Chapter 6 : Ghost Town

[BigRedRod]

Those who would flee were gone. Some hours had passed and the sun was visible on the horizon in the small slit between the boiling planar storm and the distant hills. Long shafts of amber light wash over the landscape of the frozen city. Here in the Cathedral, only a scant few were left. Although nothing had been officially stated since Father Drohan left, Abbot Balthasar, leader of The Sun's Hammers, was now in charge of the remains of church. A dozen warriors, the same number of acolytes, perhaps a score of sages dedicated to finding a way to seal the portal and the Abbot himself. The corridors of the cathedral were cold and silent.

Gathered on a balcony, Lade, Malkanus, Shihiram and Nabi stand looking out over The Great Plaza. A vast cobbled square with not a single living soul currently in sight. A scene to send a shiver down even the most hardened of spines.

The bard was speaking, as bards often do, a pleasant sound with a good many words, but rather light on content. Shihiram stops his lengthy monologue concerning the fate of the city and fiddles absently with his rounded flute. Collective silence rolls by, finally broken by a soft sigh,
"I should go back downstairs. The priests that were left behind to understand the storm, they are brilliant, but they have such a narrow focus. If anything comes up we should know... or, you know..."
He laughs, a hollow, forced sound,
"Well, I'll be serving my part in Pelor's wisdom."

He turns and leaves the three standing alone on the balcony, the cold winds battering against exposed skin. Shihiram had already carved himself a niche, somewhere his talents could be put to their best use. A few peals of red lightning dance in the clouds directly above the Cathedral. Great explosions of red fury.

The crimson briefly oversaturates the cold amber plaza and the shapes arriving from one of the many streets leading to the central square at first seem like nothing other than an after-image. Little red blobs marching forwards.

It takes a few seconds, but the red eventually drains from the scene as eyes adjust and yet the red at the far end of the square remains.

Moon cultists.

At least three score all in red robes. Impossible to gather any more specifics at such a distance, but the lines look rather like an army marching upon an enemy fortress.

...

Several hours earlier, an Aart mercenary abandoned his charge. Rather than flee the largest city in all of Aos, the man had instead dropped to his knees
to seek guidance from his Gods. All around Kjetil Haverson, people had fled through the gates forming into one long line to seek refuge away from the storm.

But a man does not run.

Opening his eyes, Kjetil found himself alone now in Eastgate. Since he had left his homeland, the Gods had been silent. This was not their domain. Looking upwards to the black clouds, lanced through with streaks of red lightning and sudden split by long lances of white arching down to transport all they touched elsewhere, a flock of crows moved inwards. Their path curiously free from the hazards of the storm.

Perhaps his Gods had finally decided to make themselves known once again.

[Tashalar]

Kjetil watched the crow's undeviating course for a few seconds. Then his grip on the hilt of his weapon tightened and he nodded to himself. This was what he had been waiting for. A sign, what else could it be? He had not been willing to abandon this city before, but now he was sure that to stay was his destiny. His place at this moment in time was here.

Pushing himself off the ground by pressing the hilt of his weapon against it, Kjetil follows the crows back into the city. Taking note of their speed and direction, he breaks into a run to keep pace. While his gaze flickers up to the crows repeatedly, his instincts take care of the rest. Kjetil takes in his surroundings while he speeds past and watches out for anything that the crows were leading him towards. Or threats. Or both.

[LuneMoonshadow]

These moments were bittersweet - chaos churning all around with horrors lurking on the horizon even though these few minutes were a time of rest. Not peaceful rest, but rest all the same.

Malkanus can only nod to Shihiram as he walks away, roused from his thoughts by the man's footsteps more than his words. He had since given up on trying to have any kind of conversation with the man as his words were flighty and without weight. The cleric preferred someone more concrete.

"The hands of fate have a strange way of bringing together people just to see them depart moments later." Malkanus had no words for Finn when he left and he was starting to regret that fact. They hadn't been together long but they had been through more than most.

He glances over at Lade, searching his expression. "It'll just be you and me if we keep losing the good ones."

With a bit of a smile, half-hearted at best, he presses on. "Either way these are trying times. Scythes and swords aren't doing us any good here and I feel a bit helpless amidst all of it. Standing here watching the sky cleaved asunder while those with greater talent try and solve this dilemma."

The cleric pauses, dwelling on his own words while staring out into the red chaos. It takes several moments for the image to strike home, but when it does only a solemn whisper of a prayer is his response.

"Protect us..."

Several attempts to count their ranks occupy Malkanus' precious moments before he finally abandons it in favor of more direct action. "Time to go greet the sightseers. I'm sure they'll be needing our souls to fix this predicament we're in."

[BigRedRod]

Malkanus and the rest of the party find the Hammers assembled and dressed for battle in the great hall. Abbot Balthasar strides purposely towards his fellow cleric from another faith,
"I take it that you have seen? An army! It makes no sense at all. They can't expect us to engage them out in the plaza, surely? We'd stand no chance and they are fully aware that we know this. In Pelor's Cathedral, we are untouchable! They must have something planned. I do not like this one bit. So, what do you think?"

