Snippet #2317952

Atticus shivered. The cool air swept through his body as it rushed through the trees, rustling the leaves and branches it touched. For the middle of March, it was cold. Or rather quite cool. His robes offered little protection from the elements and he often found that he would have to warm himself with flames rather than cloth and blankets to keep himself comfortable. He continued on his trek regardless, holding his arms to his chest, clutching onto his robes, the simple robes that marked him as a Father and man of God in the Gregorian Order. As a brother, he had little possessions of his own, all the he had to call his own nestled in a small rucksack or attached to his body. He was close to his destination now. A small village past the hills, surrounded with vine and wine makers. He would go there, offer mass at the church, and stay with the village priest, Père Veroun. He was an elderly priest, and Atticus was to study under him until Veroun's death and Atticus was ready to take over as the village's priest. Atticus was young indeed, but wise in the Dogma of the Church and a practical thinker.

Just a few more miles. Then I will be greeted by the warm faces of my future parish, he thought to himself as he smiled at the thought. The sun in the horizon had started to set so he quickened his pace, eager to reach his destination. He didn't know what to expect at the village. A feast for the him, to welcome him to his new home perhaps? The thought warmed his heart, but not enough to stay the cold from creeping up his robes. He cupped his hands over his mouth and blew some air at them. Warm air. Hot air. Like the heat of a raging bonfire. He clapped them together and sparks flew from his palms, an indicator of his raw, burning power. He didn't know how to explain it, short of a miracle of God of course, but he could control flames. He could make them appear from his hands, he mouth, of manipulate them if they were nearby.

An hour passed, much in the same fashion. He would warm himself with his breath and continue on his road. FInally he reached the top of a hill and he could see the village in the valley below. He smiled. Hello, my new home. He jogged down the hill eagerly, his rosary thumping on his chest, his robes billowing behind him. He entered the village and was greeted warmly. "Bonjour Père!" From all sides. He came to the inn where he would be staying for the night. He was a day early, but he couldn't resist the thought of the new village so he came. He sat down at a small table in a corner and ordered a small meal, which the innkeeper assured him was on the house. Atticus blessed the man for his kindness and offered grace for the meal, the safe journey, and a fresh tomorrow.

From the opposite corner, a man in a cowl watched him. His robes a dark black. He was older. In his early thirties perhaps? It was difficult to tell. He drank a long draught from his mug and grinned. He set his mug down and rose from his table and strode over to Atticus. No one in the room seemed to notice him. It was if he blended into the shadows themselves. He sat down across from Atticus and Atticus paid him no heed. Until the man spoke. "Atticus L'Chatre I hope?"

Atticus dropped the fork he held. Stunned, he looked at the man who spoke. Where did he come from? "Y-yes. Bonjour monsieur. How do you know who I am?" He asked the strange man, puzzled.

"I'm a friend of your father's." The man answered. Atticus was puzzled. He had never met his father. So how did this man know him? His mother had only told him stories. His father was a supposed heathen, an enemy of the church, as was the company he kept. But this man. He didn't know what, why, or how, but he felt a connection to this man.

"I'm listening," he answered.

"I just want to give you this. From your father. He would deliver it to you himself, but he's... indisposed at the moment. That's all. I hope your mass goes well tomorrow." The man handed him a piece of parchment and rose. As he left, he seemed to vanish into the shadows again. Atticus wasn't even sure if this even just happened. But the parchment was in his hand. He opened it. In beautiful handwriting there was ten words. Its time for you to learn what you are, Sagen. For some reason, the word sounded familiar. The man must have been confused, he told himself. He left the inn for some fresh air, to process this event. And in the distance, he saw the man again, and he disappeared into this air, as if the space around the man opened itself up to swallow him. No one seemed to notice this. Strangely worried, Atticus returned to the inn and sat back down and ordered a fresh pint of ale. Something to help him process this, even if alcohol was strangely out of character for him. But he had a feeling that tomorrow there would be great changes awaiting him.