here. The Rats.... these were thankfully of a different sort than those he had grown to hate. They still had fear of larger beings, and had yet to develop such insidious cravings as their voracious kin. Sounds, such a lost sensation after so long. Better the rattle of chains and iron than that bleak abyss of stagnation. But of course, the greatest mercy came in a single, barred window. Well beyond his reach, but a sacred thing nonetheless. Rain was.... such a beautiful thing. When the winds deigned it, he could almost feel it's caress through his visor. No matter the filth that flowed freely from such a deluge, blessed be rain and the mercy of it's grace.

Ripples of light at the edges of his mind, the Eye of Ahl bestowed him a vision of visitors to come. No sooner had the light faded did their boots echo upon the cobbles. There would be five, as foreseen. Four guards well-clad in armor, two with blade and two with crossbow. Behind them a great blackness. A figure in darkened garb, devoid of sympathy or compassion. Iron scratched upon stone as the door gave entrance to them, with Garrim raising his head in silent acknowledgement. These soldiers held no hesitation, acting under orders to undo the manacles clamped upon Garrim's arms. Once more, he felt the burden of his own weight nearly driving him to a knee before steadying himself. He rose, shakily at first before at last with confidence. Crossbows leveled their sights on him as.... she entered. Black and silver betraying her allegiance, Garrim felt fire began to claw at his heart. Under black hood and through steel visage, their eyes locked with the intent to flay the other alive with but a glare. The hostility rose in the room to a palpable degree, with the guards finding common sense in standing back and readying arms. Though no movements were made, the Inquisitor could read the Paladin's intentions as tho scrawled upon parchment. His fists clinched, leather and battered steel creaking in complaint. Hushed invocations woven from the Inquisitor's lips, causing small wisps of anima to gather betwixt her fingers. A whirling pool of reality shaping energies forming within her palm, ready to be called forth.


The tension was finally cut when a single beam of sunlight had parted the clouds, if only for a moment. Peering through the barred window, dividing the two with a barrier of light. To these Godless heathens, such things held no importance, but to the devout of Ahl this was providence. The word of Ahl that this was not the path; that Garrim risked straying from such light. His posture relaxed, signalling no confrontation from here on. Though the guards took ill notice and remained on edge, the Inquisitor was quick to glean such and gave a silent order to lower their arms. The air, once hot and vibrant, now gave way to a deathly stillness. "Garrim Udain of former Miriand", she addressed him. Her voice was cold and slack, the words she spoke as impersonal and meaningless as a simple number to be recited from a list. A stark contrast to those she would give next. "It is your time..." she stated, her intent slithering with the hiss of malediction. Under armed guard with the cocked-and-readied bolts of crossbows at his back, Garrim was guided to the courtyard. The downpour of rain played a percussive cacophony within his helm, washing his body and agitating the many small wounds he'd begun to harbor over time. It had been long since Garrim was last reminded of what lay underneath his armour. Of the silken cloth which had likely decayed into moldy rags, held together by mildew and the scant few seams of cord which managed to stand the test of time. His chain mail possessed several links which seemed to have found teeth over the years, biting and nipping at his flesh in various places. It was almost as if the rats had never truly left him.

There in the shower of rain and mud, he saw the gathering of others who would be offered to whatever unknowns lay beyond these ancient walls, of few he took note. A warrior of Pradus, marked well by such thickened plates of master crafted steel. Garrim had never learned of what befell Pradus, and was often left to wonder. How could they have fallen so swiftly? Were they befelled by some grand deception or witchcraft? Had they been taken by such surprise that not even they, the only force which even Holy Miriand envied, could not recover? ....Had they chosen subservience? Another face caught him as familiar, less so by person as by the heraldry he bore. The Knights of Oros were well known for their aptitude and fervor in combat. In old Miriand, the Knightly orders took drafts from those who lacked the magical aptitude to join the Paladins of the Great Church. Where Paladins were deemed of too great an import to send on quests to aid the common people, it was the Knights who would take up the cause. Though Paladins were always the heralded heroes of the realm, it was truly the Knights that served as champions of the people. Their skill and strength of arms stayed a constant rival, and none more so than those under the banner of Oros himself. Perhaps if his tenements had been heeded over that of Ahl's.... Maybe Miriand could have been saved if, for perhaps only a moment, they had allowed themselves to stray from the Road of Peace and listened to the council of Mighty Oros.

Then came the image Garrim had no sooner recognized as he would have spat upon. For there are, nor would ever be, such a figure as familiar and hated as that of a Mage. Be alert, be vigilant; for your enemy, the black-hearted of Yulia, roam about as a roaring lion, seeking whom they may next devour. To have such a thing accompany him, there were scant enough curses in any tongue to fulfill such a need. Then came another.... stranger thing. Small, weak, and frail. She appeared barely able to stand, and even through the haze Garrim could make out the telltale marks of manacles and bindings upon her arms. Even among such God forsaken ranks as these, Garrim struggled to imagine what such a tiny girl could have done to garner such a fate. Rabble rouser, perhaps? No... there was something in her Garrim had learned to recognize. Even through such years of torment written upon her form, there was still this sense of the faintest touch of regality. A servant girl, or perhaps some Noble's daughter, taken away as punishment for some grievance he had caused? Regardless, she was not some humble villager. No one, not even a girl of her size, could afford to be so defenseless outside the watch of several armed guard. Whatever her origins, she most certainly had lived a cloistered life.

Finally beckoned to step forth by name, Garrim was greeted by two familiar grins. A pair of guards he had seen in service to the Warden. Behind them, a pair of soldiers hefted his Stave in presentation before the Paladin, before letting the burdensome weapon fall to the mud. Garrim gave them no satisfaction of a response as they treated the rest of his wares similarly, before finally bending knee to retrieve them. "Oi, holy man!" one beckoned just as he'd turned away. "Warden Oltson gave us word ta give ya fer you go off 'yond the walls." Garrim turned at this, offering the vaguest of acknowledgements. "He says 'may all yer Gods go with ya...." the man quipped as a rancid yellow grin claimed his face. "So's ya can all go die t'gether!" his partner added, before the two strode off bellowing in laughter. Their taunts rarely found purchase, but perhaps they held some truth in them. There were no other Paladins left. How many believers had been spared? How many faithful? Beyond the walls, Garrim knew nothing of the world under Yulian Law. Were there none left outside of prison cells?

.....Would the Gods truly die with us?