Around the Abbot, the small group of fighting men serving Pelor look worryingly agitated, but they still stand in tight formation awaiting orders from their commander.

...

Kjetil stood now at the edge of the vast region known as the Great Plaza. Normally the largest market in the largest settlement in all of Edinway, the huge semi-paved region was now a rubbish-strewn graveyard. Deserted entirely.

But nature abhors a vacuum. And as the northlander stands looking out upon desolate scene, a sound catches his ears. Bootsteps. Loud. Frequent. Different. An army, he could tell this by ear alone, but not a well organised company. The men did not march in time with one another, they marched with their own gait and to the beat of no single drum.

Hidden slightly from view in a narrow side-street, Kjetil saw the lines of men arrive. At least they were dressed and armed in a uniform manner. Red robes covering some kind of armour from the bulk along with swords and shields. Whatever they might lack in careful drill training they appear to make up for in equipment.

Most of the blades shine, iron which has either not yet tasted blood or , worse still, an outfit more focused on ensuring all is well polished than how well it can slice through flesh and bone. The shields, however, do not shine so brightly, as most of their circular area is covered by a large red circle containing a small black keyhole in its centre.

With no law and order left in Edinway, the Moonbringers proudly walked the streets as an army. And they appeared to be striding towards Pelor's Cathedral. The tall spired structure usually shimmered with strange divine lights. No longer was this the case. Despite the extravagant architecture, the cathedral looks dull and somehow disused. Pelor's Light has left Edinway, and this is the place where it shows most clearly.

[itches]

Lade glanced over at Malk, feeling oddly peacful dispite the recent turn of events. After rats, ghosts and an unholy storm, a beseiging army almost felt mundane.

"Calmly," the aging mercinary said to abbot, hoping the serenity he felt would have an effect on the aggitated Hammers. "We've seen worse in the last few days, and lived."

Scratching at the scrub of hair upon his chin, Lade noted that it was getting long enough to become an irritation. Idily he wondered if there were any barbers left in town.

"I guess someone should talk to them, maybe they're all had a change of heart and decided to surrender."

[Tashalar]

Kjetil had heard about the Moonbringers. If one would spend even an hour or two on the street, talk would surely mention them. Rumors abounded concerning them, their goals, their background, their methods... everything. And now they were on the move. En masse. Kjetil looked ahead. Pelor's Cathedral. Something momentous was about to happen and the crows had lead him here. Had lead him here to be part of this, to play a role in whatever would come. Kjetil frowned as he eyed the cultists. To aid them? Or those they were marching against? He stood still and watched while he contemplated his next move.

Kjetil's gaze went to the sky repeatedly, seeking answers that his heart told him were his own to find.

[Tashalar]

Keeping to the shadows of the buildings, Kjetil started to trail the red army. His gaze went back and forth between the host and their obvious target, but it also strayed to those empty parts of the plaza and the adjacent buildings which seemed devoid of life.

[BigRedRod]

Any half-organised siege would not simply order up its troops into neat formation and march them at the target. A whole array of support was needed, support which was best kept hidden from the watchful eyes of the enemy. Kjetil knew this and so he stepped back away from the square, moving quietly but with sufficient haste that when he did locate a target, he'd be able to dispatch them, don their robe and rank up with the rest of the cultists without drawing attention to himself by needing to cross most of the plaza alone.

...

A single figure, his blood-coloured robe tending towards the more stately cassock than the simple overcloak of his allies, steps out of rank. In his hand he grips a short ebony rod, a small red disk dangles from the bottom of the item attached by a thin cord. Striding forwards while his men remain stationary, he stands at the base of the cathedral's steps. When he speaks, his voice is deep and loud, filling the entirety of the vast Grand Plaza,
"I have come to discuss a truce."

The seven words even penetrate the solid doors of the Cathedral and are clearly audible to all of those who wait behind.

...

Kjetil had searched most of the obvious places in the clutter of abandoned shops, drinking dens and minor temples. There was nothing. Not a single member of the red robed army had remained behind. Their entire number was standing before the temple. And then he too heard the voice.

[itches]

The silence following the words is profound with disbelief. Redcloaks, Moonbringers, cultists and murderers who had been the original source of so much of mayhem and pain wanted a truce. Had things truly become so bad?

Still, a part of Lade couldn't help but take advantage of the ludicrousity of the situation, elbowing Malk in the ribs.

"I told ya so."

[Tashalar]

The man's words do not explain the obvious absence of any support. Even if he is speaking the truth, they'd have scouts somewhere. Backup. They must be entirely sure of their superiority, of their imminent success. Or they're just plain stupid. He purses his lips, then spits on the ground. Or both.

Slowly, the Aart makes his way along the edge of the plaza towards the front, towards the cathedral dedicated to Pelor. Their target. He still didn't know what his role was to be in this conflict, but he did not care. Out in the cold wilderness he had learned to be patient. To wait for the life-saving kill. This was different in more than one way, but very similar nevertheless. Gripping the hilt of his guisarme, Kjetil watched and listened.